I Hear Music

When you walk into the room

I hear Music,

A melody

like the first sweet breath of Spring.

I hear my name upon your lips,

and it’s like Magic,

And from my Heart to my Soul

I want to sing.

But my heart’s been racing

from the moment I first saw you.

In such a state

it’s hard to find the proper tune,

And mortal words

would ill compare

to a melody so fair.

I hear Music

when you walk into the room.

I never knew

there was a sound just like a sunrise.

I never knew

that even rainbows had a tune,

But that’s the music that I hear

when I see your eyes.

Is it any wonder that I fell

for you so soon?

So please forgive me

if I tend to wax romantic,

But keeping silent’s

something I could never do,

Not when I know

my worst nightmare

is any night without you there.

I hear Music

when you walk into the room.

The effect you have on me

is quite astounding.

I can’t think

of anything but you.

And when I do

I can feel my heart pounding,

To find all my fondest dreams

at last come true.

A symphony of violins

in the moonlight

Would be as nothing

to the Angel Song of you.

I no longer

wonder why,

I merely know until I die

I’ll hear Music

when you walk into the room.

In My Dreams

I know I never will forget

the first time that we met.

It was like the clouds had been listed

from the bright face of the sun.

And when I gazed into your eyes

and saw the flame deep inside,

I prayed that you might just

be the one.

Although we’d both been hurt before,

we decided to try once more,

And in no time at all

we fell fast in love.

But then the scars of your old pain

made you pull away

Until I woke one day

to find you had gone.

Still you come to me again

in my dreams, in my dreams.

You run to me again

In my dreams, in my dreams.

You say you only want me as a friend.

Well I guess I can pretend,

But don’t blame me if I still love you

in my dreams.

Now I see you almost every day,

but still it’s not the same,

Though you sometimes smile as if you still cared

when we meet.

But I miss that old sweet flame.

It’s like your heart’s been locked away,

And the passion is no longer there

when you speak.

But I still think of you.

It’s the first that I do

Every single morning

when I rise,

And I still hold you tight

every blessed night.

You come to me the moment

I close my eyes.

You come to me again

in my dreams, in my dreams.

You run to me again

in my dreams, in my dreams,

You say you only want me as a friend.

Well, I guess I can pretend,

But don’t blame me if I still love you

In my dreams.

Yes, I still think of you.

It’s the first thing that I do

Every single morning

when I rise,

And I still hold you tight

every blessed night;

You come to me the moment

I close my eyes.

You come to me again

in my dreams, in my dreams.

You run to me again

in my dreams, in my dreams,

You say you only want me as a friend.

Well, I guess I can pretend,

But don’t blame me if I still love you

in my dreams.

If you’ll only have me as a friend,

well that’s this all began,

But don’t blame me if I still love you

in my dreams.

Peace of Mind

Darlin’, I know it’s over,

But every time I think of then,

And I remember how happy we both were

I can’t help but wonder when,

Baby, will I ever find such a Love again

Maybe somewhere down the line,

Or will I have to pretend to be content

With a little Peace of Mind.

Even my dreams are crowded

With images of you.

There ain’t nothing to be done about it,

I just wanted you to know it’s true.

Then maybe, Baby, every once in a while

You could think about me sometime,

And maybe if the memory makes you smile,

I can find a little Peace of Mind.

( refrain ) ‘Cause Peace of Mind

Doesn’t seem that much to ask

But Peace of Mind

Isn’t such an easy task

Maybe somewhere down the line,

When a little bit of time has passed,

I can think of you, and be happy too,

And have a little Peace of Mind at last.

Sometimes I wish I had a picture of you

That I could hide away somewhere,

And I could take it out at night, and I could look at you;

Nobody’d have to know that I still care.

Then I remember your face is etched somewhere

On the back walls of my mind,

And every now and then I go back there

To try to find a little Peace of Mind.

( repeat refrain )

( repeat refrain )

That Difference that’s You

I lay on the grass, may head thrown back,

And I watch the stars, and hope you see them where you are.

Hung so high up in the night, crystal teardrops shining bright,

And shining so far. Can you see them where you are?

And when you see them, can you but understand,

Or do you just see stars where I see tears?

We both have eyes that see, but our hearts focus differently.

You see the Real where I see the True; it’s that difference that’s you.

It’s that difference that’s you.

I lay on the sand, twice broken heart in my hands,

And I watch the waves, rushing mad toward their graves.

Each one like the one before, dies upon some foreign shore:

Gods, they must be brave, if not depraved.

And when you see them, can you but understand,

Or do you just see tides where I see pain?

We both have eyes that see, but our hearts focus differently.

You see the Real where I see the True; it’s that difference that’s you.

It’s that difference that’s you.

I walk down the street, asphalt beneath my feet,

And I watch the lights, of the City at night.

Cold where there was a warmth before, brazen like some neon whore,

They’re blinding my eyes, and offending the Sky/

And when you see them, can you but understand,

Or do you just see lights where I see shame?

We both have eyes that see, though our hearts focus differently.

You see the Real where I see the True; it’s that difference that’s you.

It’s that difference that’s you.

Where I see the True, you see the Real; it’s that difference I feel.

