Chapter 5
Another mountain of clouds rolled across the sea, blanketing the land, blocking the hopeful sun from the day. Susan shivered as they climbed the stairs to the coffee shop. The shop was warm and inviting with its smell of fresh ground coffee beans and dark wooden walls and banisters. Norah Jones voice softly drifted through the room, singing the blues with a slight Billie Holiday inflection.
Susan sat at a table near the large window that overlooked the beach street while Brad collected their orders. People and cars moved on the street, disappearing in the mist as it cast the day in gray and offered a sense of mystery to an already mysterious morning.
"Would you like to share what's going on? Brad asked as he sat down across from her, placing two cups of foaming brew on the table.
She furrowed her head as she looked at him. 'More than anything, right now.' she thought. But this seemed way out of Brad's league - hers too. He was just a nice, helpful guy with whom she was having a cup of coffee. She felt attracted to Brad, and wasn't sure if she wanted to scare him away, and what she had just heard from the mystery man was a lot more luggage than she should probably share with him. She had to talk to some body, someone who could give her a clue what was going on, who could give her some objective input, but she didn't want to put him into any danger either . The thinly veiled threat to her was not idle. She knew it. She could see it in the mans eyes. She heard the contempt in his voice when he saw Brad, and she remember him saying, "I don't want to hurt him - not yet, anyway."
"That was the man in the Auston-Healey, wasn't it?" Brad asked.
"Yes." she said, her hand trembled slightly as she lifted the cup. She immediately put it back down. She decided to take a chance and tell Brad everything. He might decided this is too much and walk out the door, and if he did, she couldn't blame him, but she was feeling a little desperate, and Brad had seen this man. He was peripherally involved, and she hoped to keep it that way, but he also may offer some clarity to what at the moment is frightening.
She took a deep breath and related the conversation with the mystery man to Brad. Brad sat back in his chair and listened intently, offering no reaction in his expression.
When she finished they sat in silence, she watching Brad as he seemed to mull over what she had told him.
"It sounds like your brother may have been involved with some dangerous people." Brad said, and then paused, still in thought. "If they have been doing a surveillance on you for a period of time and you never noticed, it gives the appearance of professionals. What ever is going on, it doesn't sound like small time punks."
"I've drawn you into the radar just by stopping when you were working on the fence. I'm sorry, Brad. I had no idea that this was something more than just some weirdo following me."
He reached across the table and covered her hand in his put a large, "Don't worry about it." he said with a slight smile of understanding. "Let's assess the situation and see what you're dealing with by what we know."
"Huh!" she grunted. "We don't know anything."
"Well, let's see if we do." Brad said sitting back in his seat again. "If they're doing a surveillance, thinking you have contact with Jeff, then they have your phone tapped and your house bugged, or they have a surveillance van near by. With the right equipment, they can sit in the van and hear every conversation that you have in your house. They probably check your mail."
A look of surprise then worry crossed her face. "Oh, my God, do you think so?"
"Yes." he said matter-of-factly. "That would be the normal procedure for tracking a target. If you can't find a person, watch the people who usually can."
Susan look at him curiously. "How would you know these things?" she asked.
He smiled at her. "I haven't always just fixed fences."
"Were you a cop?" she asked.
"Let's say I used to work for the government, and, at times, had to work in this kind of field." She waited, but he offered no more information about his work.
She pressed her hands to her head, elbows on the table, as if she was trying to keep her head from exploding. "I don't know what to do." she said. "I'll admit that I'm scared. I don't know anything about Jeff's life, and I'm sure that he's dead, but that man doesn't believe me, and I think that he's dangerous."
Brad had no doubt that the man was dangerous. he suspected drugs or arms were involved, and the kind of people who lived in that world were very dangerous.
"I think he was trying to shake you up." Brad said. "He wants you to panic and contact Jeff so they can trace him."
"Yeah, well, there are no phones at the bottom of the Pacific." she said.
"What the man you spoke to believes, and what his handlers believe, makes your claims moot in their eyes. If this is as serious as it sounds, they will continue to take it another step further until Jeff shows his self."
"This is just crazy." Susan said in frustration.
"Yes." Brad said. "You're getting a glimpse of just how crazy the underbelly of life really is."
A look of worry crossed her face, and Brad regreted his remark of confirmation.
"I don't have much to do." Brad said. "The horses are fed, the cattle content, and my Labrador Retriever is probably snoring on the front porch, overseeing his domain, making sure the cattle and horses don't have any wild parties while I'm gone. I could use a day at the beach with a lovely lady. Would you mind if I joined you today?"
She frowned. "I'm not even so sure that this was a good idea, me coming here today. I did it on a knee jerk whim, and look at the mess I find myself in, I don't think it's a good idea to involve you. I don't know what's going to happen."
"Which is a perfectly good reason to spend the day with me." he responded.
"This doesn't seem to bother you at all." She looked at him for a moment. "What did you do before you were mending fences?"
He took a sip of his espresso and looked at her as if he was debating what to say.
"Okay." he said, sitting up straight. "I'll give you the summarized version. I was an officer in the Special Forces who did clandestine work in CIA Special Ops. I have a Ph.D. in psychology and am certified in guerrilla warfare operations. I was recently wounded in a capture or terminate mission in the middle east and was retired as a major."
Her mouth dropped open and her eyes widened, and then she burst out laughing. "Oh, Brad, you are so sweet." she said grabbing his hand into hers. "I'm sure just your presence would discourage any body doing anything. You don't have to be all of - whatever you just said - Special CIA, whatever." She giggled again at what she saw as his efforts to give her comfort and a sense of safety.
He returned her smile. Then, we've got a date?"
"Sure." she said. "We've got a date. Our day at the beach."
All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Day at the beach Ch 4
Chapter 4
Susan was mulling over what she was doing on this day, which so far had been completely out of character for her. She wasn't sure if she was running to or from something, and was not even sure what that something was. A cynical element in her mind suggested that she was trying to run from 30 back to 18 years old again. But she discarded that thought. That scenario may have triggered her reaction - her 'awakening', as her life to this point spread itself out before her with a vivid clarity. What she saw was how narrow her focus had become. There was more to her. There was more to life. What ever it was it slumbered in the darkest basements of her existence, and she wanted to awaken it, feel what it is, reinvent herself and be part of the adventure.
As Susan entered the Village of Soquel through the back door road, the edge of a fog bank fuzzed the sun that held the cool clouds at bay from venturing any further inland. At the moment gray weather ruled the coastal day, but Susan knew that the sun could easily cook the earth clinging clouds away by early afternoon.
She quickly passed through Soquel and found a parking spot close to the knee high cement wall that separated the village of Capitola from the beach. It didn't seem cold, but she grabbed a sweater from the back seat anyway and wandered down the sidewalk next to the wall until she found a wide area empty of people. She sat down on the wide top of the wall, pulled her legs under her chin with her arms wrapped around her knees and stared out across the expanse of sand at the still water lapping gently on the beach. A group of teenager in shorts played volley ball as if it was a sunny day. Others sat huddled on blankets waiting for the sun to appear as if it was late for a concert.
"Here you are." she heard a male voice behind her. She turned and stared for a split second at the grinning man behind her before she recognized him. He was big - about 6' 4", Thick shoulder and muscular arms in a tank top, which showed off a slight beer belly. He had dirty blond hair, chiseled features and the cold, blue eyes of a person who probably tortured small animals when he was a kid. Her heart jumped as she realized it was the man with the Auston-Healey.
Though her heart was pounding, she quickly masked her surprise with a look of composure, but not quick enough. He saw her shock, giving him a subtle feeling of power within the moment.
"I don't know what your problem is." Susan said with a tinge of poison in her tone, "but I don't want anything to do with you and I want you to go away and leave me alone."
The man's chuckle held venom rather than joy. "Ah, come on now. I saw you with that hippie back on Soquel. Is that as good as you can do? You probably couldn't handle a real man like me. I've got a very big cock."
Susan spit out a laugh of disgust. "Oh, brother." she said. "I'm sorry, asshole, but I think you have mistaken me for the type of airhead bimbo that I'm sure you're used to. I've got an M.A. from Stanford, top of my class. I need something a little more cerebral than a big dick to impress me, and I'm pretty sure you're very small in that area. Now get the hell away from me."
This time he threw his head back and laughed, then looked down at her with his cold eyes, his smile thinning to a straight line. "Okay, enough play time, Susan. Time to get down to business."
This time Susan could not hide the shock on her face. "How did you know my name?"
"Well, Susan Jenkins, I know a lot about you. I already knew you went to Stanford, and I knew you would be a snooty bitch too, but that's irrelevant to our business.
"I've got to tell you though, Susan, you lead one boring life. At least I thought you did until today. The boyfriend was a new element. He didn't come up at all in my research."
Her mouth dropped in astonishment. "You've been researching my life? Who are you? Why are you doing this?"
"I've been tailing you for two weeks. You go to work, go to the gym, go home. I've never seen such a boring life." He paused. "But, since I'm not getting what I want, and I'm tired to waiting, I decided it was time we met."
"Want?" she asked in confusion. "What is it you want?"
"Jeff." he said simply.
Now she was really confused. The only Jeff she could think of was her brother, and he had died at sea three years ago.
"I don't know anybody named Jeff." She said.
"Now, don't go telling me lies, Susan. That could be very unhealthy." he said softly.
"I'm not telling you lies. The only Jeff I can think of is my brother, and he died three years ago."
"Yeah, right." he said with a chuckle. "He took a sail boat out of the harbor and never came back."
