Baby Furry Ghost

I was on my way to my friend's house, delivering Frappuccinno and a Snickers crunch bar, and prepared to provide a massage because her back was "killing her." (Oh the things we do in the middle of the night for friends). The journey through the dark countryside on a blacktop road was a ripe situation for dreamy vestiges. I'm not sure i really did hallucinate, and i may never know...

But there i was, winding around the wooded road, trying to keep my eyes peeled for feeding deer that often wander near the shoulders, and my eyes caught the darting form, a dark arrow of fur, scuttling across in front of me, toward the woods. I slowed, and as i passed the little form, i could swear it was a tiny black kitten, sitting there with soupy eyes, begging for me to stop and rescue it from a life of eating bugs and dodging the vehicular bullets that swept past each day and night.

What if it was synchronicity? What if i was meant to rescue this kitten? What if i was supposed to pull it, mewling from the brush, pick the stickers out if its fur and take it home to shower it with affection, give it a can of tuna and a saucer of milk? I was already a little maudlin about the impending adoption as i pulled to a stop.

It was 3 a.m., and traffic was almost non-existent. Since I couldn't find a place to turn around, i moved to the other lane and drove in that lane in reverse back toward the kitten. I figured if another vehicle did appear in the lane, i would at least be moving in the same direction as them, and if a car came in the other lane, it would be like passing me, except my vehicle was pointed in the wrong direction, but moving in the right one...

After a period of time, i couldn't find the little kitten, so i continued to my friend's house, (in the correct lane, and in DRIVE, not REVERSE...)

SIDEBAR: i wonder why the display on the gear box doesn't say REVERSE and FORWARD? What kind of sense does it make to say REVERSE and DRIVE? Why not DRIVE and NOT-DRIVE? It's like, "I now pronounce you MAN and WIFE. Not HUSBAND and WOMAN? It's like, if you put the car into DRIVE, you will magically be driven, and you can sit back and read the paper and have a cup of coffee while you are shuttled to your destination...

Back to the kitten...

I was already a little sad that i was unable to find the creature, save it, offer it sanctuary.

A few nights later, a repeat performance had me on the same road toward my friends house. As i swung around the corners in the dark, ever vigilant for foraging deer and possums and raccoons, i thought of the kitten. ...Wondered if it was still out there in the darkness, afraid and hungry. As i came to the bend in the road where i had seen the kitten a few nights before, i watched carefully, just in case the kitten had some little feline lean-to in that area of the woods and would wander out to the road to hitchhike for a new owner...

And Behold. There it was. I swear. The kitten, sitting by the side of the road...what were the chances? Was the Universe telling me i didn't try hard enough the last time? I drove quite a distance until i found a place to turn around and returned, determined to answer the calling of human kindness...i had the same feeling i get when i watch one of those movies on Lifetime (Television for Women and Gay Men). I searched the opposite side of the road. I didn't see it. Turning around again, i searched on my way back by, toward my original destination, and still did not see the kitten.

If there was a kitten.

But why would i see the same thing twice in the same location, unless it existed? And if the Universe really wanted me to save this kitten, why didn't it tell the little creature to stay put?

I continued to my destination, feeling just a little punked.

Baby Furry Ghost

Psychic Hotlines

It's not that i don't believe that there are individuals out there who are gifted with psychic abilities, it's just that i realize these gifts are so easily exploitable and can be effectively faked.

Take that popular Psychic phone line for instance. If you spend a lot of time watching late night cable, as i do when i am online working on web pages, you will see the infomercial-style program over and over again. They mostly use the same three or four clips which they feel will "prove" how authentic their psychics are. I imagine they choose the clips which they feel cast them in the best light. But if you examine the selections, there are flaws in the logic.

I believe there are two types of flaws: one is the obvious staging of calls and callers, and the other is the gullibility of the callers themselves.