It’s that difference I feel.

To the Fish

We flash lights across the sea,

we shine lights into the sky.

We string lights along the ground;

oh, so pleasing to the eye.

What a picture it must make

to anyone looking down.

Do they wonder what it's like

living trapped here on the ground?

Or do they simply shake their heads,

and, laughing, pass us by

Leaving a note to say they called

etched across the sky?

I wonder what we will find

when we read the message there.

Will it say “Hello to those below,”

or will it say, “BEWARE!”

You can think what you will think

and believe in what you will,

But the universe has looked at us

and they are laughing still.

As we stand upon our mountaintops

proclaiming all the things we know,

How silly we don't realize

we're just fish trapped in a bowl.

We're so proud of our technology

and our atomic bombs.

They're just a treasure chest with bubbles

and a plastic castle made in Guam.

But now the filter's failing

and the water's getting stale.

Most the plants have long since died,

and we've killed off all the snails.

Some of us know of the bowl

for we have seen the glass.

Those who won't believe me

can Graumi kiss my ass.

We'll keep pounding on that glass

until we can make it it crack.

And once we're free, believe you me,

There will be no looking back.

You can think what you will think

and believe in what you will,

But the universe has looked at us

and they are laughing still.

As we stand upon our mountaintops

proclaiming all the things we know,

How silly we don't realize

we're just fish trapped in a bowl.

Killing King Kong

The wheel turns, the seasons pass, the world adds yet another bark-ring to its thermally threatened girth, and Time marches on, in that plodding, straight-line manner it always adopts whenever the humans are watching closely. The last slurred echoes of “Happy New Year!” carom off the dirty walls of vague memory, and all the clocks reset to one.

Inside the dingy pub of my subconscious mind, the floors are getting a thorough sweep and mop, as I struggle gamely to focus on what will be my next great cause. So many windmills, so little beer. In a smoky back room my Trust in Government is playing pool with The Corporate Machine. As always, money is discreetly involved. The few snippets of conversation which carry to the next room do not bode well for either my money or my Trust.

“Really?” says my Trust in Government, “The one who breaks, always gets two turns on Tuesdays? And you get to alter the rules as you see fit?”

“Absolutely!” say The Corporate Machine, “If you don't believe me, ask The Government.”

“What ever Corporate says is fine by me,” chimes in The Government in its official capacity as referee.

“Well, if The Government says it's okay...” Never, in the history of words, have any words so clearly summarized the phrase, “Not bode well.” My wallet might just as well be balemic. No sooner do I feed it, than the twin fingers of The Government and The Corporate Machine are jammed down its throat with the most predictable and projectile of effects.

I often think it would be much simpler if every time my Trust in Government saw The Government and The Corporate Machine coming it would just lie on its back and start saying, “Beige. I think I'll paint the ceiling beige.” It is among the most time honored of coping mechanisms.

At the bar itself, my Thirst for Knowledge is reading the ingredients on a bottle if FOX News, and silently weeping at the amount of artificial flavorings and Red-White-and-Blue Dye No. 3. My Need to Find Meaning in It All lies slumped over its bar stool. With Dick Clark out of the equation, why bother? My Illusion of Purpose is passed out on the floor, much the same as last year and the year before that. Repeated taps by the broom and splashes from the mop have elicited no response. Once again, as in years past, someone has drawn cat whiskers on his face in indelible ink and his right hand is in a bowl of water which was obviously warm enough when it was introduced.

Me? I'm the one pushing the broom. Each year I'm the one who has to try to make sense of the besotted shrapnel that was once a lucid mind. Each year I have to decide what to keep and what to throw out. Neither confetti nor self-recrimination are attractive in the harsh light of the morning after.

Perhaps this year I'll start by getting rid of that big Tobacco monkey on my back. I call him Kong. He was a cute, little Reese's monkey when he boarded, but in the years since then he's grown to Hollywood preportions. After giving him the best thirty years of my life, what has he ever given back to me? A hacking cough? The lung capacity of a ninety year old? Clothes that smell like an ashtray? I keep throwing money at him, and he keeps throwing back what monkeys have always thrown since the dawn of time. How hard can it be? It's only a monkey. A giant, clawed, starving, thirty foot monkey.

“No antidepressants,” says I.

“Just the thing,” says the doctor.

“One hundred and sixty seven dollars,” says the pharmacist!

“Beige,” says I, “I think I'll paint the ceiling beige.”

The box warns that, among other things, the medication may cause, “unusual dreams.” Really? For me? This is my reality and they think they can go me one better in my dreams? Bring it on, rookie!

Reports from previous users say that in a week or two cigarettes will start to taste nasty. Start? Just in case, I've started switching over to a brand whose flavor is widely known to be so noxious that the only reason people smoke them is in an effort to quit.

I tell you all of this to remind you that when the smokers in your life start snapping at you or yelling for no reason, it's not their fault. They're just trying to get the Tobacco monkey off their backs. They're killing King Kong.

