Solitude

alone without being lonely, quiet, yet welcoming a brief sound in the silence
nature’s music surrounds the solitude
an internal and external phenomenon

emotions ebb and flow like a mystical tide

desire for companionship sometimes dispels
the need for solitude, a quest to unite lonely beings into a whole
that is beyond singularity

the sounds, the feelings, the wonder of just thinking thought without direction momentary aberrations of time and space
amazement at imaginary journeys of the soul

Immortal Love

the tension of love begins

familiar yet new

intense beyond a faded memory

a scintillating light in the darkness

love that lasts an eternity

a distant place in the heart and soul that beckons

two to become one

Immortal love

sadness is dispelled

regrets fade into the past

feelings burst forth like blossoms in the early spring

the distant journey begins

a void is filled with passion

tears are created from pure joy

completeness exemplified by calm

Immortal love

10-21-96

rebirth

darkness fades into light
brighter than all the twinkling stars
captured energy ignites long dormant emotions
from a long restless slumber
the soul awakes

awareness flows through emotional channels
like a fresh mountain stream cascading down a hillside
covered with wildflowers in the spring
growing as it makes it’s way to the primordial sea

consciousness flows electron by electron
recharging once dead feelings
kept in check
a glow of hope almost visible
hints of itself in a smile
a sparkle in the eye
feelings grow

sparks of life rekindled by a kind word
a gentle touch of someone just met
that yearning of feeling
the soul is reborn

Killer Rain#1

It was raining. A steady, almost misty drizzle; gray foggy tendrils wove their way through the shadows. Gusty breezes rocked tree branches, cutting the infrequently spaced streetlamps glare. He loved the rain. He killed, only when it rained. He carefully followed the person he was going to kill tonight. Victim, person, the mark, subject, prey, the noun didn’t matter. He liked people who used umbrellas when it rained, or wore their hats bent low against the wet, which resulted in tunnel vision. They didn’t notice anything or anyone except that which was directly in front of their water soaked faces. Falling drops and wind also made noise, along with shaking tree branches that all but obscured the footsteps of anyone who followed someone, hiding craftily in the shadows. The occasional car or taxi splashing through the water draining to the curb, also helped drown out any footsteps.

The victim walked on one side of the dark street, the killer the opposite, and a hundred paces behind, when one stopped, so did the other. The victim, the prey, did not notice anyone behind them. The mark's mind was only set on one goal, getting out of this eternal rain to a warm dry room, with an old radio, and a few shots of single malt. Perhaps read a book form their meager collection, wrapped in a terry cloth robe.

The killer, assassin, hit man, reaper, and taker of life: those nouns didn’t matter either. He was humming a show tune in his head, “Singing in the Rain”. He closed the distance to about 5 yards, yet the victim failed to notice. The killer liked death up close and personal, the preferred method being the use of a bladed weapon. Silent but deadly, the rain-washing away most of any evidence possibly left behind, not that evidence was likely. The killer was a professional. He killed for money, as a career, and for his own pleasure. The blade, a personal heirloom, was a blackened K-Bar knife, hung handle down in a nylon shoulder rig, under the black trench coat. A black fedora, black jeans, and black athletic shoes made the killer blend into the shadows; no it made the killer a shadow!

Finally the prey arrived home, soaked and fatigued; the 27 blocks feeling like 127. The lonely entrance light was burned out again; a derelict building in the center of a dark block, the nearest streetlamp hundreds of feet away. Fumbling with the keys, trying one after another in the dark. Dropping the whole ring on the wet, dank stoop, then starting to try the keys all over again. It didn’t matter. The killer drew his blade, at the same time wrapping his left arm around the victim’s neck. Not one sound was made. Blood streaked down the steps, washing away in the increasing downpour, following the killer down the sidewalk. The tendrils of fog making him seem to vanish suddenly, until another rainy night and another victim.

Tick Toc, Tick Toc

A true story

It was a crisp, cool early March morning in Northern Colorado. I decide to hike up the Cache La Poudre River canyon, about a 40-minute drive from my house. I was going to hike a side canyon that I had not been in before. The snow had melted, even at that altitude. The sky was cobalt blue, and air very still.

Pulling well off the road, I enjoyed the quiet, before starting out with my daypack. The side canyon, called Pinion Gulch, angled fairly steeply from the road, rising about 500 feet in elevation after about a mile in. Chickadees, and Jays tweeted in the scrub brush; the red rocks, glowing in the early morning sun. A small herd of Big Horn Sheep skittered rocks on a far slope. The ravine had no trail, but was mostly small bushes, a few cacti, and dried grass.