EXAMPLE: A woman is video-taped as she speaks with a psychic who tells her that she will be pregnant within four months. She tells him she and her husband have been trying to get pregnant for a while without success. She calls back and they put her on the air with the same psychic. She tells them that she took a pregnancy test the next day, and it was positive. Then she began to thank the psychic effusively, as if he had something to do with her fertility. This is a flaw in the logic of the caller. Whether the psychic had just made a lucky guess, or was indeed in touch with a higher consciouness, he was in no way responsible for her pregnancy, yet she continued to thank him adding, "You have given me my hopes and dreams back." With a little thought, it doesn't take a mensa-member to figure out that if she had just been patient ONE MORE DAY, she would have STILL discovered she was With-Child, and would not have had to pay the $100 or so for that conversation with the psychic.

An example of the staged calls is the time that the hostess called a previous caller, and asked how things worked out. Of course, the caller had a fantastic story that was so smooth, it was obviously scripted. She claims in the call to be surprised by the callback, and yet, does not hesitate, but launches into a rehearsed, neatly capsulated report that sounds more like a segment of Prime Time Live, than a response from some Jane Doe from Iowa, caught off-guard and unprepared.

And of course, each of these examples were followed up by the Hostess saying, "That gave me goosebumps."

Now understand, I have a friend who is a psychic, and the one person who keeps from from calling the whole thing a lie...i know from personal experience hat she has a real gift, that cannot be debunked. She has worked for several of those psychic services. She left the last job when they began to tell her, essentially, she had to lie and also that she must keep them on the line past their free time, so that they could make their money. To make matters worse, they told her what to tell her clients-regardless of whether or not is was what she saw. In all fairness, the callers give their permission to be charged for the call. And they have free will to hang up at any time. Surprisingly, they don't usually hang up. My friend told me she has found that callers are primarily looking for someone to talk to, and that's all. May i suggest finding friends that don't charge?

Buyer Beware.

Psychic Hotlines

Plaque Brain

I often have trouble remembering my dreams, even though i wish fervently that this was not so. Dreams are an incredible resource for a creative person, and this NO ACCESS thing makes me think that the Powers That Be are protecting me from some screaming ugly...

At any rate, when i do recall a dream, i like to write it down...if it's interesting...
so...

I was having exploratory brain surgery. Skull open, i had a metal halo contraption around my head. Two of the docs were in there--or orderlies, maybe...they were acting crazy, looking at my exposed gray matter. One of them even kissed me, laughing that I wouldn't remember and I was frightened of what else they might do. I couldn't defend myself in any way and could not speak--Like the surgeons had pressed a pause button on my language center.

Then the surgeons are in the room again, and are conferring; Like they've already looked and left the room and come back. They know what is wrong with my brain but will have to do another procedure. They are to take me to another O.R. for some reason. I want to know what it means, and am scared that it might be serious or dangerous. I can't understand what they are saying.

Then I am being guided down the hallway to the other procedure, except instead of being on a gurney, I am walking. They say they want to be sure I can walk so they know everything is functioning before the next procedure. But I feel so odd. . . people in the corridors are staring and I feel so exposed--I mean literally-- here's my brain perched inside the open resevoir of my skull...

I pass a little kid in the hallway who is playing with an object--a toy of some kind--and his mother grabs him and pulls him away from me; he throws the toy, and it lands in my brain. I hope the surgeons see it and remove it.

In the O.R, back on the table again, they begin scraping my brain. Seems it has got a film of something on it; this growth that has been suppressing my brain function. Like, Plaque-brain. This is the thing that is causing my cognitive dysfunction.

As the surgeons scrape the gray matter, I begin to have memories, and then I am overwhelmed with memories and knowledge. All the things I learned over the years that I never had access to. But it's too much, and they have to give me some sort of neuro-blocking agent to suppress it until I can handle it. It has to be allowed to filter in gradually so I won't have a mental breakdown. But I know that I feel so smart, and I am excited that I am remembering all those things. I finally have answers. I finally can stop saying 'I don't know.' I can go through my set list without a single mistake, and I can do it all visually in my head. I can remember my childhood, I can recall conversations verbatim, I can handle doing math, my checkbook, my finances; I can recall even the most esoteric of details gathered throughout my life; volumes of trivia; reams of textbook content; I can recite the titles of hundreds of books I've read. It's like that life-review thing that i believe happens when you die; where you see everything in your life and suddenly have a keen and all-encompassing understanding...But i also remember all the bad things and all the details. It's painful.