For those of you who never smoked... Yes, we know. You're the smart ones. We were stupid. Let it go. Nicotine acts like a Dolby system for the brain. It helps dial down all those petty annoyances. You know, like those people berating us for smoking in the first place. So if you truly want to help us quit, try not adding to the chaos of reasons that make our brains cry out for the muffling peace that the monkey offers. Try not flinging any of what the monkeys fling. At least until we're done.

Spotting the smokers who are trying to quit will not be hard. Our hair will look like Nick Nolte's mug shot. Our eyes will look like Marty Feldman on a four day coke binge, and our shoes will probably be on the wrong feet. If barefoot, our feet may be on the wrong legs. I can't explain it. I just know it's true. Most noticeably though, every three to five minutes we will yell, “I WANT A %$&#&ING CIGARETTE!”

Please. Be gentle.

Joseph

“Crystal bright days of seventy eight degrees simply do not feel like Christmas. They never have and they never will. While I have often joked that white sand dunes are excellent alternatives to pristine banks of wind driven snow, even I know it is not true. They are in fact poor substitutes, at best. Just as 'Twenty nine shopping days left before Christmas' is a poor substitute for 'Peace on Earth and good will to all men.'

There are times when I am concerned that all that remains of the old Christmas Spirit are twelve strands of tinsel, a handful of shards from a broken glass ball, and four splinters of an ancient Yule log. Even these tattered remnants only survive because no one has yet found a way to sell them, and they stubbornly refuse to rot.”

Those cynical words are over twenty years old. They are my own. As you may well guess, they were penned during what will be generously termed “not a good time.” One of the benefits of far removed retrospection is the ability to airbrush out the worst of the blemishes in your own past. I have kept these words, etched on one of those big vacant walls in the many vast and cluttered back rooms of my mind, because each year I know these sentiments shall revisit me, and I shall have need of these words again.

I keep them not so that I may have a ready rant available; I have tons of those in another room. I keep them because attached to them is the memory of how they were proven so wrong then, and so must remain wrong still. In the memory of disproving my own “Bah, Humbug!” in the past, I find assurance in disproving all others in the present. I found my lost Spirit of Christmas, due in large part to a man ironically named Joseph.

Joseph had eerily pale eyes with a long, vacant stare that very clearly said four dollars short of a nickel and probably not your next good chess game. More specifically, Joseph was schizophrenic. A somewhat functional schizophrenic, in that he could do day-labor jobs if he could find any, and he could feed himself, if he was lucky.

When I met him, he hadn't been very lucky lately. It was the late eighties and the Reagan administration, in drastically reducing the Federal budget for mental health care, had just turned thousands of Josephs out onto the streets. At first I had done what most of us do when we meet someone like Joseph. I had slipped him a few bucks, and remembered my father's words at such times. “There, but for the Grace of God, go I.” I then, lacking the Grace of a God, had gone.

I encountered Joseph again, some weeks later, while taking a shortcut walking home, in a small stand of woods behind a Burger King on U.S. 1 in Cocoa. I came upon a cardboard refrigerator box that was Joseph's current home. I again insisted he take a few bucks, and upon returning home, came back with an assortment of canned goods, a can opener, a jug of water, and a couple of cans of sterno to heat them on. I am sad to say, that was the extent of my help – at least until several days later.

The weatherman announced the coming of a large cold front. The temperatures that night were going to plunge well below freezing, with wind chill we going to be in the teens! Maybe it's because I'm a “bleeding heart “Liberal. I'd like to think it's just because I'm a human being, but my first thought was that there was a man living in a cardboard box in the woods not one thousand yards from my heated home. I had never knocked on the outside of a cardboard box before to announce myself to its resident, but my mother had always said it was polite to knock.

After the ten minutes required to convince a bewildered Joseph that I was not going to hurt him, I explained that a freeze was coming that night. Another ten minutes finally convinced him that his one blanket was not enough to keep him warm, especially since what he was calling a blanket was really just a beach towel. I had a spare room, a hot shower, a clean change of clothes, and a hot meal. More importantly I had an extra bed in a heated house, and he was welcome to stay there until the freeze passed. The details required an extra half an hour, but in the end Joseph did relent.

Was he dirty? Oh yeah! But that's what showers are for. Did his clothes smell? Like the fermented wrong end of a dumpster! But that's what washing machines are for. Did I hide the kitchen knives? Sadly, yes I did. I also locked my bedroom door, but I slept knowing that at least this one fellow human being would not freeze to death for want of my minimal effort. It was a good sleep.

Joseph left the next morning after donning his cleaned clothes and leaving the ones I had given him neatly folded on the bed. He came back the next night, as I had told him to, and for the next three nights until the freeze had passed. I learned that his only remaining family consisted of two married sisters in the Carolinas, and he didn't know the married surnames of either. He had been a patient in a mental health facility in North Carolina when politics had put him out on the street. He had walked most of the way to Florida, because he remembered it was warm.

Let me say that again. He had WALKED most of the FIVE HUNDRED MILES to Florida, because he remembered it was warm! Most of the few people who had given him a ride hitchhiking had stopped and let him back out. They had apologized, but said he smelled. Eventually, he had given up and just kept walking. I contacted every mental health organization I could find, and many who I only found because they were referred by others. They were all completely swamped with Josephs, all of whom had remembered it was supposed to be warm.