"That's right." she said defiantly. "Pieces of his boat washed up on shore. There is no other conclusion one can reach in the face of the evidence."
"You're wrong about that, little Miss M.A. from Stanford. Another conclusion is that he took the boat out to sea, was met by someone else and he blew the boat up to give the appearance of death at sea. That's the conclusion that my bosses came up with."
"Your bosses? Who are your bosses and what do they want with Jeff?"
"Well, Susan, I would tell you that, but then I'd have to kill you." The accompanying grin was menacing and his tone held no humor.
She looked at him with disgust. "That's a tired joke, and it isn't funny."
He continued as if the implicational threat was nothing. "We were hoping that Jeff may have contact with you, but my, let's say, 'company', is growing impatient to locate him."
This man and who ever he worked for had to be stark raving mad. Jeff, her brother of mystery, was dead. She and her parents had accepted that fact with a great deal of torment, never knowing who he really was as a man. He would come home once a year, and they would not hear from him again until he just showed up on the doorstep at Christmas, packages of expensive gifts in his hands. When questioned about his life, his answers were always vague.
"If he is alive, and I seriously doubt that he is, he has never contacted me. He was a few years older than me, and though we were close as children, he left home when he turned 18 and we heard little of him after that. I don't know what kind of work he did or where he went. All I know is what was relayed to me and my family by the Coast Guard."
The man nodded his head. "I see. That may be true, but I don't think it is. Even if you don't know where he is, I would bet he knows where you are."
Just then a Land Rover pulled up to the curb behind the man. Brad stepped out, catching Susan's eye. The man turned and saw Brad.
"Well, well -" he said turning back to Susan. "If it isn't the boyfriend. I'll be leaving now, Susan. I don't want to hurt your hippie - not here and now, anyway. We'll be talking again real soon." He turned and looked Brad up and down in assessment as Brad stepped up on the curb. The man gave him a look of contempt as he mumbled, "Fuckin hippies.", and casually walked down the street. Brad stopped and watched the man walk away, studying him for a moment, estimating his height, 6' 4", his weight, about 240 pounds, his age, about 40, remembering what his face looked like, almost instinctually casing him as he had done to so many targets. He shook his head as if trying to shift his training from the forefront of his mind.
Susan looked visibly shaken when he walked up to her.
"Are you okay?" he asked with a tone of concern.
"Yes, I think so" she said, her voice shaking.
"You look a little shook up, Susan." Brad put his arm around her, the comfort of which she accepted, leaning into him as if he was already familiar territory.
" Maybe you'd rather have a drink than a coffee." he offered.
"No." she said shaking her head. "A double cappuccino would do me fine right now." As they walked down the street towards the coffee shop the fog began to rise, a struggling dim light presented itself in the mist as the sun. Susan didn't notice. Her mind was spinning from the conversation with Mr. Creepy.
All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.
Susan was mulling over what she was doing on this day, which so far had been completely out of character for her. She wasn't sure if she was running to or from something, and was not even sure what that something was. A cynical element in her mind suggested that she was trying to run from 30 back to 18 years old again. But she discarded that thought. That scenario may have triggered her reaction - her 'awakening', as her life to this point spread itself out before her with a vivid clarity. What she saw was how narrow her focus had become. There was more to her. There was more to life. What ever it was it slumbered in the darkest basements of her existence, and she wanted to awaken it, feel what it is, reinvent herself and be part of the adventure.
As Susan entered the Village of Soquel through the back door road, the edge of a fog bank fuzzed the sun that held the cool clouds at bay from venturing any further inland. At the moment gray weather ruled the coastal day, but Susan knew that the sun could easily cook the earth clinging clouds away by early afternoon.
She quickly passed through Soquel and found a parking spot close to the knee high cement wall that separated the village of Capitola from the beach. It didn't seem cold, but she grabbed a sweater from the back seat anyway and wandered down the sidewalk next to the wall until she found a wide area empty of people. She sat down on the wide top of the wall, pulled her legs under her chin with her arms wrapped around her knees and stared out across the expanse of sand at the still water lapping gently on the beach. A group of teenager in shorts played volley ball as if it was a sunny day. Others sat huddled on blankets waiting for the sun to appear as if it was late for a concert.
"Here you are." she heard a male voice behind her. She turned and stared for a split second at the grinning man behind her before she recognized him. He was big - about 6' 4", Thick shoulder and muscular arms in a tank top, which showed off a slight beer belly. He had dirty blond hair, chiseled features and the cold, blue eyes of a person who probably tortured small animals when he was a kid. Her heart jumped as she realized it was the man with the Auston-Healey.
Though her heart was pounding, she quickly masked her surprise with a look of composure, but not quick enough. He saw her shock, giving him a subtle feeling of power within the moment.
"I don't know what your problem is." Susan said with a tinge of poison in her tone, "but I don't want anything to do with you and I want you to go away and leave me alone."
The man's chuckle held venom rather than joy. "Ah, come on now. I saw you with that hippie back on Soquel. Is that as good as you can do? You probably couldn't handle a real man like me. I've got a very big cock."
Susan spit out a laugh of disgust. "Oh, brother." she said. "I'm sorry, asshole, but I think you have mistaken me for the type of airhead bimbo that I'm sure you're used to. I've got an M.A. from Stanford, top of my class. I need something a little more cerebral than a big dick to impress me, and I'm pretty sure you're very small in that area. Now get the hell away from me."
This time he threw his head back and laughed, then looked down at her with his cold eyes, his smile thinning to a straight line. "Okay, enough play time, Susan. Time to get down to business."
This time Susan could not hide the shock on her face. "How did you know my name?"
"Well, Susan Jenkins, I know a lot about you. I already knew you went to Stanford, and I knew you would be a snooty bitch too, but that's irrelevant to our business.
"I've got to tell you though, Susan, you lead one boring life. At least I thought you did until today. The boyfriend was a new element. He didn't come up at all in my research."
Her mouth dropped in astonishment. "You've been researching my life? Who are you? Why are you doing this?"
"I've been tailing you for two weeks. You go to work, go to the gym, go home. I've never seen such a boring life." He paused. "But, since I'm not getting what I want, and I'm tired to waiting, I decided it was time we met."
"Want?" she asked in confusion. "What is it you want?"
"Jeff." he said simply.
Now she was really confused. The only Jeff she could think of was her brother, and he had died at sea three years ago.
"I don't know anybody named Jeff." She said.
"Now, don't go telling me lies, Susan. That could be very unhealthy." he said softly.
"I'm not telling you lies. The only Jeff I can think of is my brother, and he died three years ago."
"Yeah, right." he said with a chuckle. "He took a sail boat out of the harbor and never came back."
"That's right." she said defiantly. "Pieces of his boat washed up on shore. There is no other conclusion one can reach in the face of the evidence."
"You're wrong about that, little Miss M.A. from Stanford. Another conclusion is that he took the boat out to sea, was met by someone else and he blew the boat up to give the appearance of death at sea. That's the conclusion that my bosses came up with."
"Your bosses? Who are your bosses and what do they want with Jeff?"
"Well, Susan, I would tell you that, but then I'd have to kill you." The accompanying grin was menacing and his tone held no humor.
She looked at him with disgust. "That's a tired joke, and it isn't funny."
He continued as if the implicational threat was nothing. "We were hoping that Jeff may have contact with you, but my, let's say, 'company', is growing impatient to locate him."
This man and who ever he worked for had to be stark raving mad. Jeff, her brother of mystery, was dead. She and her parents had accepted that fact with a great deal of torment, never knowing who he really was as a man. He would come home once a year, and they would not hear from him again until he just showed up on the doorstep at Christmas, packages of expensive gifts in his hands. When questioned about his life, his answers were always vague.
"If he is alive, and I seriously doubt that he is, he has never contacted me. He was a few years older than me, and though we were close as children, he left home when he turned 18 and we heard little of him after that. I don't know what kind of work he did or where he went. All I know is what was relayed to me and my family by the Coast Guard."
The man nodded his head. "I see. That may be true, but I don't think it is. Even if you don't know where he is, I would bet he knows where you are."
Just then a Land Rover pulled up to the curb behind the man. Brad stepped out, catching Susan's eye. The man turned and saw Brad.
"Well, well -" he said turning back to Susan. "If it isn't the boyfriend. I'll be leaving now, Susan. I don't want to hurt your hippie - not here and now, anyway. We'll be talking again real soon." He turned and looked Brad up and down in assessment as Brad stepped up on the curb. The man gave him a look of contempt as he mumbled, "Fuckin hippies.", and casually walked down the street. Brad stopped and watched the man walk away, studying him for a moment, estimating his height, 6' 4", his weight, about 240 pounds, his age, about 40, remembering what his face looked like, almost instinctually casing him as he had done to so many targets. He shook his head as if trying to shift his training from the forefront of his mind.
Susan looked visibly shaken when he walked up to her.
"Are you okay?" he asked with a tone of concern.
"Yes, I think so" she said, her voice shaking.
"You look a little shook up, Susan." Brad put his arm around her, the comfort of which she accepted, leaning into him as if he was already familiar territory.
" Maybe you'd rather have a drink than a coffee." he offered.
"No." she said shaking her head. "A double cappuccino would do me fine right now." As they walked down the street towards the coffee shop the fog began to rise, a struggling dim light presented itself in the mist as the sun. Susan didn't notice. Her mind was spinning from the conversation with Mr. Creepy.