Yet, I realize that some things have been altered by my memory before--some things seem clear to me now that were muddled before. And although it can be overwhelming and unpleasant, it's worth the trade-off to me. I finally feel whole. I finally feel I have reached my potential and anything is possible. I discover that it isn't common to have this much brain power after that surgery, and they tell me that it must indicate that I was some sort of genius all along, but never knew because of this condition.

Then, my best friend, LS comes to the hospital and brings me a T-shirt that reads::"I know."

Plaque Brain

Humans, Cats & Crackers

If you have a hungry cat and a hungry human,

and a cracker falls in front of each of them,

the cat wants to know if it tastes good,

the human wants to know where it came from.

So there it is.

Humans, Cats & Crackers

Texas Pain Saw Mess-a-Girl

Once upon a time there was this lesbian who had been in a monogamous relationship for 7 years, the last year of which she had been very unhappy, living in what some would call the the Second Ring of Hell, also known as Texas. She was away from her usual circle of friends, and ripe for a dance with infidelity. She was the flirty type, but had never acted on her crushes or any of those raging hormones.

She had been flirting with an old friend online, via emails and phone calls, and wishing she didn't live in Texas. Then one weekend, another old friend came to visit, with more Old Friends in tow, and much merriment was made, and way too much beer was imbibed. Somehow one of the friends thought it would be fun to visit a local cemetery.

One thing mysteriously led to another, and she found herself in a liplock with one of those old friends, an Amazon Woman who played guitar and sang beautifully.... Then she found herself having wild sex with the Amazon. Twice. Then she found herself in a car going back to the motel the friends shared, and found herself having sex again in the motel room with the Amazon. When the beer wore off, she realized what she had done, and felt awful. Felt guilty, felt totally like the Second Ring of Hell was where she belonged, because she was such a sinner, and worthy of some Fire and Brimstone.

Word got around the Old Friend Grapevine, and soon phones were ringing and e-mails were zipping back and forth, and everyone had an opinion. Some Old Friends turned their backs, some Old Friends supported her in her hour of self-loathing. The Old Friend she had been flirting with online felt almost like she had been cheated on as well, since they had discussed why they couldn't pursue anything romantic, the Texas Pain Saw Mess-a-Girl still being ensconced in a relationship.

But the E-mail Flirtee still offered understanding and support, as she had also been guilty of some bad decisions in the past. The Texas Pain Saw Mess-a-Girl was busted, and the usual emotional upheavals began. But the Spurned Lover did not take the Texas Pain Saw Mess-a-Girl to a cemetery and bury her up to her neck and leave her there all night. Nor did she smack her around, or throw her things in a pile in the yard and light them on fire. The Spurned Lover took it on the chin and tried to maintain a sense of humor through those clenched teeth, and despite her aching heart.

Whenever she drove them past a graveyard, she'd say, "Are you turned on, yet?"

Then the jokes began. "What was it like having sex on top of dead people?"

"Was there a soundtrack...like...the one to Thriller? Did you see any zombies?"

"Is your favorite show 'Six Feet Under', now?"

Texas Pain Saw Mess-a-Girl

Fur-Family Christmas

The Cast of characters:

Giz
(AKA Gizmo, Gizzard the Lizard, Gizzy-Giz, and of course, his Russian name, Gizimov Runninov). Adopted from shelter in 1998. Half spaniel, half chihuahua, and all the way sweet and nerdy. If he was a human he'd be in therapy and wear pocket protectors.He eats anything i give him and steals the rest.

Nanny
(AKA the Nanster, Snooder, Smacker, Nanner-Bananner). Poodle adopted from the shelter. Stone deaf, incontinent, toothless. Eats only soft food, wears a diaper and makes "hoo hoo" noises.

Stormy
(AKA the Stormster, the Storminator, Stormy-storm). Matriarch of the LS branch of my extended family. Rescued from a thunderstorm on the Gulf Coast outside a casino, and only later in life learning to share her Mommy with other fur-children and humans. Stormy is a vegetarian and prefers fresh water from the tap.