Joseph left the wood some months later. The box dissolved in the rain, and I carried the last of it to a dumpster. I have no idea what ever became of him, but I wonder every time I see someone with that stare. That hurt and hopeless stare of the lost and forgotten. It is the look of someone who knows themselves to be totally alone.

I don't relate this for my own sake. I did very little in the grand scheme of things. I relate the incident in the hope that some of you may realize that often even “very little” can help very much. There are still thousands of Josephs out there, particularly at this time of year. They have come because they heard Florida is supposed to be warm. Find them. It isn't hard, just look at the people you don't normally make eye contact with.

If all of us do even a little, together we can help a lot. We can prove that Florida is not warm in the winter because of its geographical location, but rather due to the warmth of its collective heart. This is a season of giving for people of most religious persuasions as well as many with none at all. It is also a time when the name Joseph has particular meaning. So in between counting the shopping days left until Christmas and trying to find the best sales, find a Joseph. Help a Joseph. 'Tis the Season. Who knows, with luck we may even learn to remember all the Josephs during the other seasons as well.

May what ever God you embrace, embrace you as well, and may you learn from the example and embrace others in turn. Merry Christmas, Joseph. I hope you are well.

We the People

Happy New Year! Brace yourselves. I believe I have hit upon the one New Year’s Resolution we ALL need to make. Eat healthier, exercise, quit smoking (Yes, Dear, me included!), those are all very good. Be nicer to strangers, call your mom more, stop listening to the Voices (Sorry, that one’s just me!), also excellent ideas. I believe, however, that our ENTIRE NATION is in desperate need of our combined efforts in another area.

What was, in my youth, a nation of fifty states, ALL of which proudly proclaimed themselves red, white, and blue, has digressed, of late, into an angry rabble. Now states are either red or blue. That’s it. The only white to be found is the flag of surrender run up by the concepts of courtesy, decency, and respect, all of which have been so badly beaten into submission, that they have long since fled the field. We have allowed ourselves to become a nation of Hatfields and McCoys. Political debates today should begin with the words, “And in this corner...”

I’m NOT pointing any fingers. I suspect there is enough blame to go around for BOTH sides. I’m neither slinging mud, nor throwing rocks. I am merely suggesting that BOTH sides learn to play well together. We’ve only got this one sand box! “I saw it first!” “He’s poking me!” “Nuh-uh!” “Yeah-huh!” Is this really how we want to behave? Have the parents truly regressed into behaviors that we wouldn’t tolerate from our own children? Have we all, in fact, become the children?

I’ve been just as guilty as the next person. But, isn’t admitting the problem the first step? I’m not suggesting that anyone surrender their beliefs, only that we all stop thinking of those who hold beliefs which differ from our own as being “Stupid” (or worse). I know I’ve often been confused when I view a political topic and see it as “THIS”, only to have someone else view the same topic and see it as “THAT”. It’s easy to assume that there’s something wrong with the other person’s eyes, and barring that, the brain behind them. BUT, what if you know that other person to be afflicted in neither area?

When I find myself slipping into such behaviors, I remember four specific individuals: A neighbor, now retired, who once served in high positions in the Republican Party in his home state, even unto a Presidential appointment! Two women, both Realtors (Yes, many of them HAVE souls!), one a former journalism major, the other the wife of a retired Colonel in the U.S. Army. And a gentleman a few years my senior, with whom I discuss such topics regularly in an area pub. ALL of these people are possessed of keen and agile minds, all have sharp wits, all have good hearts, and all are good souls. Almost invariably though, where I see “THIS”, they see “THAT”.

I can not, and WILL NOT dismiss them as being either dim, dull, delusional, or Dark, and I know myself to be none of these as well. I also know that I can’t be only one who has found himself in this situation, and I know it’s not a new phenomenon. Thomas Jefferson wrote:

Subject opinion to coercion: whom do you make your inquisitors? FALLIBLE men; men governed by bad passions, by private as well as public reasons. And why subject it to coercion? To produce uniformity. But is uniformity of opinion desirable? No more than of face or stature.

Reason and persuasion are the only practicable instruments. To make way for these free inquiry must be indulged: and how can we wish others to indulge it while we refuse it ourselves?

Jefferson was speaking of the coercion of religious thought, but I find the words apply just as aptly to the area of political debate today. Something is broken. We can fix it, but we must do it together. No one else will do it for us. That’s NOT their job! That’s OUR job! WE THE PEOPLE. That’s why we got top billing on that paper so long ago. We can build a better sand box, but we CANNOT do it bickering amongst ourselves. If you must think of it as two teams, think of it as Offense and Defense, but BOTH wearing the SAME jerseys! Because if all we do is continue to beat red and blue against one another, all we’ll get is PURPLE. You know, the color of old bruises! We the People deserve better than old bruises.

Again, Happy New Year, and Good Luck!

First Call

The Wheel turns, and Time passes. Yule is done, Imbolc comes. Soon Valentine’s Day will be upon us. I never quite understood the need for ONE specific day devoted to expressing your Love for those you cherish. If you truly cherish them, shouldn’t this be an on-going effort? I had thought to wax romantic on Loves passed and past, but if you don’t know how to tell the one you Love, more importantly, “The One Who Puts Up With You” how precious they are, well you’re going to need a LOT MORE help than I can convey on a single page. Instead, I offer this tale of an entire village that knew how to show just that.