All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Day at the beach ch.3
Chapter 3
"I didn't expect that." Susan remarked as she stepped back from him, still feeling a little awkward after being so obviously overwhelmed by his kiss. "Most men would have chosen a more confrontational approach."
"I'm not most men." He said. "If I can see a way to defuse a situation that creates no harm, I'll take it."
"Well - " she started, not sure what to say, "I feel indebted to you. Can I pay you for your help?"
"I think you already did." he said with a playful look in his eyes. "In my wildest dreams I had no intention of kissing a beautiful woman today."
She felt another flush rising in her cheeks as she recalled the gentleness of the kiss and how it had taken her breath away.
"You should be an actor." She commented. "You played the role quite well."
"So did you." He said with a grin.
"Okay." She said, feeling a little uncomfortable. "I will be going and let you return to your work before your boss sees you not doing anything."
"Oh!" he said glancing back at the fence. "No need to worry about that. My boss is very understanding about these things."?
"About these things?" she repeated with mild astonishment. "You make it sound like it's a regular occurrence." She paused and said teasingly, "Which happens more often, saving women passing by on the road or kissing them?"
He waved his hand towards the field where the horses still watched them with intense interest. "Those are my bosses. They don't care what I do as long as I bribe them with an apple when I do it." The bay nodded at Brad's gesture and walked a few steps closer.
"I'm on my way to the beach." Susan said looking at the horses then back at Brad. "If you're planning to go - "
Brad cut her off, running his words together quickly, letting them loose before they leaped back down his throat and refused to come out, "Can I buy you a cup of coffee in town? I'm almost done here. I just have to clean up, and was planning to go into Soquel for some supplies a little later."
"I had this plan - ", she started then stopped her self. She looked out at the green pasture where the horses now grazed, and at the redwood forest that covered the hill beyond, their height making the hill a small mountain. The sky was a crisp blue. Cotton candy puffs of sea-bearing clouds sailed its surface. Susan didn't really look at the scene, as her mind was spinning. But the scene affected her enough to calm her turmoil of feelings.
Susan had unconsciously set her objective when she left work this morning. She wasn't sure what to call it, maybe an identity crisis. Perhaps she was the person that she had become, but she was more. Much more. There was the dreamer that she once was. A person who saw and felt the thrill of life's lighted moments. A person who felt the adventure of existence. What had happened to those elements of me? What happened to my dreams and joys?
Her life was like a broken vase, and she had to put it back together. The only pieces that she could see was in her past. The ocean. The sailor and her - sailing away into the Pacific sunset. To find her dream, she had to go where it was created and lost - the beach.
Her savior, the hippie, was not figured into her focus and could be a diversion from her plan that she may not want, though he did seem nice. No, she had opened an old book on page 18 years old. What she wanted then was a golden boy, blond hair blowing in the sea breeze as he mastered the sails, she at his side.
She wasn't actually going there looking for her wind blown sailor in white linen draw string pants, but going back to where he was created in her mind. Where she imagined them on their yacht and her sunning on the deck as they ventured to islands in a blue Pacific ocean. That place where her dreams took concept was her starting point that would lead to who she is now - inside. She had to go to the beach to do that. The beach on which she sat so many years ago and stared out to sea, creating the life that she wanted in her still innocent, hopeful mind. But this guy, her eccentric savior, didn't fit into that picture. He was just a friendly hippie who probably spends his life fixing things on peoples ranches.
" My name is Brad." he said, extending his hand and bringing her back to the moment.
"Susan." she responded, taking his hand. "Listen, Brad, I - "
"I know." he said, seeing her reluctant expression. "You're going to the beach.
"Okay, Susan - ", he said with a grain of disappointment as he stepped back towards the fence. "It was nice meeting you. Enjoy your day at the beach."
"Thank you again, Brad." she said as she turned and started walking towards her car, a feeling of regret building inside of her with each step. She stopped and turned, blurting out, "I'm going to Capitola."
He turned back to her and smiled. "Great. Capitola is right next to Soquel. I usually stop by the coffee shop in Capitola and watch the tourists. Why don't you join me? We can make up stories about them as they walk by and get crazy on caffeine."
A short laugh escaped her. "Well, you certainly know how to impress a girl, don't you?" she said, teasingly.
"We've already passed that stage." Brad responded. "I risked my life to save you from that cave man in the Healey
She laughed. "Yes, you certainly took the dangerous road on that one."
"I'm glad you noticed." He said jokingly. "In the process of putting my life in peril, I took another dangerous step by kissing you, which, of course, broke that barrier. Now we can go the hard part - conversation."
Susan found his humor endearing and there seemed something about him that was likable. Maybe it was the way he held himself, very relaxed, yet athletic. His cheerful tone and subtle wit. She stifled back a laugh and said, "You sound a little presumptuous, Brad, but I think I would like to meet you for coffee, and I know exactly where that coffee shop is."
A grin lit his face, "Wonderful. I'll meet you there in about an hour. I have to put stuff away, and hose down so I don't smell like a horse."
"I didn't notice." She said, but she had noticed. As soon as she had pressed against him, she had noticed a mingling scent of horse, leather, linseed oil, a touch of redwood and male. As she opened the door of her car he called out, "Do you like Mexican food?"
"Yes." She called back. "Why?"
"There's a place in Aptos, a couple of blocks from the beach. It's been there forever."
"Manny's. Sure, I know it well."
They both stopped and looked at each other and smiled as if they had just had a communication that long enduring couples have. "I'll see you in an hour in Capitola." Susan said as she drove off with a smile that wouldn't go away.
Maybe dreams just wait in the sidelines when you push them aside, she thought. And maybe they don't always come dressed in the picture that you gave them, but the results can still be the same on an emotional level. It's just being open to them when they pass in front of you - recognizing them as the reality of a dream before you discard it, never noticing that this is what you dreamt of all along, it just looks different..
She no longer cared if the weather was dreary and gray on the coast. It was looking like a beautiful day to go to the beach.
Brad quickly put his tools away and jumped into the truck. Glancing at his watch he thought he should have given it an hour and a half, but he would make it. He turned the truck and raced it up the hill, turning into the long drive that ran through the large green pasture where cattle grazed, up to the old farm house tucked against the trees at the far end of the pasture. He pulled the old truck up next to the Land Rover, jumped out and ran into his house to take a shower. He was in a hurry. He only had an hour.
All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.
"I didn't expect that." Susan remarked as she stepped back from him, still feeling a little awkward after being so obviously overwhelmed by his kiss. "Most men would have chosen a more confrontational approach."
"I'm not most men." He said. "If I can see a way to defuse a situation that creates no harm, I'll take it."
"Well - " she started, not sure what to say, "I feel indebted to you. Can I pay you for your help?"
"I think you already did." he said with a playful look in his eyes. "In my wildest dreams I had no intention of kissing a beautiful woman today."
She felt another flush rising in her cheeks as she recalled the gentleness of the kiss and how it had taken her breath away.
"You should be an actor." She commented. "You played the role quite well."
"So did you." He said with a grin.
"Okay." She said, feeling a little uncomfortable. "I will be going and let you return to your work before your boss sees you not doing anything."
"Oh!" he said glancing back at the fence. "No need to worry about that. My boss is very understanding about these things."?
"About these things?" she repeated with mild astonishment. "You make it sound like it's a regular occurrence." She paused and said teasingly, "Which happens more often, saving women passing by on the road or kissing them?"
He waved his hand towards the field where the horses still watched them with intense interest. "Those are my bosses. They don't care what I do as long as I bribe them with an apple when I do it." The bay nodded at Brad's gesture and walked a few steps closer.
"I'm on my way to the beach." Susan said looking at the horses then back at Brad. "If you're planning to go - "
Brad cut her off, running his words together quickly, letting them loose before they leaped back down his throat and refused to come out, "Can I buy you a cup of coffee in town? I'm almost done here. I just have to clean up, and was planning to go into Soquel for some supplies a little later."
"I had this plan - ", she started then stopped her self. She looked out at the green pasture where the horses now grazed, and at the redwood forest that covered the hill beyond, their height making the hill a small mountain. The sky was a crisp blue. Cotton candy puffs of sea-bearing clouds sailed its surface. Susan didn't really look at the scene, as her mind was spinning. But the scene affected her enough to calm her turmoil of feelings.
Susan had unconsciously set her objective when she left work this morning. She wasn't sure what to call it, maybe an identity crisis. Perhaps she was the person that she had become, but she was more. Much more. There was the dreamer that she once was. A person who saw and felt the thrill of life's lighted moments. A person who felt the adventure of existence. What had happened to those elements of me? What happened to my dreams and joys?
Her life was like a broken vase, and she had to put it back together. The only pieces that she could see was in her past. The ocean. The sailor and her - sailing away into the Pacific sunset. To find her dream, she had to go where it was created and lost - the beach.
Her savior, the hippie, was not figured into her focus and could be a diversion from her plan that she may not want, though he did seem nice. No, she had opened an old book on page 18 years old. What she wanted then was a golden boy, blond hair blowing in the sea breeze as he mastered the sails, she at his side.
She wasn't actually going there looking for her wind blown sailor in white linen draw string pants, but going back to where he was created in her mind. Where she imagined them on their yacht and her sunning on the deck as they ventured to islands in a blue Pacific ocean. That place where her dreams took concept was her starting point that would lead to who she is now - inside. She had to go to the beach to do that. The beach on which she sat so many years ago and stared out to sea, creating the life that she wanted in her still innocent, hopeful mind. But this guy, her eccentric savior, didn't fit into that picture. He was just a friendly hippie who probably spends his life fixing things on peoples ranches.