Poe
(AKA Poe Ditty Super Kitty, Poe-Poe Headed Cat-Cat) Purchased by us at a flea market (they were fresh out of fleas) and embraced by stormy only after much resistance a little over a year ago. Poe was once the cute kitty, and now has grown and is more intense, allowing Stormy to return to her kitten-behavior. Poe has fallen in love with her human, LS, since LS and I obtained separate living quarters. Poe gazes at her lovingly, hugs her head. She is carnivorous.

Poe and Stormy take shifts getting attention from Mommy. Stormy gets her during the day, and Poe gets her at night. Any deviation from this daytime ownership incites a barrage of hissing and chasing behavior on Stormy's part.

ENTER stage left, Shoes. (AKA: Shoes, Shooooooooees).
The new kitten in the extended family.

It is Christmas day at her Godmommy's house. Shoes has lost patience with the hissing occupants of this condo, and is now alternately chasing them, running up and tagging them and running away. Intermittently, she becomes an Olympic hockey player with a wad of paper, and periodically visits my thick house socks to wrestle with my feet, run up the length of my body and grab my head. She is a space invader of the finest breed, and Stormy and Poe do not appreciate it one little bit.

I even brought Giz over too, and he is a little put off. It's not his house, and when I gave him his bowl of food, he set about guarding it like the family jewels--standing over it, a canine vulture, staring at it like it might move. He looks a little mental when he does that. Shoes also makes pit-stops at his bowl to sniff his kibble and thrust her furry arms into it and run away. He then goes over and counts his kibbles to make sure she has not taken one of them.

The two of them have bonded ever since I left them alone together for 24 hours. When I returned to my apartment, Shoes was brashly leaping from the bed, landing on top of Giz, and riding him, while she bit the fleshy folds of his neck. He would shake her off, and she would wrap her little kitty arms around his neck, bat at his face and ears, and try to chew on his feet. He has been admirably tolerant to this behavior, and even seems to be enjoying it.

Nanny is doing the usual: waddling around in her diaper, smacking her toothless mouth, making hoo-hoo noises, or sleeping in a wad of blankets near the fainting couch.

So, here, on this, her second visit to Godmommy's house to mix and mingle with her pseudo-siblings, she is still not met with a welcome mat. But this visit has none of the cowering under the futon. This visit seems to be without restraint. She continues to chase the two older cats, moving blithely into their space, ignoring the parameters. There is a repetitive hissing followed by the pitter-pat of a running cat. She is actually chasing them, and they are so mad.

Fur-Family Christmas

Barbie Cutlery

Some years ago I was invited to a Barbie-Party. This other couple I know has one foofy member who likes to throw theme parties, and this was the one that had some impact on my life...(as absurd at that sounds).

One of the gifts she gave out to us was our own personal set of Barbie Cutlery. It was bright pink, made of thick, durable plastic, and I took it home with me and found that after I used it a few times, I didn't want to use anything else...

Perhaps I should explain that I have this little quirk--I hate the sound of metal cutlery on plates and teeth. It gives me the same reaction as someone who wads up some foil and chews it. Invisible multi-legged critters traverse my spine, and I am stricken with some sort of seizure that makes me avoid the situation in the future.

So, when I realized how useful it was to have plastic cutlery that didn't break off in your bite of steak, but that also didn't make those horrible scritching and skerking noises, I was REBORN. Eventually I lost this set of fine utensils in a move and couldn't find them anywhere.

Recently, though I was tooling down the sale aisle in Wal-Mart, and there they were--tube upon tube of Barbie Cutlery....They were only 60 cents each, and I nabbed about 4 tubes, which turned out to be about 20 of each piece.

I can't tell you the ridiculous joy I get from using these.

And yes, I use them for company, too.

Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.

Barbie Cutlery

Ichabod Day

Today feels like the first day of fall to me…not because it's necessarily cold, but because I have noticed for the first time that most of the leaves have been liberated from the trees. It opens things up, makes things feel larger, and yet more mystical at the same time. There is a starkness to the trees that create an ambiance like something out of a Tim Burton film. I half expect Ichabod Crane to come galloping down Pivot Rock Road with a lantern and windswept leaves crackling beneath clocking hooves.

