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.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
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.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Tonight
The trouble with writing blogs is that I usually don't get around to it until late at night, when I feel about as creative as a tree stump and have the imagination of a stone. When being an artist and a writer was my only source of income I was focused on it - well, that and selling my work. Now, I work what I call a straight job. After seeing clients all day and finishing up formatted paperwork that discourages any form of creativity, then doing a 3 miler to release the day, I sit down here at the computer and feel burned out. So, I've got to ask myself whether the illusion of financial security is more important than being an artist and writer, which is a daily gamble. One of the few art show jokes that I ever heard was about the artist who won the lottery and was asked what he was going to do now that he had millions. "Well", he said, "I'll probably keep doing art shows until the money runs out."
The difference between a regular job and being an artist - self employed, is the difference between being a herd animal and being a sailing wind. Reality is that my herd animal job is as tenuous as a steers day on the prairie. Budget cuts are our predators. As an artist, I can't be fired or laid off. I can screw up and lose everything, but everything is just that - things. Things are replaceable. So is money. How you live your life is not replaceable. You don't die with money. You die with memories, and within them lies your fulfillment or regrets.
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 difference between a regular job and being an artist - self employed, is the difference between being a herd animal and being a sailing wind. Reality is that my herd animal job is as tenuous as a steers day on the prairie. Budget cuts are our predators. As an artist, I can't be fired or laid off. I can screw up and lose everything, but everything is just that - things. Things are replaceable. So is money. How you live your life is not replaceable. You don't die with money. You die with memories, and within them lies your fulfillment or regrets.
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, May 9, 2011
New book
I just submitted the final of my last book of poetry to Amazon. In hindsight, I would have done this a little differently, but it's too late now. This particular book. Travel Your Road, is poetry and prose, and follows a story line of a young man's search for his place in life. I have many new poems in this book, but also the most popular poems from my previous five books. Prior to putting this one on Amazon, I had sold Travel Your Road through more conventional outlets and did quite well. Keeping in mind that this is poetry, I sold a few thousand copies, which is not bad for the category.
As soon as I get this one on Kindle, I will be putting out Quiet Times, which is a book of love poems, which follows a story line. This book was also a very good seller through conventional outlets.
I'm working on a new book at the moment, which is a series of inter-connecting short stories with a sprinkling of relevant poems in between the stories. I'm really enjoying the one I'm working on right now. History has taught me that the more you enjoy what you're writing, the better the book is. I can only hope that observation holds true.
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.
As soon as I get this one on Kindle, I will be putting out Quiet Times, which is a book of love poems, which follows a story line. This book was also a very good seller through conventional outlets.
I'm working on a new book at the moment, which is a series of inter-connecting short stories with a sprinkling of relevant poems in between the stories. I'm really enjoying the one I'm working on right now. History has taught me that the more you enjoy what you're writing, the better the book is. I can only hope that observation holds true.
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.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Chief Willy's Book of Wisdom - Chapter 4
"Chief, there's a village up ahead." I heard Jackson say from across the narrow road. I glanced over at him and smiled. He looked like G.I. Joe from the comic books that we read as kids. He was thick muscled. Rolled up sleeves revealed powerful, hairy arms that cradled a BAR (Browning Automatic Rifle). A stub of a dead cigar stuck out from a dirty face that hadn't seen a razor in at least a week. His camouflaged helmet rode low on his forehead. An ammo belt was slung over each of his shoulders.
"Yeah. I see it, Jackson." I said. I raised my hand in the air, which brought the columns of men on either side of the road to a silent halt.
Jackson walked across the road and lit the cigar stub with a Zippo, then turned and studied the village and terrain with me.
"Looks too quiet." I said.
"Maybe the Great Spirit is there. Then what will you do?"
Confusion rattled my brain. "What? What the hell are you talking about?"
"Wake up, Sarge." Jackson said, turning and looking at me.