After hiking North about 2 miles and about 1000 feet in vertical elevation, I spied a waist high boulder and decided to rest, eat a sandwich and drink some cool water from my canteen. As I sat there admiring the beauty of that spring morning, I felt something crawling on my leg, beneath my jeans. I pulled up my pant leg and was shocked to see about a dozen deer ticks scooting about. In Colorado these pests carry Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, a disease a friend in college managed to catch from just one tick in his bed.

In loathing and disgust, I undid my belt and pulled down my jeans , horrified to see dozens of these foul creatures all over my legs. I pulled up my shirt, they were also on my chest…feeling no shame alone in the canyon, I took off all my clothes piling them on the rock. I lost count at over one hundred ticks. I picked and shook them from my clothing, put on my pack and literally ran downhill to my truck.

Once back, I was not surprised to find dozens more all over me. Heedless to traffic, but on the side of the truck, I disrobed again, de-ticked, and drove home. All the way down the canyon, I picked the little demons from my arms. March is tick month…never again did I hike off trail in the spring, and never again in that canyon. I truly hate ticks.

Do you like scary stories? Here is my scary story!

My scary story!

I am currently reading a novel called “Ghost Radio” by Leopoldo Gout. It is a spooky story of voices in the static of radio waves on dark lonely nights. It made me think of this genre. I have read Stephen King, Dean Koontz, and several others, but normally don’t view scary stories as entertainment. I am not sure why, perhaps I am scared. Perhaps I have experienced a dark scary moment or two!

Herein follows a true story. When I was about 21 or 22, a college senior, going through my first divorce, dreading the military draft and other stressful thing of a young life, it happened.

One night I had a dream, the first of many in the decades to come. I was in a disturbing dark place in my dream, a basement, graveyard, woods, etc. “It” began to come after me, darkness, deeper and blacker than the night. A maligned presence, that scarred me to wake up screaming. After a few episodes, my landlady, a nurse, who I also woke up, told me to ask it what it wanted. Huh? I could only imagine it pointing a bony finger at me as shouting “You!” in a gravely voice! What if it was Death, the Reaper? No way.

After a year of widely spaced and increasingly urgent yelling, ”It” kept getting closer to catching me. By then I had moved on, graduation was almost upon me. The draft had been settled by “winning” a high lottery number, never to be called up. I had met a wonderful girl, who eventually became my second wife and mother of my eldest daughter.

Before those nicer times, however, the strangest nightmare of all transpired. Once again, I woke in a cold sweat, strangling in my screams, my girlfriend tried to comfort me. Now fully awake, I noticed I was blind. I could not seem to see my hand in front of my face in the chill, dark room. This was even stranger because the streetlight was just outside my apartment, and normally my room was fairly light. The real strange part was that my now wide-awake girlfriend, also couldn’t see in the pitch black either. OK, I was beyond scared here; it felt to me like a “thing” was taking the light, life, and air from me. I yelled for it to go away and leave us alone. I told my future wife I loved her. Almost instantly the darkness and smothering feel was gone, the streetlight came through the windows. We never spoke about that night much after that. While many dreams of the dark shifting “thing” continued, three or four times per year, for the next 40 years, I never had one quite like that, ever again.

I graduated from college, we moved to Colorado, got married, had our daughter and was happy. On my wife’s 21st birthday, she had a sudden, fatal aneurysm and died. I became a single parent and the loneliness of those days can still be felt. I often wonder to this day, if “It” chose her instead of me. I will always wonder.

God is God

Strangely after two years of not having this video function, on this "Good Friday", I am proud to show my first flash video, "God is God". Enjoy.

Sacrifice

The "War of Terror", the "Economic Depression/Recession" and all other social issues...where is the sacrifice? From the dawn of history, sacrifice for the common good has been essential for civilization, nations, businesses, and families to suffer through hard times.

Yet, during these current pressing times, where is the sacrifice? Sure, people are losing their homes, jobs, income, and retirement investments. But not by choice, not by self-sacrifice so that others may survive. Major company’s layoff thousands daily. How many would be laid off if all employees took a 25% pay cut, so that all may continue to work? Where are the people voluntarily offering to pay more in taxes so that projects, social services, and tax funded employees can weather the storm?

Citizens claim to be "Christians, Muslims, Jews, or other tenants of major or minor religions each holy day, but in practice, few follow their faith to serve others. Worldwide in the last 100 years people have become so self-centered, in their own little issues that helping others before self are merely a means to get on talk shows or reality television.