Ichabod Day

Defining Rape

I don't pretend to know the truth one way or another about the Kobe Bryant case...This woman could be just trying to capitalize on the wealth and fame of a sports celebrity. She could have a legitimate complaint. She could be merely embarrassed that she engaged in sexual activity and then thought better of it later. She could feel that she wanted to stop, but wasn't strong enough to say so.

Regardless, all i do know is that often there are gray areas, and that this case has brought up some interesting issues.

The thing that interests me is the dynamic of screaming rape when there is some question as to definition. To me, rape can be defined as penetration of any kind in either genital orifice, against the will of the person being penetrated.

The question then becomes one of what I mean by "against the will of." If a woman places herself in a sexual situation, she is essentially expressing a permission to at least engage in SOME amount of sexually oriented activity, even if it is only kissing or touching. She is then responsible for being clear about what her intentions and limits are. Should she change her mind or reach her own boundary, which she has a perfect right to do, and then does not have the personal power to say "Stop" or "No" firmly and clearly, how is the other person to know that the situation has changed, when all other signals have told him otherwise?

Therefore, when a woman begins a process of sexual activity, and then remains mum when she changes her mind, there can be no rape, unless you say she has essentially raped herself...If she knows she is not strong enough to communicate her own will, then she has no business placing herself in any sexual situation to begin with.

This assessment does not include, naturally, situations in which the woman is incapable of speaking or communicating, incapacitated, incompetent, or not of the age of consent. Those situations fall into other categories.

A friend of mine told the story of someone she knew who had an applicable situation happen to her. This woman got drunk with a male friend, and the two of them went back to one of their houses, and she consented--actually requested--that he perform oral on her. Some time during the process, she passed out, and he was just drunk enough not to notice or not to care, and he then had intercourse with her. The next day,the girl stated, she questioned him when she awoke and found him naked from the waist down. He admitted openly what had happened. The girl then decided she had been raped. Now this is a prime example of what I'm talking about. Getting drunk was her responsibility; getting sexual with him was her responsibility; inviting him to perform oral on her was, too, and the mere fact that she opened herself up to him by asking and by removing her clothes, indicated clearly that she was open to sexual activity. How did he know she meant that was the only type of sexual activity? That she passed out is a moot point, since she was the one who allowed herself to get drunk in the first place.

Now if this situation had been a bit different, such as, the woman told him they were going back to her place to sleep it off, directed him to a sofa, and their clothes remained on, and there were no sexual invitations...then what he did would then be considered rape. Especially if she had said no and he did it anyway; but also if she had been unconscious and he took advantage. This in no way releases her from her responsibility in that she voluntarily became incapacitated, but that does not mean she deserved to be raped.

There are also situations in which a woman allows herself to be raped, such as when her children, sleeping in the next room, are threatened, and she chooses to be violated rather than endanger them. This is still rape.

Then there's that issue of women who dress provocatively and flirt, and men who think this is a license to have sex with them, even if the women say No. Men are responsible for behaving themselves as well and cannot use a woman's teasing or moral turpitude or revealing clothing as an excuse to force sex upon them--this would be rape. Women of this ilk do generally create unfortunate circumstances for themselves by constantly "stirring the coals" as it were. Our behavior has repercussions. That's the law of Cause and Effect: Karma. They should be willing to take responsibility for at least perpetuating the situation. But i still do not buy the argument that they "had it coming" or "wanted it." Unless, of course, they state that they DO or DID.

Essentially, i don't like it when women tease and manipulate men, when they have no intention of follow-through, just as i don't like men who blame their misbehavior on their "manhood."

Defining Rape

Climbed Like a Cat

For some time now, I have suffered the quick intake of breath on the heels of sharp pain in my legs right above the knee.

I attribute it to the fact that my new kitten, Shoes, keeps climbing me. It would explain the lacerations as well. Thank God she is now old enough to get declawed, as my airbed is also deflating several times a day, now, too.

Last Saturday, I was in a local pub with LS, and a really attractive blond woman climbed me like a cat. She nuzzled me, purred in my ear and couldn't stay off me.