Years ago, in a quaint little village nestled between a tropic lagoon and the deep, blue Sea, in a time before the great beasts known as “Condominiums” came to blot out the Sun, there lived a fine couple at a place called “Second Street South.” Both were white haired, though they held a glow of youthfulness that defied their years. The wife was elegant and poised, possessed of both chiseled features and a regal bearing that surpassed any woman of noble birth. The husband was a bit rough around the edges, but had been in the village long before paved streets and was loved by all. He was tall and genial, I suppose handsome in his own way, but, most importantly, he loved his wife more than life itself.

One evening, as twilight began to paint the sky, the couple went for a walk along the beach near their home. They held hands and talked of the things lovers have talked about on such walks since before Time had a name. They traveled near a half mile, lost in the sounds of the Sea, the birds, and each other’s words. Occasionally, they would exchange greetings with other couples out on similar strolls, but for the most part the world fell away. That’s how Love works.

Upon returning home the wife noticed that the stone had fallen out of her wedding band. Immediately, the two went back to retrace their steps, but with night now fallen, it quickly became apparent that finding a diamond in a half mile stretch of sand would be no easy task. True, life had been good to them both, and the diamond in question was large enough to choke a good sized cat, but still... A HALF MILE OF SAND?

They returned home and grabbed flashlights, and, pausing only to phone a few friends and explain their need, rushed back to resume their search. They had not gotten far when the first friends began to arrive. In the moments, indeed, the hours that followed help continued to arrive, each friend having called others before they came to join the search. Hundreds came! All brought lights, many brought shovels, some brought the screens out of the windows of their homes.

No one came for a reward. No one came out of greed. They all came because a neighbor needed them. They came because friends that had always, without thinking, epitomized “Loving Couple” had lost the stone that was a symbol of that Love. The night and the search wore on through alternating waves of panic, despair, and stubborn refusal to admit defeat, until finally the diamond was found. It was 3:00 AM !

The couple went home. The friends went home. The friends of friends, who didn’t even really know the couple, but had come anyway just because a neighbor needed help, went home. All returned to normal in the quaint little village between the tropic lagoon and the deep, blue Sea, but the couple never forgot what they had learned that night. For years to come they would tell and retell the story of a town that came out in the night with lights and shovels and screens to help their neighbors. It was their favorite story of the town they Loved. The town that had proven its Love for them.

I first heard this tale from the couple, themselves, in the summer of ‘75, shortly after we moved to that same little village. The roads were all paved, the first of the Condominiums had come, with many more soon to follow, but I loved that story. I remember it each year as Valentines approaches, and each time I remember as well the looks of adoration that passed between them during its telling. Regrettably, the couple have both gone ahead, but the story, and the village remain. Although it didn’t occur anytime near Valentine’s Day, this always felt like a “Valentine’s” sort of tale to me, not only for the Love of the couple, but also for the Love of the neighbors, indeed, most of the town, who had come at that First Call.

For those of you who are new to our town, take heart. We may seem to be “all about Last Call”, but we are also quick to heed that First Call. On the surface, we may well have evolved into little more than a concrete and asphalt shadow of that quaint little village, but many of us will always hold that image in our hearts as the essence of this, Our Town. We are not just the people next door or the strangers down the block. We are your neighbors, and should you have need, we will come. That’s just how we are.

Welcome to the Neighborhood, and Happy Valentine’s.

And for Jacquie, “Te Amo!”

In Defense of the Godflute

I should warn all that sarcasm is about to follow, a raucous rant of righteous indignation, a deliberate diatribe of derision and denigration… Okay, maybe I won’t go quite that far, but I would ask that my words not be discounted merely because I have a tendency to treat anger with mirth. I ask that you take the time to note that somewhere between the rancor and the humor lies a precious grain of truth and common sense.

Some of you may have read a past piece of mine exalting the Australian Pine, for those who missed it, here’s a brief recap: Loved trees as a kid. Moved here, missed trees, found new trees. When the wind blew through these new trees they made a sound like a bamboo flute. Hence, I dubbed them “Godflutes”. Now I find my deific woodwinds threatened by the very agencies of this state whom I would expect to understand. Apparently the problem is that I fell in love with a cur, an unwanted, voracious mutt of the botanical world, and a member of the Invasive Plant Brigade’s “Top 10 Most Wanted” list. Who knew?

I recently caught a session of our city commission on TV which featured a riveting presentation by Tim Kazusko, a local biologist whom I knew in high school. Tim is a lover of all that is fishy, furred, or feathered, a champion of all the leafy and live. All save the Brazilian pepper tree and the Australian Pine. Now I can well understand his antipathy for pepper trees, they are a blight on the face of Mother Earth, BUT to lump my beloved Godflutes in with that ignoble weed is nothing short of arboreal slander. On this I must cry,"Foul!"

