Swim the Depths

is there a need for more scuba diving rather than skimming over the surface.  Aren't we all superficial until someone dives in. 

At some point we stop being children, taking in all the information. 
Think of all the things everyone tries to teach us, where we take it all and make some determination. 

Is this how I’m going to lead my life?

How do you take someone into the rat race we're in? Give them that time.  A place deprived of lifes bombardment.  There comes a point when too much is too much.  We have to purge to survive. 

Life with another person can bring you to this point, in a divorce or break up.  Others don’t fit into the formula of further existence. 

First stages of a relationship are what you think that other person would do for you.  Over time the formula changes, the other doesn’t fit into the scheme. 

A superficial relationship is one taking a person to where they think they need to go.  He has money, he fathered my children, has great sex, he’s fun to be around, but none go into the formula of your core.  A perfect individual is one who relates to this core make up. 

Time, changes the picture of your life. Each day experiences influence your make up.  A wife raising a child,  stops getting stimulation.  she gets to a certain point.  A man going into a job, travels, experiences different environments, grows with everything seen.  Returning to her, shows him her limits.  Raising a child can be so rudimentary, only a few variances occur.  Day after day there are things but at some point a wall is hit. You can stop or you die.  Doing the same things is the beginning of the end.  Fight the familiar parts of your life, accepting anything that is new and different is stimulating. 

Hooking someone, like a fish in the water, pulls him from where he wants to go, out of the depths of the water.  You have to stay in the water to survive but being brought up to the surface you see an entirely different world. The deeper you’ve gone into the pressures of a level, the harder it becomes to move up.  You develop a capability to swim at a depth, and it's the only way you can survive.  Moving up to the surface, where less pressure makes you expand farther than you are adapted to.  You'd like to go there but your adaptation prevents you from existing there. 

Surface swimmer can’t go down to those depths either.  They can meet at middle ground but neither can venture for long in each other’s world.  If you don’t listen to your gut, swimming at a depth you're built for, you will break down, sickness, disease, illness all infect you.  Your decision to be some where you shouldn’t be, shortens your life.  Pressure blocks your ability to flow.  Age makes it difficult to override.  The incorrectness of your life path.  Your heart fails when you’ve gone too deep.

Coffee with cat

Height, shape, size, all aligned in her.  Blue jeans fit around her proportioned hips, a slight curve over her pockets. The smooth cliffs of her shoulders, her front not over stated, like the freshness of buds of a spring blossom.  Long strands of hair pulled back, dark with nothing astray.  Tip to toe the blink of all of her stood out in her presence.

This reply, marks an image of the flow coursing within her river.  Leather heels click upon the linoleum walking back to the counter from the back.  Below the La Cimbeli machine, the surface of the counter at the waist of her jeans, the brown leather belt accentuating the border of the dark gray tee shirt.  No waves ripple under the surface, her skin taint just below its surface.  The view plenty to see, as the right and left, work of the coffee machine progresses.  Every glimpse of the height of her middle behind the apparatus of her job, gives me plenty to write about.  In a V shaped cone, coffee pikes in, ready for grinding and another espresso.  A click of the lever, coffee grounds drop into the heavy metal press.  Split seconds the widest part of its cone, lines up with her eyes.  Further description is blocked by a couple between us.  As they move over, the V of dark beans is outlined by the white alabaster skin of her face and neck, the swoping neck line penetrated by the point of the cone bottom.  She snapshots my brain with a burn that will last.  My coffee is cold and the brown bag of my muffin is collapsed.

Prolong the day

Prolonging the day until the time comes; the bright light of death.  Hold off, it’s not time yet.  All the years have gone by, taking a little each day, some, more than other, depending on the indulgence, drinking, smoking, eating, drugs, athletics, exercise, environment, sun, cold, or jobs.   With stress or environmentally hazardous, all contribute to the early demise.

Time to look; it’s not too late to keep yourself on a path to a longer life.  Think of bombarding rays from an alien planet trying to end all existence with each deadly zap.  Not a dominate foe, his instrument of destruction is low voltage so each little jolt hardly noticed, cumulative it accelerates the door closing.

Work long hours, stressed with the need to perform, and no matter the consequences appear to be the only way to get the money, to live the life away from this environment.  I have to work like this; they pay me to do it.  By the time you get away, your tank’s so low, you’ve got to shut down to charge up.  Each refill never seems enough.  To justify the time, you need to overcompensate for the time away.  Play hard work hard.  What toll does it take on you? 