"Wake up!" I heard again, but it wasn't Jackson's voice. I opened my eyes, and realized that I had been dreaming. Across the small beach an Alaskan river flowed lazily to the sea. Two men stood in front of me, one leaning down, shaking my shoulder as he kept saying, "Wake up".
"I'm wake. I'm awake." I said, coming to my feet.
"Are you okay?" He asked.
"Yeah. I'm fine." I looked from him to the other guy and back to him. They wore the yellow helmets and thick clothes of firefighters. I recognized both of them from the fire camp, which was the temporary home of hundreds of men.
"What are you guys doing out here?" I asked him.
"Looking for you. What the hell do you think we're doing out here?"
"What for? Willy, here - - " I turned to where Willy had been sleeping against the tree next to me, but he wasn't there. I looked around the beach and then back at the firefighter who had a very confused expression on his face.
"Willy - you mean, Chief Willy?" the guy said.
"Yeah. He was right here." I said, turning and pointing at the base of the tree.
"I think you hit your head and don't remember it. Willy was never here. He couldn't have been. He's been with us the whole time. He's up on the main trail right now."
"We're talking about an old guy with real white hair. Right?" I asked.
The guy standing off a little bit started snickering. We both looked at him.
"Hey; Joe, don't you remember what Willy said when we started the search?"
"What's that?' Joe asked.
"Willy - when we started the search. He walked around that burn hole, sniffing the air, looking up and chanting, and then he said, "We go this way." and started down the trail. I asked him how he knew where to go, and he said that he was already here and the Great Spirit would guide us."
"Oh, yeah, I remember that." Joe snickered with him. "Crazy old fart, but he's a damned good tracker."
I looked at both of them with astonishment. "Man, you guys are really st - - " I stopped, knowing better than to call them "stupid shits", as I would need to be rescued from my rescuers if I did. Instead I stumbled on the word and managed to say, "stupendously great guys for saving me."
"College kid, huh?" The guy other than Joe said with a hint of sarcasm. "Nobody uses a word like, stupendously."
"I'm a writer." I said. "Sometimes words pop out when I'm not looking." I gave him a friendly grin.
He nodded acceptance of my excuse.
When we climbed back up to the main trail, Willy was waiting for us. He looked exactly as I had seen him all morning long. When our eyes met, he smiled slightly and his eyes twinkled.
"Did you learn anything by getting lost?" he asked.
"Yes, I did, Willy. I learned a lot." He nodded, turned up the trail and silently led us single file back to the fire camp.
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.
"Chief, there's a village up ahead." I heard Jackson say from across the narrow road. I glanced over at him and smiled. He looked like G.I. Joe from the comic books that we read as kids. He was thick muscled. Rolled up sleeves revealed powerful, hairy arms that cradled a BAR (Browning Automatic Rifle). A stub of a dead cigar stuck out from a dirty face that hadn't seen a razor in at least a week. His camouflaged helmet rode low on his forehead. An ammo belt was slung over each of his shoulders.
"Yeah. I see it, Jackson." I said. I raised my hand in the air, which brought the columns of men on either side of the road to a silent halt.
Jackson walked across the road and lit the cigar stub with a Zippo, then turned and studied the village and terrain with me.
"Looks too quiet." I said.
"Maybe the Great Spirit is there. Then what will you do?"
Confusion rattled my brain. "What? What the hell are you talking about?"
"Wake up, Sarge." Jackson said, turning and looking at me.
"Wake up!" I heard again, but it wasn't Jackson's voice. I opened my eyes, and realized that I had been dreaming. Across the small beach an Alaskan river flowed lazily to the sea. Two men stood in front of me, one leaning down, shaking my shoulder as he kept saying, "Wake up".
"I'm wake. I'm awake." I said, coming to my feet.
"Are you okay?" He asked.
"Yeah. I'm fine." I looked from him to the other guy and back to him. They wore the yellow helmets and thick clothes of firefighters. I recognized both of them from the fire camp, which was the temporary home of hundreds of men.