" My name is Brad." he said, extending his hand and bringing her back to the moment.
"Susan." she responded, taking his hand. "Listen, Brad, I - "
"I know." he said, seeing her reluctant expression. "You're going to the beach.
"Okay, Susan - ", he said with a grain of disappointment as he stepped back towards the fence. "It was nice meeting you. Enjoy your day at the beach."
"Thank you again, Brad." she said as she turned and started walking towards her car, a feeling of regret building inside of her with each step. She stopped and turned, blurting out, "I'm going to Capitola."
He turned back to her and smiled. "Great. Capitola is right next to Soquel. I usually stop by the coffee shop in Capitola and watch the tourists. Why don't you join me? We can make up stories about them as they walk by and get crazy on caffeine."
A short laugh escaped her. "Well, you certainly know how to impress a girl, don't you?" she said, teasingly.
"We've already passed that stage." Brad responded. "I risked my life to save you from that cave man in the Healey
She laughed. "Yes, you certainly took the dangerous road on that one."
"I'm glad you noticed." He said jokingly. "In the process of putting my life in peril, I took another dangerous step by kissing you, which, of course, broke that barrier. Now we can go the hard part - conversation."
Susan found his humor endearing and there seemed something about him that was likable. Maybe it was the way he held himself, very relaxed, yet athletic. His cheerful tone and subtle wit. She stifled back a laugh and said, "You sound a little presumptuous, Brad, but I think I would like to meet you for coffee, and I know exactly where that coffee shop is."
A grin lit his face, "Wonderful. I'll meet you there in about an hour. I have to put stuff away, and hose down so I don't smell like a horse."
"I didn't notice." She said, but she had noticed. As soon as she had pressed against him, she had noticed a mingling scent of horse, leather, linseed oil, a touch of redwood and male. As she opened the door of her car he called out, "Do you like Mexican food?"
"Yes." She called back. "Why?"
"There's a place in Aptos, a couple of blocks from the beach. It's been there forever."
"Manny's. Sure, I know it well."
They both stopped and looked at each other and smiled as if they had just had a communication that long enduring couples have. "I'll see you in an hour in Capitola." Susan said as she drove off with a smile that wouldn't go away.
Maybe dreams just wait in the sidelines when you push them aside, she thought. And maybe they don't always come dressed in the picture that you gave them, but the results can still be the same on an emotional level. It's just being open to them when they pass in front of you - recognizing them as the reality of a dream before you discard it, never noticing that this is what you dreamt of all along, it just looks different..
She no longer cared if the weather was dreary and gray on the coast. It was looking like a beautiful day to go to the beach.
Brad quickly put his tools away and jumped into the truck. Glancing at his watch he thought he should have given it an hour and a half, but he would make it. He turned the truck and raced it up the hill, turning into the long drive that ran through the large green pasture where cattle grazed, up to the old farm house tucked against the trees at the far end of the pasture. He pulled the old truck up next to the Land Rover, jumped out and ran into his house to take a shower. He was in a hurry. He only had an hour.
All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Day at the Beach 2
Chapter 2
Susan wondered if she was over reacting, being paranoid for no reason, but as she drove she continued glancing in the mirror. Fabio was a big, chiseled featured man, almost good looking, and may have been just a friendly traveller, but something sparked inside of her when he had come up behind her earlier. His friendly demeanor seemed a thin veil over something very creepy. His smile had a predatory overtone to it.
She didn't want to think about him anymore. She sighed and settled back in her seat, feeling the wind grab her hair. She passed a field of grazing cattle, an old farm house tucked at the edge of the distant trees.
Her father used to take this route when driving the family to the beach for the weekend. It seemed the old farm house and the cattle had been there forever. It was a picture that never change, and one she hoped never would. It was such a serene setting, and the big house just seemed to have gotten more charming with time. As she turned her eyes back to the road a spark in the mirror caught her eye. As she came to a bend from a long straight road behind her, she saw a car top the distant hill in the mirror. It was too far away to see what it was or its color, but she knew who it was. Mr. Creepy was following here the way a wolf would follow a scent.
_ _ _ _
Brad was reminiscing as he lifted the rough log into place on the fence post. He was thinking about how he tried to help his dad build this rustic looking wood fence when he was a child. He smiled as he remembered how patient the old man was with him when he would try to help, but mostly get in the way. Now, at 38 years old, it seemed a very long time ago to Brad. The deep brown wood of the fence was etched with years, gray and white streaks left by the salt air of time, baked deep by many summer suns.
Brad kept the property up, as his father would if he was still alive. Even though he had lived a life much different that his fathers, the strong values of his father were well entrenched in him.
'A much different life', Brad thought as he looked at the two horse watching him with alert twitching ears.
"What are you looking at?" he said to the horses. In unison they started walking slowly towards him. "No - no, you apple hogs, I'm fixing a fence, not giving you treats."
He smiled as the bay snorted and bobbed her head. He loved this place. He loved the quiet and the beauty of it. Eight months ago he had caught a bullet on a Special Ops assignment. As he was being medi-vac'd he knew his days in Special Forces were over.
'It isn't too bad', he thought. The pain only bothered him when the weather was cold and damp, but he endured it and did what he had to do. He never talked about it or what he had been doing all those years away from home. He couldn't. Officially, he never got shot and he was never in that country or any other country in which he was doing Special Ops. The Operation never took place. None of them took place.
Where he lived and what he did now was in extreme contrast to the last 20 years of his life. His lean face now sported a short beard, and his shoulder length hair hung from the back of the bandanna that he used as a sweat band.
He had come home - to the land where he grew up, to the land his father had left him, to peace and quiet after a life of clandestine war. In appearance, he blended into the generally hippie persona of the Santa Cruz mountains. He had a gentle demeanor about him and an easy smile that people were drawn to. Even his his oldest friends knew little about his military background, taking as fact his claim to have been an communications expert, never suspecting that inside this peaceful man was an elite specialist in the darkest recesses of combat.
_ _ _ _
As Susan rounded the bend in the forest and lost sight of the car behind her, she came down a small hill and saw a pick-up truck off the side of the road next to an open field. A tall, rangy looking man with his head wrapped in a bandanna appeared to be repairing a fence. He looked like a hippie to her, but was dressed like a cowboy. He wore Levi's with a utility belt strapped to his waist, , mud caked cowboy boots, sweat stained blue work shirt, sleeves rolled up, revealing muscular forearms.
"Shit." Susan mumbled. "I need a cop, not a hippie." She started braking as she came down the hill and pulled over next to the truck. She jumped out of the car and ran over to the hippie/cowboy, who had turned from his job and watched her with a silent, neutral expression as she came up to him.
"Yes, ma'am." he said as a question.
"I'm sorry to bother you, but there's a man following me."
Brad looked up the road curiously. "People follow each other down this road all the time. Are you all right?"
"No-no-no." She said with a tone of frustration and desperation, "I understand that. This is different. This guy is stalking me. He's driving a green Auston-Healey and will be coming over that hill any second, and going fast, because he's trying to catch me."
"Do you know him?" Brad asked.
Just then the scream of a high performance engine pierced the still air as the Auston-Healey flew over the hill and started down the hill.
"Hmm -" Brad grunted as he looked at the car racing down the road.
"Okay, ma'am, I'll take care of this quick and easy, but if I'm going to follow your intuition, you're going to have to trust my male intuition and go along with what I'm going to do." His eyes glanced to the road as he spoke to her, " and we have no time to discuss it."
Just as the driver of the Healey came close enough for the driver to see them clearly, Brad took her in his arms and kissed her. What the driver couldn't see was Susan's eyes pop open in surprise, her body tense for the moment it took her to realize what Brad was doing. She relaxed and put her arms around him. There was a slight squeal of tires as the car braked and cruised passed them. Brad raised to his full height and looked over Susan's head as the car slowly went by. He smiled thinly at the passing driver, but his eyes met the other man's with a spark of cold steel. A split second of male assessment passed between them before the driver gunned the Healey, racing through the gears as he sped down the road.
Everything happened so quickly that Susan was left with a bewilderment of emotions. Fear, upon hearing the sports car coming. surprise when the tall man had taken her in his arms and pressed her to his hard body, kissing her so gently, as if he really meant it - as if they were long separated lovers reuniting. He looked back down at her still in his arms and smiled as the car sped away. "We should probably stop meeting like this." He said as his smile widened, his eyes softened.
"Well -", she responded softly. "I - I - uh." Her mind was blank of words. She suddenly felt embarrassed - not by her desperate plea for help, but by her reaction to being held and kissed so tenderly in such a tense situation. Susan was momentarily flustered, and she never got flustered. It was unprofessional, and professional is what she had been for years. She suddenly realized, that not only did he still hold her in his arms, but hers were wrapped tightly around his back. Her heart was pounding, and she wasn't sure why. Was it being chased by Mr. Creepy? Being literally save? Was it because of how she was saved - with a kiss.
She became aware of the silence - the scream of the Healey long faded into the breeze but she still had her arms around Brad, his was still around her, without thought, resting within the gaze of his eyes. She pulled her eyes from his and released her grip on him. As he released her he rubbed her shoulder fondly then dropped his hand. It was a touch of affection, a motion of caring, the feel of reaffirmation that everything is all right. She felt a warmth inside as her heart started pounding again, a flush of rose on her cheeks.