Sacrifice could be the solution for all of humanity to overcome war, poverty, homelessness, unemployment, and all the ills of civilization. "The rights of the many do indeed outweigh the rights of a few." From a numbers view I would say it requires more than a tithe of 10% or 15%. I would estimate as much as 50% of an individual’s time/money/assets/help for the good of the group society, or mankind. OK, now that your jaw has fallen into your lap, think about what everyone would get from such an arrangement. If 50% of your efforts and time go to help others, then 50% of their time/efforts go to help you, help your community, your nation, your world. It seems like a win-win situation, a no brainer.

Will it be done...probably not. Should it be done, of course, the survival of mankind demands it.

The End is on the horizon...sacrifice for others is the only solution!

My "Red" Grandma

My Finnish grandmother came to America in 1905, along with several brothers and sisters. They settled in Northern Minnesota. As long as I can remember, she told me wonderful stories about homesteading and the adventures of my grandfather, hunting, trapping, and enduring the cold dark winters of the Superior National Forest.

Eventually she met my grandfather and they settled on a homestead of 80 acres. My grandfather worked in the Mesabi Range Iron Mines, and they once lived in the town of Sparta, now named Gilbert. I was told they once had a small store and my grandmother taught school.

My father was born in 1915, and in 1916, the union workers at the mines went on strike, and eventually most were blackballed. I’ve assumed my grandpa was among them.

In 1917 my grandparents and toddler father, left Minnesota and their homestead, and returned to Finland, evidently to take part in the “Glorious Revolution”, the Finnish Civil War. They were Bolsheviks...Reds..Communists...and they lost. An uncle on my grandfather’s side became a member of Parliament from the Communist Party, renamed the Social Democratic Party.

In 1922 my grandparents and father returned to the USA, only to find their homestead in Minnesota, looted or burned down. (Was it retaliation perhaps for the strike and union membership?). Grandmother’s brothers and sisters lived in the Syracuse, NY area, so they moved there. My grandfather worked at the Sanderson Steel Mill, which eventually became Crucible Steel, the remainder of his work life.

In 1929, I was told my father (age 15), had been photographed for the local Syracuse newspaper, climbing a flagpole to attach the Russian Communist flag. You see, my father, was also a Communist. This was at one of the numerous Communist Youth Camps that flourished in New York State at this time. Upon reflection, this appears to be the “Camp” I spent many a summer at from my birth, to the birth of my oldest daughter, roughly from 1948 – 1972 swimming, water skiing, hiking, watching bonfires and when old enough, drinking beer.

In 1936 my grandma ran for Congress of the United States, as a member of the Communist Party, in Central NY. She lost. Her name, however, is cited in the “House on Un-American Activities Committee Hearings, 1955”. (McCarthy hearings)

I only found out about some of this recently, through research, and first heard of the Communist Party membership in 1976 from my father, when they visited the birth of my second daughter. I find it strange that they kept this “family secret” from me all those years, but it does explain some things I always wondered about. For example, the bronze table lamp my grandmother kept in her closet. It was the stature of “Mother Russia”. She also had an old crank RCA phonograph, and many 33 rpm records (like new), one being the Russian National Anthem. My sister and I were somehow forbidden to learn Finnish (perhaps my mother’s doing?). But my father, grandparents and their friends often spoke it.

It is all rather amazing. My grandma, who was only 5 feet tall and weighed at most 110 pounds, who made me pudding and baked Finnish breads, like Puula, told me stories about their life in Minnesota, and entertained me with her little parakeets through the years, all named “Cherri”. I have had two parakeets, one blue and one green. I named them both “Cherri”.

My little Finnish Grandma loved me unconditionally. She always got incredibly excited if I brought her violets, a simple gift, or even a visit as often as I could. I miss her terribly, even after the 25 years since she passed away.

Once she was a feisty young agitator, a socialist, a communist, a revolutionary……she was my “Red” grandma!

Solitude

Alone without being lonely, quiet yet
welcoming a brief sound in the silence.
Music surrounds the solitude,
an internal and external phenomenom.

Emotions ebb and flow like a mystical tide
desire for companionship sometimes dispells
the need for solitude, a guest to unite lonely beings into a whole
that is beyond singularity and greater than the sum.

The sounds, the feelings, the wonder of just thinking,
thought without direction momentary aberations of time and space
amazement at imaginary journies or perhaps insanity.