"What are you guys doing out here?" I asked him.
"Looking for you. What the hell do you think we're doing out here?"
"What for? Willy, here - - " I turned to where Willy had been sleeping against the tree next to me, but he wasn't there. I looked around the beach and then back at the firefighter who had a very confused expression on his face.
"Willy - you mean, Chief Willy?" the guy said.
"Yeah. He was right here." I said, turning and pointing at the base of the tree.
"I think you hit your head and don't remember it. Willy was never here. He couldn't have been. He's been with us the whole time. He's up on the main trail right now."
"We're talking about an old guy with real white hair. Right?" I asked.
The guy standing off a little bit started snickering. We both looked at him.
"Hey; Joe, don't you remember what Willy said when we started the search?"
"What's that?' Joe asked.
"Willy - when we started the search. He walked around that burn hole, sniffing the air, looking up and chanting, and then he said, "We go this way." and started down the trail. I asked him how he knew where to go, and he said that he was already here and the Great Spirit would guide us."
"Oh, yeah, I remember that." Joe snickered with him. "Crazy old fart, but he's a damned good tracker."
I looked at both of them with astonishment. "Man, you guys are really st - - " I stopped, knowing better than to call them "stupid shits", as I would need to be rescued from my rescuers if I did. Instead I stumbled on the word and managed to say, "stupendously great guys for saving me."
"College kid, huh?" The guy other than Joe said with a hint of sarcasm. "Nobody uses a word like, stupendously."
"I'm a writer." I said. "Sometimes words pop out when I'm not looking." I gave him a friendly grin.
He nodded acceptance of my excuse.
When we climbed back up to the main trail, Willy was waiting for us. He looked exactly as I had seen him all morning long. When our eyes met, he smiled slightly and his eyes twinkled.
"Did you learn anything by getting lost?" he asked.
"Yes, I did, Willy. I learned a lot." He nodded, turned up the trail and silently led us single file back to the fire camp.
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, April 15, 2011
Chief Willy-Chapter 2
Chapter 2
"You must be the lost firefighter." The voice came from behind me, shattering the silent world of nature in which I had been so completely engrossed. I jumped, startled by a human voice. Turning, I saw a man standing at the end of the trail where the forest came to an abrupt halt at the large flat rock upon which I stood. He looked very old, but the brutal weather of Alaska can age a man if he spends a lot of time outside. He had long white hair that almost glowed. In contrast, his skin was dark as leather and as creased as an unmade bed The hint of a smile gathered his face in even more creases. He wore a yellow helmet just like mine and was dressed in the heavy clothing of a firefighter.
"I'm a firefighter, but I didn't know I was lost." I responded.
He chuckled. "If the fire boss sends me looking for you, then you had better be lost."
He pointed towards the eagle, which was now just a black dot on the rising sun. "You have been touched by eagle spirit."
"Oh." I responded, glancing at the eagle. "You saw that, huh?"
"Yes. I did not want to intrude. Such a moment is rare in a persons life.
"Are you ready?" He asked, turning towards the trail behind him.
"Yeah. Just a second." I said, glancing over the precipice of the cliff. The bear and the moose were gone. "Yeah, I guess I'm ready."
He led the way, moving with a graceful agility of a deer and easy quickness one would not expect from a person who appeared to be so old.
"What's your name?" I said to his back as we walked up the trail.
"Willy." He tossed the word over his shoulder. Still looking forward he said, "White people call me Chief Willy."
"Are you a Chief, Willy?"
"I am to white people.", He said, making me chuckle.
"Apparently you're a tracker too." I said.
"I have done a lot of things, and some of them I'm good at. Tracking is one of them." He responded. "Plus - ", he added, "You were easy to track. I figured out what happened by following your footprints from the hollow where the flare up started. You got caught in the fire, found the trail and figured it would lead to water, which was the right thing to do."
"Man, you're good." I said, impressed.