If this was a normal day, and Susan was as she usually is, she would have thanked him for his assistance in a courteous, yet distant manner, gotten in the Honda and left. But this was anything but a normal day, and Susan was not at all who she usually would be. She wasn't really sure who she was today. What she did know is that she wanted to be somebody different than she had been for the last decade. She didn't want to be molded by policy and politics. She wanted to be - - Susan, and she had no idea who that was.
All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.
Susan wondered if she was over reacting, being paranoid for no reason, but as she drove she continued glancing in the mirror. Fabio was a big, chiseled featured man, almost good looking, and may have been just a friendly traveller, but something sparked inside of her when he had come up behind her earlier. His friendly demeanor seemed a thin veil over something very creepy. His smile had a predatory overtone to it.
She didn't want to think about him anymore. She sighed and settled back in her seat, feeling the wind grab her hair. She passed a field of grazing cattle, an old farm house tucked at the edge of the distant trees.
Her father used to take this route when driving the family to the beach for the weekend. It seemed the old farm house and the cattle had been there forever. It was a picture that never change, and one she hoped never would. It was such a serene setting, and the big house just seemed to have gotten more charming with time. As she turned her eyes back to the road a spark in the mirror caught her eye. As she came to a bend from a long straight road behind her, she saw a car top the distant hill in the mirror. It was too far away to see what it was or its color, but she knew who it was. Mr. Creepy was following here the way a wolf would follow a scent.
_ _ _ _
Brad was reminiscing as he lifted the rough log into place on the fence post. He was thinking about how he tried to help his dad build this rustic looking wood fence when he was a child. He smiled as he remembered how patient the old man was with him when he would try to help, but mostly get in the way. Now, at 38 years old, it seemed a very long time ago to Brad. The deep brown wood of the fence was etched with years, gray and white streaks left by the salt air of time, baked deep by many summer suns.
Brad kept the property up, as his father would if he was still alive. Even though he had lived a life much different that his fathers, the strong values of his father were well entrenched in him.
'A much different life', Brad thought as he looked at the two horse watching him with alert twitching ears.
"What are you looking at?" he said to the horses. In unison they started walking slowly towards him. "No - no, you apple hogs, I'm fixing a fence, not giving you treats."
He smiled as the bay snorted and bobbed her head. He loved this place. He loved the quiet and the beauty of it. Eight months ago he had caught a bullet on a Special Ops assignment. As he was being medi-vac'd he knew his days in Special Forces were over.
'It isn't too bad', he thought. The pain only bothered him when the weather was cold and damp, but he endured it and did what he had to do. He never talked about it or what he had been doing all those years away from home. He couldn't. Officially, he never got shot and he was never in that country or any other country in which he was doing Special Ops. The Operation never took place. None of them took place.
Where he lived and what he did now was in extreme contrast to the last 20 years of his life. His lean face now sported a short beard, and his shoulder length hair hung from the back of the bandanna that he used as a sweat band.
He had come home - to the land where he grew up, to the land his father had left him, to peace and quiet after a life of clandestine war. In appearance, he blended into the generally hippie persona of the Santa Cruz mountains. He had a gentle demeanor about him and an easy smile that people were drawn to. Even his his oldest friends knew little about his military background, taking as fact his claim to have been an communications expert, never suspecting that inside this peaceful man was an elite specialist in the darkest recesses of combat.
_ _ _ _
As Susan rounded the bend in the forest and lost sight of the car behind her, she came down a small hill and saw a pick-up truck off the side of the road next to an open field. A tall, rangy looking man with his head wrapped in a bandanna appeared to be repairing a fence. He looked like a hippie to her, but was dressed like a cowboy. He wore Levi's with a utility belt strapped to his waist, , mud caked cowboy boots, sweat stained blue work shirt, sleeves rolled up, revealing muscular forearms.
"Shit." Susan mumbled. "I need a cop, not a hippie." She started braking as she came down the hill and pulled over next to the truck. She jumped out of the car and ran over to the hippie/cowboy, who had turned from his job and watched her with a silent, neutral expression as she came up to him.
"Yes, ma'am." he said as a question.
"I'm sorry to bother you, but there's a man following me."
Brad looked up the road curiously. "People follow each other down this road all the time. Are you all right?"
"No-no-no." She said with a tone of frustration and desperation, "I understand that. This is different. This guy is stalking me. He's driving a green Auston-Healey and will be coming over that hill any second, and going fast, because he's trying to catch me."
"Do you know him?" Brad asked.
Just then the scream of a high performance engine pierced the still air as the Auston-Healey flew over the hill and started down the hill.
"Hmm -" Brad grunted as he looked at the car racing down the road.
"Okay, ma'am, I'll take care of this quick and easy, but if I'm going to follow your intuition, you're going to have to trust my male intuition and go along with what I'm going to do." His eyes glanced to the road as he spoke to her, " and we have no time to discuss it."
Just as the driver of the Healey came close enough for the driver to see them clearly, Brad took her in his arms and kissed her. What the driver couldn't see was Susan's eyes pop open in surprise, her body tense for the moment it took her to realize what Brad was doing. She relaxed and put her arms around him. There was a slight squeal of tires as the car braked and cruised passed them. Brad raised to his full height and looked over Susan's head as the car slowly went by. He smiled thinly at the passing driver, but his eyes met the other man's with a spark of cold steel. A split second of male assessment passed between them before the driver gunned the Healey, racing through the gears as he sped down the road.
Everything happened so quickly that Susan was left with a bewilderment of emotions. Fear, upon hearing the sports car coming. surprise when the tall man had taken her in his arms and pressed her to his hard body, kissing her so gently, as if he really meant it - as if they were long separated lovers reuniting. He looked back down at her still in his arms and smiled as the car sped away. "We should probably stop meeting like this." He said as his smile widened, his eyes softened.
"Well -", she responded softly. "I - I - uh." Her mind was blank of words. She suddenly felt embarrassed - not by her desperate plea for help, but by her reaction to being held and kissed so tenderly in such a tense situation. Susan was momentarily flustered, and she never got flustered. It was unprofessional, and professional is what she had been for years. She suddenly realized, that not only did he still hold her in his arms, but hers were wrapped tightly around his back. Her heart was pounding, and she wasn't sure why. Was it being chased by Mr. Creepy? Being literally save? Was it because of how she was saved - with a kiss.
She became aware of the silence - the scream of the Healey long faded into the breeze but she still had her arms around Brad, his was still around her, without thought, resting within the gaze of his eyes. She pulled her eyes from his and released her grip on him. As he released her he rubbed her shoulder fondly then dropped his hand. It was a touch of affection, a motion of caring, the feel of reaffirmation that everything is all right. She felt a warmth inside as her heart started pounding again, a flush of rose on her cheeks.
If this was a normal day, and Susan was as she usually is, she would have thanked him for his assistance in a courteous, yet distant manner, gotten in the Honda and left. But this was anything but a normal day, and Susan was not at all who she usually would be. She wasn't really sure who she was today. What she did know is that she wanted to be somebody different than she had been for the last decade. She didn't want to be molded by policy and politics. She wanted to be - - Susan, and she had no idea who that was.
All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Day at the Beach
Chapter 1
The day was gray, the impatient wind encouraged the endless drizzle to show some personality, but stubbornly it continued its boringly dreary pace. It was as if the rain knew its season was long over, but it had no choice but to follow the whimsical travels of its master, the wind.
It should have been a sunnier day with just a slight breeze to cool the sun. A breeze that smelled of the sea and anticipation that filled the heart with hope, a feeling of love wishing to take form before your eyes. It should have felt that way because that's the way she wanted it to look and feel. It was a concept completely out of character for Susan, a successful business woman who had just turned 30.
In her office earlier in the morning, Susan looked in the full length mirror in the executive lounge, as she usually did to make sure everything was in line and sharp. She saw a trim body, athletic legs, muscles enhanced by the stretch of the high heels that she wore. Thick auburn hair waved at her shoulders. She studied her face for a moment, checking her make-up. It was an attractive face. Large, deep green eyes and full lips on an angular face, a hint of Mediterranean colored her skin with a golden tint. She had intelligent eyes and a no-nonsense aura to her stature. She was ready to go to work, and then, totally out of character, she walked up close to the mirror and looked into her own eyes, paying no attention to the liner or mascara.
"Thirty." she said to herself in the mirror. She forced a smile and looked at the laugh lines crinkle at the edge of her eyes. When she lost the smile, a hint of the lines remained. "Thirty." she said again to her mimicking image, "and I have no life." She stared at herself critically, "Your twenties have just left the building, Susan." She smiled at that, and then with the realization of its truth, her smile melted. "Oh - ", she said as it sunk into her mind and spread itself through her being.
She had planned to work for a couple of years after college, and travel Europe, sail the Pacific with her bronze sailor to exotic islands, but none of those things happened. She never went to Europe, never met her sailor, and never sailed to an island. She had gone to work and kept working, climbing the ladder until today, when she hit the gonging bell of 30.
Susan did not follow her whims, because she didn't have any. If one was to rise from within her, she would beat it to death with the weapons of logic and focus, which were the driving force behind her directive. Her job had subtly become her world until there were no other priorities in her life, and suddenly she realized it as if she had just woken from a long dream.
Without a word to anybody, she had left the building, gone home and changed her clothes, hopped into her Honda S-2000, and driven an hour from Sunnyvale to Santa Cruz. Turning off highway 17 at the Redwood Estates turn-off, she traveled the narrow, more scenic back roads that wound up to Old Santa Cruz highway. With a sigh she settled back as she wheeled her way up the winding road, enjoying the view of sun dappled shade that found its way through the canopy in rays of light.