The reasons for this most unjust appraisal are apparently threefold: First, the beatific boughs of this majestic conifer have the audacity to grow in such dense profusion as to preclude the passing of sufficient sunlight to nourish undergrowth on the grounds below. Second, the roots while being too shallow to provide sufficient structural support for the trees in storm winds, are at the same time so broad ranging and numerous as to, again, crowd out other plants in a large radius. They are also quite thirsty, drinking far more than their fair share from the local water table. The most grievous result of these two combined effects, however, is that the Australian Pine reduces nesting sites for the local fauna, in this case, opossums, racoons, and rats. You know, rodentia. Lastly, and perhaps most damning of all, the needle bed, which I, in my naive ignorance had mistaken for a soft and inviting ground cover, is actually a highly acidic zone which, yet again, precludes other plant growth. It may even be CARCENOGENIC! Oooh, scary!

Let us examine these allegedly damning characteristics from a less caustic angle. After canoing about the Thousand Islands for a few hours, in afternoon temperatures that border on the incendiary, I, for one, find shade to be good thing. Indeed, I find it a blessed respite. As for the depredations on the local water table, it is Florida's abhorently excessive overwatering of grass that has lowered the state's water table to the point where many trees are dying for lack of their fair share! Shall we next declare botanical jihad on YARDS?

As for the scarcity of nesting sites for the rodentia, they still have vast options beneath the mangroves and other scrub growth on the islands, while the osprey, that breathtakingly beautiful raptor only returned to our islands in recent years, tends to nest, almost exclusively, in the lofty branches of the Autralian Pines, perhaps in an effort to keep their eggs far removed from rodentia.

Lastly, the evil needle bed. I am quite familiar with the Florida wilds, for the most part a near impassable riot of tropical growth. Whereas the spacious clearings found beneath the few sizable stands of Austrlian Pines remaining on the islands are an inviting oasis, a veritable verdant cathedral of surcease from the heat of the day. As for the potential carcinogenic properties, ( insert rude hand gesture) were I to eat forty pounds of Australian Pine needles a day for eight months, washing it down with thirty gallons of pine wine, while washing my hair six times daily in pine shampoo, and covering my entire body eight times daily in pine sap, all for the same eight months... THEN, I MIGHT develop cancer. (This is that sarcasm I warned you about!)

I suggest, with all due respect, that before the state, with all its formidable powers of deforestation, comes for my Godflutes, that they first eradicate a few other "invasion plants", namely the Valencia Orange, which originated in China, and the American Beauty Rose, as both of these interlopers also provide poor nesting opportunities for our beloved rodentia. While they're at it let's do away with all of that Kentucky Blue Grass, whose name would lead me to believe that it's NOT from around here, but, as it IS the preferred carpet on nearly all of the FAIRWAYS throughout the state, has intruded vastly on our local landscape. It's also not good for rodent nesting sites. Oh, the injustice to the rodents!

Now, before anyone goes all apoplectic, I do realise that these other plants do not flourish in lands "protected" by the EELS program. BUT neither do they well shade, and certainly they do not sing! I ask only that you go to the islands. Rest in the shade of the larger stands. Listen as the very planet itself serenades you. Feel the trials and troubles of the day fall away. Then tell me if we, the meddlesome mites of planet Earth, have a right to silence the woodwinds of the Gods! I say, in a world so noisesome with the blaring of engines, horns, and sirens, we need the soul soothing respite afforded by the sounds of the surf, the songs of birds, the laughter of children, and the melodic strains of the Godflute. Peace and solace are dear commodities, and should be treasured wherever they can be found.

Eating the American Way

I was going to write last month about the true meaning of Samhain, better known to you as Halloween, but I thought the events in Jena, LA to be more pressing. Now I find myself sitting at a keyboard ON Samhain, which is actually pronounced “SAU – win” despite what Donald Pleasence may have told you, writing about one of the few holidays on the American calendar which is EXACTLY what it claims to be, a Thanksgiving.

It is a day when we celebrate the fact that after we gave them Chicken Pox, Syphilis, and bullet wounds, the native peoples of the early American northeast were kind enough to give us corn, squash, pumpkins and TURKEY! We introduced them to our drug, alcohol, and they gave us theirs, tobacco, some other herb whose name I oddly cannot remember, and TRYPTOPHAN! Ah, tryptophan, that glorious, post-gluttonous coma inducing solution that has glazed the front of more televisions than spit beer! Do you really believe an entire nation would be content to watch the Dallas Cowboys and the Detroit Lions EVERY SINGLE YEAR without being drugged to a point near STUPOR? I think not!

First, everyone knows the Dallas Cowboys are Minions of Darkness, and have been such ever since Roger Staubach had the temerity to beat the hell out of the Great and Holy Dolphins of Miami. Their fans are to be pitied, NOT embraced! Actual Texans are, of course, excused from this, as they know no better and are acting out of loyalty to their homeland, which I suppose is a good thing even if that homeland is Texas. We accept ethnic eccentricities from other nations with no problem, and since Texas actually was an independent nation for a short time, I believe we should extend Texans that same courtesy. The fact that the time involved was so short as to be best measured by stopwatch is irrelevant. This would also explain why they still consider cowboy hats fashion rather than part of a costume.