"Been doing it a long time." He said, and then suddenly turned off the trail and started walking through the thick of the forest. As I followed him in silence, I looked down and saw a trickle of a trail etching its way between the trees. Branches of fir trees dangled in front of us which we swept aside as we followed the trail about a hundred yards before coming to a clearing of white sand that spilled out from the trees and slipped into a crystal clear river. Across the river was a matching sandy beach that stopped at the forests edge. The forest climbed majestically up a mountain that snuggled up to another larger mountain. The mountains seemed endless, clothed in forests and rivers it looked as if they strived to touch the sky.
"So, what are you doing in Alaska?" He asked me as he studied the clearing from the edge of the forest where we had stopped.
"Well, like a lot of the guys here, I just got out of the service a short time ago. This is my way of winding down."
"Fighting forest fires is your idea of winding down?" He asked with a tone of surprise.
"Huh! You should have seen what I was doing before this." I paused, listening to the mesmerizing water bubble gently in front of us, thinking about what I was doing in Alaska.
"I guess I'm looking for my place again. I'm not sure where I belong or what I'm even doing here. Out here, in the wilderness, it seems to have kind of a healing effect on me.
"You know, it's a place where I can clear my head and figure out what I'm suppose to do."
"What do you want to do?" He asked as he started to walk across the sand, satisfied from his survey that there was no other animals to intrude upon. I followed behind him, thinking about what I would like to do.
"Well, I really like to write and do art work, but I don't see how I could make a living at that. I read a lot of philosophy - always have. I guess I'm trying to find myself in those books."
"Books are good." Willy said simply as he bent down at the rivers edge, scooped water into his hands and drank from them. He stood and said, "I'm reading all the time."
"Oh, really." I said with interest. "Do you carry any with you?" I asked looking at his back pack.
"Don't have to - you're standing in it."
I looked down at my feet thinking I might have stepped in a wild animal surprise. "What am I standing in?" I asked dancing around.
A slight grin crossed Willy's face. "You're standing in my book." He said, sweeping the horizon with his hand. "This is my book of philosophy. Every thing you can learn about what life is and who you are is in my book. You just have to know the language of the forest spirit - how to read it."
At that moment I realized that when you are searching for something, something that you want desperately, circumstances, or fate, or maybe just a shot of the dice, will present it to you, and it may come in the most unexpected ways and in the most unlikely places. It can be abstract or hit you like a train, but you have to be paying attention, be in the right frame of mind to see it when it presents itself.
This day was already most remarkable for me. I had beat deaths calling flames. I had a spiritual communion with a bear, a moose and her calf, and a most powerful one with a bald eagle.
Now, I found myself sitting at a rivers edge in a forest that wasn't even on a map, listening to an old man who spoke to me in a way that nearly shocked a revelation from me, because I could feel the truth in what he said, even if I could not articulate it very well in my mind. I knew what he met. I could feel the essence of truth in what he said. I wanted to know the language of the forest spirit. I wanted to be able to read Willy's book.
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.
"You must be the lost firefighter." The voice came from behind me, shattering the silent world of nature in which I had been so completely engrossed. I jumped, startled by a human voice. Turning, I saw a man standing at the end of the trail where the forest came to an abrupt halt at the large flat rock upon which I stood. He looked very old, but the brutal weather of Alaska can age a man if he spends a lot of time outside. He had long white hair that almost glowed. In contrast, his skin was dark as leather and as creased as an unmade bed The hint of a smile gathered his face in even more creases. He wore a yellow helmet just like mine and was dressed in the heavy clothing of a firefighter.
"I'm a firefighter, but I didn't know I was lost." I responded.
He chuckled. "If the fire boss sends me looking for you, then you had better be lost."
He pointed towards the eagle, which was now just a black dot on the rising sun. "You have been touched by eagle spirit."
"Oh." I responded, glancing at the eagle. "You saw that, huh?"
"Yes. I did not want to intrude. Such a moment is rare in a persons life.