"Without light, you cannot see beauty.", she thought pleased with herself for thinking of an insightful observation. She turned left at Summit Rd., hardly checking for traffic, as it was used only a little more than the road she had just left. There were no cars in sight, and she drove unhurried down the long straight road that crested the mountains.
A reflection of light caught her eye in the mirror, and she glanced up to see a green sports car baring down on her. It slowed as it came behind behind the Honda and settled in close behind her. She looked into the rear view mirror, which jiggled slightly in complaint against the roughness of the road. She could see it was a man behind her. Like her, he had his top down, long hair escaping a pony tail and catching in the wind. He appeared to smile and waved his hand. He was watching her in her own mirror.
A spark of fear flashed inside of her. Perhaps taking the back road wasn't such a good idea. She sped up a little, and the man sped up also, keeping pace with her. The fear rose in her another octave. She fumbled for her cell phone and flipped it open, only to find there was no signal. Of course. She was deep in the mountains. A signal would be spotty at best.
Suddenly the car pulled out and screamed passed her. She could see now that it was an Auston-Healey. The man turned his head and waved with a smile as he pulled back in front of her. She feared he might try to block her and bring her to a stop, but instead he sped on, disappearing over the next hill. She sighed with relief and realized that her hands were shaking a little.
She chastised herself for being paranoid, blaming it on never getting out - always working, going home and back to work again.
As she rounded a bend she could see the old mountain market on the left hand side of the road up ahead. God, that place has been there forever, she thought. Two rusted out pickup trucks and an old Volkswagen bus with a Peace sign on its side were parked in front. As she came up to the market she saw the Auston-Healey on the other side of the VW. The man who had waved at her stood near the rear of the car looking down the road at her. He looked like that character who modeled for covers on Harlequin romance novels. What was his name, she thought, something ridiculous. Oh yes, Fabio.
Fabio had a beer in his hand and raised it to her in salute as she drove passed. She ignored him and gassed the Honda.
The day was gray, the impatient wind encouraged the endless drizzle to show some personality, but stubbornly it continued its boringly dreary pace. It was as if the rain knew its season was long over, but it had no choice but to follow the whimsical travels of its master, the wind.
It should have been a sunnier day with just a slight breeze to cool the sun. A breeze that smelled of the sea and anticipation that filled the heart with hope, a feeling of love wishing to take form before your eyes. It should have felt that way because that's the way she wanted it to look and feel. It was a concept completely out of character for Susan, a successful business woman who had just turned 30.
In her office earlier in the morning, Susan looked in the full length mirror in the executive lounge, as she usually did to make sure everything was in line and sharp. She saw a trim body, athletic legs, muscles enhanced by the stretch of the high heels that she wore. Thick auburn hair waved at her shoulders. She studied her face for a moment, checking her make-up. It was an attractive face. Large, deep green eyes and full lips on an angular face, a hint of Mediterranean colored her skin with a golden tint. She had intelligent eyes and a no-nonsense aura to her stature. She was ready to go to work, and then, totally out of character, she walked up close to the mirror and looked into her own eyes, paying no attention to the liner or mascara.
"Thirty." she said to herself in the mirror. She forced a smile and looked at the laugh lines crinkle at the edge of her eyes. When she lost the smile, a hint of the lines remained. "Thirty." she said again to her mimicking image, "and I have no life." She stared at herself critically, "Your twenties have just left the building, Susan." She smiled at that, and then with the realization of its truth, her smile melted. "Oh - ", she said as it sunk into her mind and spread itself through her being.
She had planned to work for a couple of years after college, and travel Europe, sail the Pacific with her bronze sailor to exotic islands, but none of those things happened. She never went to Europe, never met her sailor, and never sailed to an island. She had gone to work and kept working, climbing the ladder until today, when she hit the gonging bell of 30.
Susan did not follow her whims, because she didn't have any. If one was to rise from within her, she would beat it to death with the weapons of logic and focus, which were the driving force behind her directive. Her job had subtly become her world until there were no other priorities in her life, and suddenly she realized it as if she had just woken from a long dream.
Without a word to anybody, she had left the building, gone home and changed her clothes, hopped into her Honda S-2000, and driven an hour from Sunnyvale to Santa Cruz. Turning off highway 17 at the Redwood Estates turn-off, she traveled the narrow, more scenic back roads that wound up to Old Santa Cruz highway. With a sigh she settled back as she wheeled her way up the winding road, enjoying the view of sun dappled shade that found its way through the canopy in rays of light.
"Without light, you cannot see beauty.", she thought pleased with herself for thinking of an insightful observation. She turned left at Summit Rd., hardly checking for traffic, as it was used only a little more than the road she had just left. There were no cars in sight, and she drove unhurried down the long straight road that crested the mountains.
A reflection of light caught her eye in the mirror, and she glanced up to see a green sports car baring down on her. It slowed as it came behind behind the Honda and settled in close behind her. She looked into the rear view mirror, which jiggled slightly in complaint against the roughness of the road. She could see it was a man behind her. Like her, he had his top down, long hair escaping a pony tail and catching in the wind. He appeared to smile and waved his hand. He was watching her in her own mirror.
A spark of fear flashed inside of her. Perhaps taking the back road wasn't such a good idea. She sped up a little, and the man sped up also, keeping pace with her. The fear rose in her another octave. She fumbled for her cell phone and flipped it open, only to find there was no signal. Of course. She was deep in the mountains. A signal would be spotty at best.
Suddenly the car pulled out and screamed passed her. She could see now that it was an Auston-Healey. The man turned his head and waved with a smile as he pulled back in front of her. She feared he might try to block her and bring her to a stop, but instead he sped on, disappearing over the next hill. She sighed with relief and realized that her hands were shaking a little.
She chastised herself for being paranoid, blaming it on never getting out - always working, going home and back to work again.
As she rounded a bend she could see the old mountain market on the left hand side of the road up ahead. God, that place has been there forever, she thought. Two rusted out pickup trucks and an old Volkswagen bus with a Peace sign on its side were parked in front. As she came up to the market she saw the Auston-Healey on the other side of the VW. The man who had waved at her stood near the rear of the car looking down the road at her. He looked like that character who modeled for covers on Harlequin romance novels. What was his name, she thought, something ridiculous. Oh yes, Fabio.
Fabio had a beer in his hand and raised it to her in salute as she drove passed. She ignored him and gassed the Honda.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Rachel's manual of man codes
Rachel Thompson, @RachelintheOC, is a very successful Amazon author who is currently working on a book themed 'Mancode'. She has mentioned it in tweets, and it started me thinking about how differently men and women can think some times.
I've known women like Rachel all my life. They're attractive, smart, and hold men accountable, which makes them scary. Being held accountable means we not only have to think about what we're doing, but also what we're saying. They demand that we think in a higher gear than neutral, which gives us a headache. As we age and learn, we become adept at not really listening unless key words pop up in the white noise that's passing directly through one ear and out the other. Words like, "My mother is -", or just a single word like, "beer", or "sex". Words that relate to comfort, gratification, food. Men are very basic animals.
Anyway, I started thinking about Rachel's mancode. It sounds like she has a manual that explains men. This is a frightening thing in the hands of a woman. I don't have a manual. I don't know a single guy who does. As I've waded through the years, I've often thought a manual would have been nice to refer to while in the middle of experiencing a testosterone disaster, or saying just about the worst thing I possibly could to smooth over something that I did.
Man's code, concerning women, is not something that we (men) all got together and agreed upon as the coolest way to deal with women. Women are actually the ones who instigated and formed the philosophy that we use to maintain a relationship that we can cope with, and hopefully understand, though understanding it isn't as important as coping with it.
About the time of puberty, when a budding young man discovers the wonders inside his pants, he should be able to reach down there one day and pull out a manual instead of what he usually pulls out. The manual should be a publication of nature. It would just bloom between our legs on our fourteenth birthday. It would be a manual that justifies the degree of all the stupid things he's going to do according to the level of testosterone that poor sucker is carrying around, because from this moment on he's going to think in delusional realms, such as, seeing some beautiful woman smile in his direction and thinking, "She wants me, bad.", when in reality she was grimacing from the sun being in her eyes, or, (teenage reasoning), saying to his self, "I can take him.", when looking at any other male, when in reality he couldn't fight his way out of a wet paper bag. Let's face it, male hormones are a curse that we must suffer through, and what we need from women is sympathy, their warm naked bodies pressed against us in understanding.
So, if nature was fair, when a boy in adventurous discovery thrusts his hand into his pants for his hourly check to make sure his gear hadn't gone anywhere, and pulls out a paperback manual, he would know that he has a guide that will explain why his brain will be working in direct harmony with his penis from this moment up to his death and possibly beyond.
If we were a truly advanced species, there would be a second volume that would sprout from his crotch a few years later entitled, 'How to understand women and respond to the code they expect men to live by.' Okay, not much of a title, but - I'm a man.
Women think that men are about as sensitive as saw dust, but I'm here to tell you that isn't true. We're just sensitive about different things. I'll give you a for instance.
I was out to dinner one night with three women. One was my girlfriend, one my business partner, and one was another artist that I worked with. The three of them had started talking about what rutting pigs men are with great enthusiasm. I sat there quietly shoveling fettuccine Alfredo into my face and guzzling beer in acceptable to all males fashion, keeping my thoughts quiet, as my experience had taught me when in the face of danger, such as a group of women or any other preoccupied pack animal that has formed into a hunting party.