Second, the Detroit Lions? Really? Save for the single bright point of Barry Sanders in action, watching the Detroit Lions is almost as exciting as watching flies grow or grass breed. I may have gotten that last part backwards, but as a Miami Dolphins fan, I'm viewing ALL FOOTBALL this year as a dyslexic. That way my team is 7 and 0! YEA TEAM! The only exceptions to this, much as with the previous team, are people from Michigan. Let's face it, since the decline of Motown, and with the exception of a few fleeting moments of glory watching bar brawlers beat the hell out of each other with sticks on a frozen indoor pond in a quest for Mr. Stanley's cup, our friends from the hand-shaped land of frozen tundra have little to cheer these days. They MUST believe that the Lion will someday roar! Their only other option is to get excited about all the new, cutting-edge, energy efficient technology that Detroit is offering the American car buyer, and we all know that ain't happening.

So, football stigma aside, I anxiously await my annual Trypo-Blitz, the wondrous euphoria of a near catatonic state brought on by the consumption of MASSIVE amounts of one of nature's most stupid creatures, a bird so fat and stupid that it can't even fly. You would think that this would make me happy, that this would be enough for even such a jaded man as me. You would think that there would be joy in Mudville, but, alas, it is not so.

It is not so because my life is threatened by a dark presence, a prevailing black cloud of dire discontent. Yes, the same spectre of self-privation that has long haunted the rest of humanity has at now reached out its knobbly, gnarled fingers to choke the joy out of my Turkey Day. A DIET! ( Pardon my language! )

Yes the dreaded “D-word” has reared its ugly head in my world, but, “Which?” you say, “Atkins, South Beach?”

“Nay,” says I, “It is far worse than that! This insidious new concept is based on blood type!” That's right, BLOOD TYPE! According to what I am terming the “Diet Dracul,” every blood type has certain foods which it can more readily assimilate and others which must be avoided like the plague. I had hoped to be Type O, for this blood type is apparently that of the Carnisaur, and while I envisioned my arms growing short and my head growing large, I could eat ALL MEAT. Beef, bacon, baboon in bourbon butter, bring it on! But, alas, it was not so.

I 'm Type AB Negative, and this is not so good. Oh, I can still have turkey. Oddly EVERYONE can have turkey! I am NOT, however supposed to have potatoes. What? Turkey with no mashed? BLASPHEMY! I am also to avoid duck and chicken, so much for the “Turducken” which has been haunting my dreams of late. Meat stuffed in meat stuffed in meat, what hedonistic bliss!

The further bad news is that I'm also to avoid bacon, ham, pork, jalapeños, bell peppers ( red, yellow, and green ), and BLACK PEPPER, all of which are primary food groups in and of themselves in my current diet! On the bright side, however, I am allowed snails, feta cheese, lentils, cabbage and tofu. All of which make me what to HURL! TOFU, really? Just kill me now. Beyond those gems of dietary insight, I also learn that while I am allowed such essentials as garlic, olive oil, and jams and jellies from acceptable fruits ( DON'T ASK! ), I am to forswear such culinary must-haves as ketchup, butter, and ice cream! I am also to say, “Goodbye forever,” to filberts, corn muffins, and distilled spirits. Now I'm not really sure what filberts are, but I'm sure I would miss them. Corn muffins, on the other hand are old and dear friends. They are also for me an integral part of any Thanksgiving Feast, and to forbid them is nothing short of an overt act of TREASON, and an obvious indication of an insidious plot to rend the very fabric of the American soul! As for the distilled spirits... Are you INSANE! I live in COCOA BEACH!

Here at last, I must rebel. I must draw a line in the filberts with my albeit pudgy toe, and say, “Here, and no more!” Here I must stand, however ovoid, against the Demons of Dietary Duress and defy with my last tequila shot their diabolical designs. Here I must declare to the universe that I will not go gentle in to that thin night. Rather shall I gorge myself, like my father and my father's father before me on all the food I can possibly ingest ( Dripping with butter, black pepper and filberts! ) and then collapse into a traditional tryptophan haze to watch teams I abhor play a game that has lost most of its joy for me until next year, and when I come to I'll go down to the art show and have a Margarita, all because it's the right thing to do, because it's the Cocoa Beach thing to do, because it's the AMERICAN thing to do, and because diets on Thanksgiving are for COMMUNISTS!

So to you all, a happy and rotund Thanksgiving! If you never hear from me again, it's because Tom Ridge has come for me in the dark of night because I dared speak facetious ill of Texas and I've gone off to Guantanamo. Gee, I hope they have filberts!

The Mountain

What is Real? What is Perception? Can one alter the other? Cancer, though not perceived, can certainly have real results. Yet I know many people who faced with real cancer, perceive the balance of their life to be years longer than their doctors would have them believe, and through their perception they make it so. I admit I’ve had little luck perceiving that the car in front of me doing thirty in the left-hand lane is speeding up. It just continues to go real slow! On the other hand, though I live by the Sea on a thin strip of land whose highest point is a condominium roof full of A/C units and the calling cards of endless sea gulls, I perceive that I also dwell on the side of a mountain, and THAT is the most real thing in the universe!