"Are you ready?" He asked, turning towards the trail behind him.
"Yeah. Just a second." I said, glancing over the precipice of the cliff. The bear and the moose were gone. "Yeah, I guess I'm ready."
He led the way, moving with a graceful agility of a deer and easy quickness one would not expect from a person who appeared to be so old.
"What's your name?" I said to his back as we walked up the trail.
"Willy." He tossed the word over his shoulder. Still looking forward he said, "White people call me Chief Willy."
"Are you a Chief, Willy?"
"I am to white people.", He said, making me chuckle.
"Apparently you're a tracker too." I said.
"I have done a lot of things, and some of them I'm good at. Tracking is one of them." He responded. "Plus - ", he added, "You were easy to track. I figured out what happened by following your footprints from the hollow where the flare up started. You got caught in the fire, found the trail and figured it would lead to water, which was the right thing to do."
"Man, you're good." I said, impressed.
"Been doing it a long time." He said, and then suddenly turned off the trail and started walking through the thick of the forest. As I followed him in silence, I looked down and saw a trickle of a trail etching its way between the trees. Branches of fir trees dangled in front of us which we swept aside as we followed the trail about a hundred yards before coming to a clearing of white sand that spilled out from the trees and slipped into a crystal clear river. Across the river was a matching sandy beach that stopped at the forests edge. The forest climbed majestically up a mountain that snuggled up to another larger mountain. The mountains seemed endless, clothed in forests and rivers it looked as if they strived to touch the sky.
"So, what are you doing in Alaska?" He asked me as he studied the clearing from the edge of the forest where we had stopped.
"Well, like a lot of the guys here, I just got out of the service a short time ago. This is my way of winding down."
"Fighting forest fires is your idea of winding down?" He asked with a tone of surprise.
"Huh! You should have seen what I was doing before this." I paused, listening to the mesmerizing water bubble gently in front of us, thinking about what I was doing in Alaska.
"I guess I'm looking for my place again. I'm not sure where I belong or what I'm even doing here. Out here, in the wilderness, it seems to have kind of a healing effect on me.
"You know, it's a place where I can clear my head and figure out what I'm suppose to do."
"What do you want to do?" He asked as he started to walk across the sand, satisfied from his survey that there was no other animals to intrude upon. I followed behind him, thinking about what I would like to do.
"Well, I really like to write and do art work, but I don't see how I could make a living at that. I read a lot of philosophy - always have. I guess I'm trying to find myself in those books."
"Books are good." Willy said simply as he bent down at the rivers edge, scooped water into his hands and drank from them. He stood and said, "I'm reading all the time."
"Oh, really." I said with interest. "Do you carry any with you?" I asked looking at his back pack.
"Don't have to - you're standing in it."
I looked down at my feet thinking I might have stepped in a wild animal surprise. "What am I standing in?" I asked dancing around.
A slight grin crossed Willy's face. "You're standing in my book." He said, sweeping the horizon with his hand. "This is my book of philosophy. Every thing you can learn about what life is and who you are is in my book. You just have to know the language of the forest spirit - how to read it."
At that moment I realized that when you are searching for something, something that you want desperately, circumstances, or fate, or maybe just a shot of the dice, will present it to you, and it may come in the most unexpected ways and in the most unlikely places. It can be abstract or hit you like a train, but you have to be paying attention, be in the right frame of mind to see it when it presents itself.
This day was already most remarkable for me. I had beat deaths calling flames. I had a spiritual communion with a bear, a moose and her calf, and a most powerful one with a bald eagle.
Now, I found myself sitting at a rivers edge in a forest that wasn't even on a map, listening to an old man who spoke to me in a way that nearly shocked a revelation from me, because I could feel the truth in what he said, even if I could not articulate it very well in my mind. I knew what he met. I could feel the essence of truth in what he said. I wanted to know the language of the forest spirit. I wanted to be able to read Willy's book.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)