These women were vicious and unbending as they thrashed my gender with their viper tongues and sliced us to pieces with their sharp words, laughing with malice at what they saw as our shortcomings and barbaric ways, completely ignoring the fact that I, a man, was sitting in their midst.
I couldn't take it any longer. My gender needed a spokesman and I rallied to the cause as any red blooded American male must do.
I guzzled down the rest of my beer before speaking, and to show that men could be sensitive, civilized, even delicate, I covered my mouth before belching. In a man's mind, that was a sensitive, thoughtful courtesy to the ladies. In a group of men, nobody would care.
"Excuse me, ladies.", I said. "But you may not have noticed that I'm sitting here and you're talking about my gender, my planetary brotherhood."
They all went silent for a moment, which I found remarkable from a group of women, before they burst out laughing and said, "Oh, John, we're not talking about you. You're different."
Different?? What did they mean, I'm different? Am I not a member of my gender? Am I a eunuch? Are they insinuating that I'm gay? Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course.
A threat to my manhood had been suggested. The red flag of maleness raised in my subconscious. I suddenly felt the hair on my body thickening, my arms stretched and knuckles dragged on the ground, my forehead sloped and eyebrow ridge thickened as my voice dropped two octaves and I said, "Are you saying that I'm gay?"
"No, no, of course not. You're just different." They assured me, but I wasn't assured. I never did get a straight answer from them. To this day, when I think of that night, a rattling of insecurity ripples through my manliness. I had just experienced woman code, and didn't have a clue how to deal with it, or understand how they came up with it. It was a thought process that could have been beamed down from the Orion galaxy, yet it came from my species.
Mancode is pretty simple, really. It's basically keeping a woman content enough to leave him alone with a beer when he's watching a game. Men's lives are pretty easy these days. Imagine what our ancient forefathers went through.
Better yet, imagine the women. Women are who really created civilization. Men were quite content going out on hunting parties with the boys and trying to jump women when they were bent over picking wild vegetables. A warm fire in the cave at night and what ever fermented drinks they had in those days, and I guarantee they had something, was fine with them. Booze was probably the only thing that cave man invented without women's influence.
I figured out the powerful influence that women had on civilization when I shared a cabin with a buddy of mine in the Santa Cruz mountains of California. This was a man's cabin. It didn't have any electricity, running water or a restroom. We were content to do our cooking on a wood burning stove, which works very well, by-the-way. We did build a water system from an underground creek and put a faucet and sink in the kitchen, but that was all we really needed for convenience. We had kerosene lamps for light, which is all a man needs, since putting on make-up isn't in our routine - - well, most of us.
When ladies came over and wanted to use the restroom, we pointed to the shovel with the toilet paper roll on the handle near the back door.
"Take that shovel and toilet paper - go out the back door about one hundred feet and you will see a fallen redwood tree. Dig a hole and hang your butt over the tree." Sometimes I couldn't resist and would add, "Oh, and remember to watch out for snakes." That's something that only men would think is funny - totally against the woman code, and a completely stupid thing to say, because not a single woman ever used our shovel. Not even after we explained the beautiful view they would get of Lexington Dam and the bay area from where they sat. What was even worse, is they never spent the night and would usually leave soon after the rest room request.
We decided if we were going to get women to spend the night, we needed a restroom, and not just any restroom, like a nice simple outhouse, which is easy to make, but something nice - civilized. Women had to walk into this room and subconsciously see that we were not just a couple of horny mountain men swinging through the trees like a couple of apes, which is exactly what we were.
We designed a bathroom with a tub on a wide redwood platform, flushing toilet, a sink encased in redwood with brass handles, stained and beveled glass windows all around the room and even planned a mirror over the sink that was actually a glass mirror instead of a metal sheet.
We went to work, and what a project. Half way through it I realized that we were creating a civilized setting - a room from scratch, that wasn't just functional, but had ambiance, art - class. We weren't doing this for us, we were doing it for women, and not just any woman, but all women who came our way. That's when I came to the realization that this is how civilization started.
Fifty thousand years ago a woman said, "Look, Ork, this is the way it is. If you ever intend to get laid again, you had better build me a bathroom with running water and a flushing toilet.", and now we're so far removed from our natural setting by civilization, we no longer know what we're missing.
Even when we long for the good old days, we're not even sure what we're longing for because the trail back has been erased by woman code, and now it's substituted with a sports event on a box in an enclosed room where women can be sure that we are under control, and if they wish to display their power over us, they simply stand in front of the TV and pull a robe open and say, "I'm your sports event now, big boy." Okay, maybe it doesn't always work that way, but it always works on me.
We have civilization as women deemed it should be. Men may have built it, but it was a woman's idea. We live in a world created by woman code.
So, I thank Rachel for giving me something to write about tonight. It's been fun. You can find Rachel's newest book, A Walk in the Snark, at, http://t.co/4Hig4CO. I hope I have that right, but if I don't - hey, I'm a man.
All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.
I've known women like Rachel all my life. They're attractive, smart, and hold men accountable, which makes them scary. Being held accountable means we not only have to think about what we're doing, but also what we're saying. They demand that we think in a higher gear than neutral, which gives us a headache. As we age and learn, we become adept at not really listening unless key words pop up in the white noise that's passing directly through one ear and out the other. Words like, "My mother is -", or just a single word like, "beer", or "sex". Words that relate to comfort, gratification, food. Men are very basic animals.
Anyway, I started thinking about Rachel's mancode. It sounds like she has a manual that explains men. This is a frightening thing in the hands of a woman. I don't have a manual. I don't know a single guy who does. As I've waded through the years, I've often thought a manual would have been nice to refer to while in the middle of experiencing a testosterone disaster, or saying just about the worst thing I possibly could to smooth over something that I did.
Man's code, concerning women, is not something that we (men) all got together and agreed upon as the coolest way to deal with women. Women are actually the ones who instigated and formed the philosophy that we use to maintain a relationship that we can cope with, and hopefully understand, though understanding it isn't as important as coping with it.
About the time of puberty, when a budding young man discovers the wonders inside his pants, he should be able to reach down there one day and pull out a manual instead of what he usually pulls out. The manual should be a publication of nature. It would just bloom between our legs on our fourteenth birthday. It would be a manual that justifies the degree of all the stupid things he's going to do according to the level of testosterone that poor sucker is carrying around, because from this moment on he's going to think in delusional realms, such as, seeing some beautiful woman smile in his direction and thinking, "She wants me, bad.", when in reality she was grimacing from the sun being in her eyes, or, (teenage reasoning), saying to his self, "I can take him.", when looking at any other male, when in reality he couldn't fight his way out of a wet paper bag. Let's face it, male hormones are a curse that we must suffer through, and what we need from women is sympathy, their warm naked bodies pressed against us in understanding.
So, if nature was fair, when a boy in adventurous discovery thrusts his hand into his pants for his hourly check to make sure his gear hadn't gone anywhere, and pulls out a paperback manual, he would know that he has a guide that will explain why his brain will be working in direct harmony with his penis from this moment up to his death and possibly beyond.
If we were a truly advanced species, there would be a second volume that would sprout from his crotch a few years later entitled, 'How to understand women and respond to the code they expect men to live by.' Okay, not much of a title, but - I'm a man.
Women think that men are about as sensitive as saw dust, but I'm here to tell you that isn't true. We're just sensitive about different things. I'll give you a for instance.
I was out to dinner one night with three women. One was my girlfriend, one my business partner, and one was another artist that I worked with. The three of them had started talking about what rutting pigs men are with great enthusiasm. I sat there quietly shoveling fettuccine Alfredo into my face and guzzling beer in acceptable to all males fashion, keeping my thoughts quiet, as my experience had taught me when in the face of danger, such as a group of women or any other preoccupied pack animal that has formed into a hunting party.
These women were vicious and unbending as they thrashed my gender with their viper tongues and sliced us to pieces with their sharp words, laughing with malice at what they saw as our shortcomings and barbaric ways, completely ignoring the fact that I, a man, was sitting in their midst.
I couldn't take it any longer. My gender needed a spokesman and I rallied to the cause as any red blooded American male must do.
I guzzled down the rest of my beer before speaking, and to show that men could be sensitive, civilized, even delicate, I covered my mouth before belching. In a man's mind, that was a sensitive, thoughtful courtesy to the ladies. In a group of men, nobody would care.
"Excuse me, ladies.", I said. "But you may not have noticed that I'm sitting here and you're talking about my gender, my planetary brotherhood."
They all went silent for a moment, which I found remarkable from a group of women, before they burst out laughing and said, "Oh, John, we're not talking about you. You're different."
Different?? What did they mean, I'm different? Am I not a member of my gender? Am I a eunuch? Are they insinuating that I'm gay? Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course.
A threat to my manhood had been suggested. The red flag of maleness raised in my subconscious. I suddenly felt the hair on my body thickening, my arms stretched and knuckles dragged on the ground, my forehead sloped and eyebrow ridge thickened as my voice dropped two octaves and I said, "Are you saying that I'm gay?"
"No, no, of course not. You're just different." They assured me, but I wasn't assured. I never did get a straight answer from them. To this day, when I think of that night, a rattling of insecurity ripples through my manliness. I had just experienced woman code, and didn't have a clue how to deal with it, or understand how they came up with it. It was a thought process that could have been beamed down from the Orion galaxy, yet it came from my species.