I was sitting on the side of that mountain the other day. Actually, I tend to think of it as “The Mountain,” it’s size and beauty being of such magnitude that all other mountains dwindle and grow pale by comparison. Mighty Everest is reduced to little more than a snow covered speed bump. I told myself that I was simply resting between climbs, but the truth of the matter is that I’ve not been making much of an effort to climb higher of late. I’ve been content to just hang about and admire the view from where I am.

Many others sat around me, though whether they are stopped due to fatigue, the view, or an apathy similar to my own, I cannot say. They seem as unconcerned about their time being frittered away not climbing as I am. It is a very big mountain and few of us still believe that we will reach the actual summit in one climb. Oddly enough, none of us seem to doubt that we will reach that summit one day. I enjoy their company, and I believe they enjoy mine. We do after all have the most important thing imaginable in common. We’re all climbing The Mountain.

I do wonder how many of them would still enjoy my company if the knew of the Path that had led me here, indeed the Path that I intend to follow all the way to the top. You see there are a great many trails that wind and turn their way across the face of The Mountain. Over the years many have been defined and improved by the people who have traveled them in an effort to make easier the journey of those who will come after. These are now Paths rather than merely trails. Many have stairs cut into the rock to help over the rougher spots, and where cliff faces are unavoidable, handholds have been clearly marked and safety lines have been installed. All of this is a good thing. The climb can be quite treacherous at times.

The only problem with this is that many of those who have invested so much effort in constructing such Paths, have become increasingly strict about who can use their Path. Most of the more elaborate Paths have been color coded, supposedly in an effort to help those who begin on, say, the Yellow Path, to stay on the Yellow Path all the way to the top. It is possible, of course, to start out on the Red Path and later switch over to say the Yellow. I know many who have done just that, but it is generally frowned upon, at least by those who maintain the Paths.

This confuses me further because many of the Paths have shared starting points. The Orange, for example begins very far down in the mists at the very foot of the mountain, then the Yellow branches off from it, and, higher still, the Red branches off from the Orange as well. Both the Red and the Yellow later divide as well, the Red into two different Paths, the Yellow into dozens. These Paths are marked with signs the original color, yet modified in some way. The Red with vertical white stripes and the Red with horizontal white stripes, for example.

My confusion arises with the fact that both of the Red Paths claim to be the only true Red Path, and that each HATES the other! The dozens of split-off Yellow Paths are only slightly less jealous of their own sole claims to Yellow supremacy, and often just as vehement in their derision of any who would doubt them. And here’s where it gets really weird! Although they ALL began on the Orange, the Reds HATE each other, they HATE the Yellows more, and they HATE the Orange most of all! The Yellows, on their best days only distrust the Reds and the Orange, but as often as not, they too can work up a frothing-at-the-mouth HATRED for either! Were their HATRED only internal, or, at most, verbal, it would be easy enough to ignore, but the base of The Mountain is littered with the bones Yellows thrown to their deaths by Reds, and vice versa. There are also countless bones of Oranges pushed off The Mountain by BOTH!

Personally, I believe there is no place on The Mountain for HATRED, and I dearly wish the others would learn to just enjoy the climb. The Blue and the Purple don’t seem to have any problem tolerating others, and their Paths begin as close to the foot of The Mountain as the Orange. I have tried on several occasions to share this message, but I follow the Green Path, (though my parents followed the Yellow) and once this is known few if any of the Orange, Red, or Yellow care to hear anything I have to say. Many of them go so far as to question my right to even be on The Mountain! I remember at such times that there are vast numbers of Green bones at the base of The Mountain as well, most cast off before their time by the very groups I’m trying to convince to be tolerant.

If I see someone stumble and fall on The Mountain, I do not think about what Path they may be on. I simply reach out and catch them. Should I find a fellow climber sheltering from a storm, and believe me the storms on The Mountain can be quite fierce, I will share my fire, my food, or even my blanket until the storm passes, or until they are warmed and renourished enough to continue on their way. I have, however, been quite amazed on many such occasions to find that once they learn that I travel the Green Path, many would rather suffer hungry in the cold than accept my aid! Again with the HATE!

As a Green, I believe I am one with the ENTIRE Mountain. I am kin to every tree and bush, every badger and bird. I am also brother to every man, woman, and child who climbs The Mountain, though many, were my Path known, wouldn’t have me as a fifth cousin. This is the very reason so many on the Green Path do not freely share the true nature of their Path with anyone save the trees, the bushes, the badgers, and the birds. Who among us will go up to a stranger and say, “Hello, HATE me!” I can do nothing about this, but I do know that their refusal to acknowledge any kinship with me does not negate my responsibility to them.

I was born on The Mountain, so were all of my family. So were you and all of yours. I enjoy the climb, and even when facing the worst of the storms and the sheerest of cliffs, I can do naught but climb. The Summit calls to me. I would hope that it calls to us all. That is why we’re on The Mountain in the first place. As for the choice of Paths, I say to each their own. So long as they climb toward the Summit and the Light, we’re ALL on the SAME Mountain! I wish you all luck on your climb! Maybe I’ll see you on The Mountain, if not, I’ll see you at the Summit!

Blessed Be