Now, between being climbed BY a cat, and being climbed LIKE a cat, I think I much prefer the latter.

Climbed Like a Cat

Monster on a Half-Shell

(from an email to an Ex)

.....whew, okay. let me see if I can tackle this one....

My intent in contacting you was simple: I knew we would eventually cross paths and I didn't want to dredge up the past. I am in a space where I want my life to move forward. I have learned a lot about myself, and about the dark rooms I wandered in for so many years. I cannot begin to tell you how many lights have been switched on. I didn't like what I saw. As long as it was shrouded in darkness, I could deny its power over me, and the fear and repulsion it engendered in others. I have come to understand in the last few years that I have been ill-equipped to deal with a lot of things. I have my demons, like anyone else. But in knowing about those demons, I cannot pretend they do not exist, simply because I don't want them to.

I am loathe to wallow in past mistakes, and loathe to reopen those wounds, but for the sake of clarity, I will say that I know I was a difficult person to be around. I was pathetic and depressed and unbalanced. I was eaten alive by fear and pain and confusion and insecurity. The dynamic of you and I together was created by both of us. I simply will not shoulder all the responsibility or the sequence of events, but I will take on the portions that belong to me. I should never have started a relationship with you, simply because I was still so broken hearted and lonely and wounded from my breakup with T. I was an injured child. It was unfair to you to lead you down that path with me. But as I said, I was not equipped to see that at the time. I only knew that there was someone who thought I was somehow special, and she came along when I felt like a useless monster on a half-shell. By the time the fog lifted, I was ensconced in a relationship and then allowed myself to feel obligated to continue, for fear that you would be another person on the list who thought badly of me. The result, as you know, was that those fears were ironically realized by that decision.

You represent 3 years of a profound learning experience, so yes--you are important to me. And yes, I have thought of you; initially with bitterness and pain and frustration, then with more understanding and compassion. Any residual betrayal or anger I felt toward you has long since vanished. That's part of the growth process--for those who are open to it. But that did not mean I excused myself from the equation. After forgiving you, I had to then forgive myself. I'm not entirely certain I have done that completely. But we are all human, and we have human shortcomings and it would be inaccurate to say that we were not both responsible for what happened. Our last days together were profoundly upsetting. I received information secondhand about things you said I did or said, that I know I did not. I had no idea where you were in your head--we had gone too horribly far to communicate in a healthy way. You knew where all my own triggers were, and you used them against me. I realize now that it was partly a defense mechanism on your part. You used the only weapons you had, because you felt cornered. I have been guilty of the same on many occasions. The chasm between us was built by many differences in our experience, our psyches and our individual demons.

But no matter what you may think of me now, I recognize that you are a person of value and quality, and you have a good heart and a potential for greatness. And I don't want to use my new strength to carry more burdens. I was constantly frustrated by the continual siege upon my psyche, brought by my battle with the VA, with a family who abandoned me, and an overwhelming feeling that I was blindly feeling my way through my life. I had great expectations for starting fresh, but all I managed to do was take the chaos with me. For as you know...the most formidable chaos is the one we carry within. And I could not run far enough to release myself from its grip. I was lucky enough to meet someone who was equipped to show me those things with a firm and loving hand, and am eternally grateful to her. We remain the closest and dearest of friends and I love no one more deeply than I love her. But I know that until I reach a space where I am at peace with my life, I cannot inflict myself on a partner on a daily basis. I would be bringing half a person to the relationship.

I have many things to build right now. Many roads to travel, and many ghosts to face. I am finally prepared to do that, and that's one reason I knew that I had to come back here. I had to make this place a place of possibility, rather than of doom; a refuge rather than a battlefield. I had to face these things head on, and be able to hold my head up and know that with all the mistakes I've made, others made mistakes as well, and I remain a person with something to offer. I just have to offer it in a way that does not suck the life out of those around me.

I am more content than I have ever been, and I do feel very much like this is the first chapter of a new book--the series that is my life. I can put an entirely different story on these pages. I can do nothing to change what was already committed to print in previous "books." It's a journey, and I am on it, now, without the old constraints. I can only hope the path will be more smooth than the last time.