Mancode is pretty simple, really. It's basically keeping a woman content enough to leave him alone with a beer when he's watching a game. Men's lives are pretty easy these days. Imagine what our ancient forefathers went through.
Better yet, imagine the women. Women are who really created civilization. Men were quite content going out on hunting parties with the boys and trying to jump women when they were bent over picking wild vegetables. A warm fire in the cave at night and what ever fermented drinks they had in those days, and I guarantee they had something, was fine with them. Booze was probably the only thing that cave man invented without women's influence.
I figured out the powerful influence that women had on civilization when I shared a cabin with a buddy of mine in the Santa Cruz mountains of California. This was a man's cabin. It didn't have any electricity, running water or a restroom. We were content to do our cooking on a wood burning stove, which works very well, by-the-way. We did build a water system from an underground creek and put a faucet and sink in the kitchen, but that was all we really needed for convenience. We had kerosene lamps for light, which is all a man needs, since putting on make-up isn't in our routine - - well, most of us.
When ladies came over and wanted to use the restroom, we pointed to the shovel with the toilet paper roll on the handle near the back door.
"Take that shovel and toilet paper - go out the back door about one hundred feet and you will see a fallen redwood tree. Dig a hole and hang your butt over the tree." Sometimes I couldn't resist and would add, "Oh, and remember to watch out for snakes." That's something that only men would think is funny - totally against the woman code, and a completely stupid thing to say, because not a single woman ever used our shovel. Not even after we explained the beautiful view they would get of Lexington Dam and the bay area from where they sat. What was even worse, is they never spent the night and would usually leave soon after the rest room request.
We decided if we were going to get women to spend the night, we needed a restroom, and not just any restroom, like a nice simple outhouse, which is easy to make, but something nice - civilized. Women had to walk into this room and subconsciously see that we were not just a couple of horny mountain men swinging through the trees like a couple of apes, which is exactly what we were.
We designed a bathroom with a tub on a wide redwood platform, flushing toilet, a sink encased in redwood with brass handles, stained and beveled glass windows all around the room and even planned a mirror over the sink that was actually a glass mirror instead of a metal sheet.
We went to work, and what a project. Half way through it I realized that we were creating a civilized setting - a room from scratch, that wasn't just functional, but had ambiance, art - class. We weren't doing this for us, we were doing it for women, and not just any woman, but all women who came our way. That's when I came to the realization that this is how civilization started.
Fifty thousand years ago a woman said, "Look, Ork, this is the way it is. If you ever intend to get laid again, you had better build me a bathroom with running water and a flushing toilet.", and now we're so far removed from our natural setting by civilization, we no longer know what we're missing.
Even when we long for the good old days, we're not even sure what we're longing for because the trail back has been erased by woman code, and now it's substituted with a sports event on a box in an enclosed room where women can be sure that we are under control, and if they wish to display their power over us, they simply stand in front of the TV and pull a robe open and say, "I'm your sports event now, big boy." Okay, maybe it doesn't always work that way, but it always works on me.
We have civilization as women deemed it should be. Men may have built it, but it was a woman's idea. We live in a world created by woman code.
So, I thank Rachel for giving me something to write about tonight. It's been fun. You can find Rachel's newest book, A Walk in the Snark, at, http://t.co/4Hig4CO. I hope I have that right, but if I don't - hey, I'm a man.
All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Doomsday ramblings of a madman
This is May 20th. It's about 9:30 PM, and if you believe it, two and a half hours from now the last good day ends - well, it ends for the believers. The rest of us sinners - yes, I'm afraid I happily sin with free abandon. Anyway, the rest of us sinners have to ride a roller coaster planet until August. I can't remember what happens to us. Whatever happens, we're fucked.
The good guys - the believers, will be in heaven. I'm not sure what heaven is exactly. But, my childhood indoctrination gave me a picture of an old, very clean village with streets made of gold - gold bricks, probably. It sounded extremely well managed - sort of like an army base. I can remember wondering who ran this well organized place? Was it all Republicans? But, foolish me, I then realized it had to be God. Not just any God, but one bad ass God. Mess up and you're out of here - back to that rock and roll planet with all those sinners. HELL!! Scary shit, and it has been since John the Baptist predicted the end of the world. Of course, he thought it would happen in his life time, and maybe it did for him. He died.
In my life time alone I can recall a rapture days. It seems there was one in the 70's, one in the 80's - they must go in ten year patterns. But, you have to give the believers credit for dogged determination, because, if they don't get this one we have a bumper crop of Armageddons this decade. Next year the Mayan calender brings its five hundred year charting to an end, and, of course, the end of the world once again.
Have you ever seen the Mayan calender? It's a circular stone disc with so many symbols you couldn't get another chisel mark on it. We don't even make five hundred year calenders. I mean, who cares what's happening five hundred years in the future. We won't be here. The calender had to end somewhere.
The amazing thing about the believers faith in the Mayan doomsday prediction is that it's based on the beliefs of a culture that killed people to appease their God. I'm pretty sure that places them in the heathen category, even though they were probably God-fearing people. I know I would fear a God to whom some dude would slice my heart out and let me watch as he held it to the sky and my blood flowed out of me down stone gulley's to feed a ravenous God. We don't do that. We're civilized.
We also have God-fearing people. I don't trust a God that I have to fear. He sounds too human - not all knowing and wise - not one who would look on his creation as just that - his creation, his expression. It is what it is. An all knowing God would accept that.
I keep thinking about those streets made of gold. That sounds so materialistic. It symbolizes wealth. Wealth is a concept of man on an earthly level, and I prefer the disorganized organization of a forest to a military clean village, if I have to choose an earthly setting to spend my death in, that is. If I have a choice, though, and I'm pretty sure that I do, I think I would like to be where ever living soul is, since that is what I am, and part of. You may not call that a God. I know that I don't. It makes no demands and accepts me as I am. If offers no mysteries and makes no threats. It doesn't get pissed off at you. I have different names for it - depending what I'm writing; Great Spirit or the Ancient Ones, when I'm writing with an Indian flavor, Soul, Living energy, Black energy, from a scientific perspective, as that energy flows throughout the universe and they don't have a clue what it is. They can't see it but they know that it's there, sort of like living energy, which is the most profound element on our planet, yet, unlike everything else, no elements of the planet can create it. It doesn't exist, but you're proof that it does.
Boy, did I wander off track. That's what happens when you write stream-of-conscious.
So, if any of you believers are wrapping it up for the big day, and you own a BMW Z-4, or a Honda S2000, I'd be glad to take it off your hands for you. You won't need it where you're going, and if I'm destined to hell, I want to get there in a nice sports car.
All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.
The good guys - the believers, will be in heaven. I'm not sure what heaven is exactly. But, my childhood indoctrination gave me a picture of an old, very clean village with streets made of gold - gold bricks, probably. It sounded extremely well managed - sort of like an army base. I can remember wondering who ran this well organized place? Was it all Republicans? But, foolish me, I then realized it had to be God. Not just any God, but one bad ass God. Mess up and you're out of here - back to that rock and roll planet with all those sinners. HELL!! Scary shit, and it has been since John the Baptist predicted the end of the world. Of course, he thought it would happen in his life time, and maybe it did for him. He died.
In my life time alone I can recall a rapture days. It seems there was one in the 70's, one in the 80's - they must go in ten year patterns. But, you have to give the believers credit for dogged determination, because, if they don't get this one we have a bumper crop of Armageddons this decade. Next year the Mayan calender brings its five hundred year charting to an end, and, of course, the end of the world once again.
Have you ever seen the Mayan calender? It's a circular stone disc with so many symbols you couldn't get another chisel mark on it. We don't even make five hundred year calenders. I mean, who cares what's happening five hundred years in the future. We won't be here. The calender had to end somewhere.
The amazing thing about the believers faith in the Mayan doomsday prediction is that it's based on the beliefs of a culture that killed people to appease their God. I'm pretty sure that places them in the heathen category, even though they were probably God-fearing people. I know I would fear a God to whom some dude would slice my heart out and let me watch as he held it to the sky and my blood flowed out of me down stone gulley's to feed a ravenous God. We don't do that. We're civilized.
We also have God-fearing people. I don't trust a God that I have to fear. He sounds too human - not all knowing and wise - not one who would look on his creation as just that - his creation, his expression. It is what it is. An all knowing God would accept that.
I keep thinking about those streets made of gold. That sounds so materialistic. It symbolizes wealth. Wealth is a concept of man on an earthly level, and I prefer the disorganized organization of a forest to a military clean village, if I have to choose an earthly setting to spend my death in, that is. If I have a choice, though, and I'm pretty sure that I do, I think I would like to be where ever living soul is, since that is what I am, and part of. You may not call that a God. I know that I don't. It makes no demands and accepts me as I am. If offers no mysteries and makes no threats. It doesn't get pissed off at you. I have different names for it - depending what I'm writing; Great Spirit or the Ancient Ones, when I'm writing with an Indian flavor, Soul, Living energy, Black energy, from a scientific perspective, as that energy flows throughout the universe and they don't have a clue what it is. They can't see it but they know that it's there, sort of like living energy, which is the most profound element on our planet, yet, unlike everything else, no elements of the planet can create it. It doesn't exist, but you're proof that it does.
Boy, did I wander off track. That's what happens when you write stream-of-conscious.
So, if any of you believers are wrapping it up for the big day, and you own a BMW Z-4, or a Honda S2000, I'd be glad to take it off your hands for you. You won't need it where you're going, and if I'm destined to hell, I want to get there in a nice sports car.
All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.
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