I want to start LIVING my life for once. I want to be social, have fun, experience the pleasure of creation in art and writing and music, and I want to avoid those dark rooms that serve only to keep me bound within my own sickness.

I hope that answers at least some of your questions.

Peace.

Monster on a Half-Shell

Space Invader

It started out with me on my way to the grocery store, having awakened with no coffee in the house-a tragedy all on its own. I thought of that little coffeeshop down the street and thought maybe I'd stop in to check it out, so I brought what i lovingly refer to as my Tippi Tap Typer just in case.

Roscoe's Music and Espresso Café was a tiny establishment, but intriguing. It was time I tried to get out of the house a little and use my new toy in a different environment. I ordered a White Chocolate cappuccino and chatted with the owner for a few minutes, and then a young woman walked in. The first thing I noticed was that she immediately invaded my space. We exchanged pleasantries. The tiny coffeeshop was no bigger than most people's kitchens, and I tried to move aside, but she hemmed me right in, ordering his house blend.

The proprietor, Roscoe, informed her that he was just now making a new pot. She asked how long it would take, and he said just long enough for the water to run through.

"Could you give me some sort of idea, then?"

"Two point 3 minutes."

"Jolly Good," she exclaimed.

Jolly good? That's when it dawned on me that she had a British accent.

Roscoe started the brew and the Space Invader waited, turning a bit to examine a painting on the wall. She then would not let me get past her to sit down out of the way, so I just turned back around and stayed where I was. I don't think it was intentional. I noticed the Bible she was holding behind her, clutching it almost fiercely, standing erect, as if a recruit at attention. My first reaction was Oh great, a religious zealot. I was afraid she'd try to witness to me. Faith is a wonderful thing, but those who wander around with little else other than a Bible, are bound to launch into some religious tirade or hackneyed effort to save my soul. I had already noticed that my communication skills were suffering from caffeine withdrawals, so I didn't feel up to the challenge.

Then she did the inevitable witnessing. Thankfully, to Roscoe. "Have you ever read the Bible?

I understood him to say yes, but heard him counter with another book he had read, asking her if she had read it. She said no, there was much too much in her head right now… But she had realized that the Bible had everything in it she needed, about life and love and so on, and that we should read it, because it answers so many questions… I asked her if she had read The Seat of the soul for the same reasons. She said no, as he poured her cup and handed it to her. She carried her House Blend out to the patio and sat, lighting a Camel filter right next to the sign that read Thank you For Not Smoking.

Roscoe gave me a knowing look, and whispered, "She comes in here a lot…she's been in and out of institutions…she's staying at the halfway house up here…doing pretty well now…except that today, she seems to be British." I was surprised and intrigued. It was clear what the implication was, now. HE motioned me to follow and pointed out the front window. "See that tower, right over there between that building and the water tower is a halfway house for people who are…"

"Halfway?" I offered.

He smiled.

Three people come in, and I comment, "oh look out, you're getting a rush."

He laughs. The people order, one of them a lady who says she misses her coffee, as she is from "Coffee country." I engage her…ask if it's Seattle…she says another town in Washington, above Seattle and I tell her I'm thinking of moving to that area in May. She says what she doesn't miss is the dismal weather and I confess I love weather like that.

I put a five dollar bill on the counter, so that I won't forget to pay.

The Space Invader Zealot returns asking for a refill, saying, "I should think that this much coffee cannot possibly be good for the stomach." She takes her refill back out.

I carried my coffee and Typer out to the deck for a little fresh air and maybe morbid curiosity, so that I could be within earshot and eyeshot of her. She comments on what a lovely day it is, and I agree. Shortly, I hear her chuckle. I look up and she is smoking, smiling, and whispering a few words to some unseen table companion. I know then, she really is certifiable. She sucks on her camel filters, and makes properly British faces, laughing, obviously enjoying the repartee of the voices in her head.

I am intrigued enough to want to talk to her, but intimidated enough not to. How does one talk to a crazy person without sufficient psychological experience? What if I say something that screws up this reality she has created for herself? What if that little swim in the cerebral fluid garners me a proper British drowning? I move to the smoking section, situated at a picnic table behind her, lighting a cigarette of my own, and bend back to my writing.

A moment later, I notice Birkenstock knockoffs a few feet from my table and look up.

"Excuse me, " she says. "I am out of smokes…can I give you 50 cents for one, or something?"

"Oh, no, here," I give her two. "It's awful to run out when you're addicted."

"Isn't it though?" She returns to her table and lights up.

A young man approaches, asking about my typing gadget and I give him the sales pitch and he seems interested, then wanders back into the café. I wondered why he came outside just to ask me about my Typer. After he leaves, Space Invader turns around and says, "These are delicious cigarettes."

Delicious? "I'm glad you like them. Most people don't because they're menthol and lighter."

"Oh no, there's just enough menthol, and it doesn't last long, and there's this fruity aftertaste…"

"Yes," I say, while thinking, funny she would say Fruity.

Later, I go inside the café for a refill and while I wait, admire a portrait of a man who is playing harmonica. I comment on how good the painting is. Roscoe tells me it's by a local artist, and he knows the guy in the painting, played music with him for years. I see an old photo of Roscoe on the wall, jeans, no gray beard, but still a mustache, wearing one of those poofy down slicker vests, and a newsboy cap. "This is you, right?" I ask.

"Yes, a long time ago."

"I can see it's you. You have the Jack Kerouac look to you in this…you have this face that seems familiar…were you famous at one point?" I smile. "--maybe in a movie you might not claim?"

"No..." He laughs. "-- but I was in the movie they made here recently..."

"Oh, Billy Bob Thornton's movie?"

"Yeah, I got to play banjo a little."

Space Invader comes in and announces she is finished with coffee, and wanders back toward the halfway house. I finish my third cup, and settle the rest of my tab and tip him two dollars. He dubs me Customer of the Day.

Outside, I hear the now familiar laughter of the Space Invader. She is nearby, toward the road, probably standing there waiting to cross, and having a pleasant conversation with no one.

Space Invader

Passerby

(Published in the Arkansas Women's Journal)

I had begun the trek to my Expository Writing class that January afternoon, taking the high walkway in front of the campus bookstore, when my eyes flickered to the woman coming toward me. She was a frosted blond, middle aged, dressed professionally, and carried a soft side attaché. She held an ugly green umbrella over her head to stave off the light drizzle; the edge of the umbrella tilted just enough so that I couldn't see her face clearly.

These details swept into my brain along with a numbing suggestion that she was not a stranger, but someone I have known all my life. I looked away so quickly, caught up in my practiced apathy, that I was unable to get another look at her face, for fear she would notice me and that eye contact would result in a dreaded confrontation. My brain whirled away in a fantasy that she would see me and rush over to me, pulling at my sleeve, and tell me how very proud she was of my success at school, and of my courage in going back for a degree, and how sorry she was for the awful letter she had written when she excused herself from my life. And the fantasy evaporated abruptly when she passed by, and my heart thumped back into operation, and the veins in my neck seemed to swell, forcing the blood into my head.

I tried to catch my breath before I turned around to examine her as she moved away from me without pause across the red brick square below. Like a traumatized child, I stood there in the mist, trying to focus on her form before it moved too far away. It had to be her. But the green umbrella-- she would not carry a green umbrella. And the walk she never hobbled like that unless something happened. Unless she's had an accident of some sort since--I continued to watch her move under the canopy at the entrance of the student union, and beyond toward the parking lot, analyzing the reasons why it could not be her. She might have looked at me, but it was not for very long. I know, even though I was busy looking away. Maybe she didn't recognize me after two years. Have I changed that much? Maybe she didn't look at me at all, and that's why she kept walking. That's why she didn't react.

I stood there in my long, dark raincoat, the mist caressing my face, and wondered why it mattered at all. I wondered why I would risk being late for class for someone like her, who could not give me the time of day, nor acknowledge me as a valuable human being. How can a mother ignore her only daughter?

I checked my watch, and turned toward my destination again, refusing to take that additional glance my heart ached for. She's no longer part of my life.

If it was her.

Which I'm sure it wasn't.

Passerby