He worked fixing cars.  Skin on his hands, never pink and soft but dark with grease, seeping into the valleys of his finger prints, recessed below the soap he’d apply.  With no barrier, chemicals penetrated the epidermal layer, into his blood stream, coursing through his body, ultimately to his liver.  Everyday it filtered, cleansing the daily grim, until the residue removed by the amazing system, left in excrements.  If not in his hands, in the air these toxins came in, taken into his lungs thousands times a day.  Vital gases travelled across air sac membranes, directly into the blood stream, detrimental or vital made no difference. At the end, the livers filter became contaminated and broken.

 What ever goes in must come out.  Your choice is to find away to get what’s needed with as little extra as possible. 

The Coffee Shop

She leans over the coffee bean cabinet, 15 silvery chrome knobs, fastened to the plexiglass trap doors of each bin.  Lifting one for inspection, her eyes dip down into the chocolate brown beans, breathing aroma of the roasted mix.  Behind her back, fingertips pinch a white muffin bag and a black cell phone.  She’s ready to dip into the bag for a bite or push of the buttons to answer a call. 

In the corner the image of the roaster sits, no other piece of machinery has this indentity, a combination cement mixer, oven, turn table, all in one.  Out of the burlap bag marked Brazil, green beans are scooped into the coned top, sliding into the heating chamber for roasting.  Like a front end loaded washing machine, each bean tumbles to a deep roasted dark brown. Seconds before they're burnt the attendant lifts a large silver ball knob, then allows the baked beans to cascade onto a spinning round cooling table.   The fine edge where their  not done, to one too burnt, can be reached by the roaster handling the machine.  If he doesn’t use all of his senses and experience to get it right the finished product will be unacceptable.  Everything depends on his proficiency.

The flavor of the bean, the two rooms, the tables, the glass windows out the front, the individuals that sit, the girls who push the buttons on the cash register, the coffee pouring in the black and white ceramic cup sitting on the table next to me make it all different.  You don't find as many orders for drinks with five parts to describe what you get.  For me just Sumatra, Kenya, Brazil or other exotic locations are just fine for the cup next to me.

Everyone in this place has a reason to be here, they keep coming back, all the parts are good, attracting each individual to want to spend moments here, rather than any place else. 

 

Madeline

Her hands play the keyboard; fingers glide like the legs of a tarantula, gracefully the thinness of her digits, move from one side to the other, down till the contacts strike the circuit board, sending impulses to the screen.  A smile across her face flashes with her flurry of letters, waiting for a reply from the other end.  Closer to the screen her eyes move, an index finger touches the mouse pad, moving the cursor to the next spot.  She knows no one watches her, unconciously she picks at her nails, her cuticles, consumed with him, inside the screen of her laptop.

 Am I wrong, what she sees, eyes frown, a hand on her forehead, as she reads. Clenched fist, bent elbow, palm resting on her chin, clasped fingers over her mouth; not believing what’s there, her hand opens, touching the surface of her forehead. 

Both hands jump down to the keys, five seconds progress as letters move across the screen with each stroke. 

I've written sixteen lines about her, without knowing who she is. Does she remain anonymous to me?  Do these moments remain hers?  If I said something to her would she be invaded?  Am I stealing her privacy from her?  If she never knews she will never know she lost it.  How will she react to what I’ve done?  Would she even care?  Would she be flattered that someone had taken the time?  Let it go. 

Dropping my cup in the dirty dishes container next to her, excusing myself, she looked up from the screen.

“I’m sorry but I must tell you, I’ve stolen some moments with you.” She was flattered not offended. Asking about what she was doing, she said.   It wasn’t a relationship; it was about linked in, a network of acquaintances. 

“Are you a writer?”  “I guess I am. “

“My name is Madeline.” ” Do you go by Maddy”  “that too.”

“I’m John, thank you for letting me write a half a page about you.”

She's more than before, a name, a face, a smile, of a girl that strikes a chord in me.  A river of beauty that you could swim in. 

Fingers of a tarantula, a little rough, they bend and move as the sculpture in the pond of the Como conservatory.  They are not straight, rigid, angling in.  Each joint flexing opposite, flicking, extending up till they touch down on the surface of the plastic. 

Maddy is more than before.  Short blond hair, red rimmed glasses pulled up on the top of her head, a black sweater clinging tight to her shape, highlighting in contrast against the jacket over her shoulders.  As soft in front, as from the side, I got lost in her, too much to handle.  I had to go before I was too much for her. 

“Thank you for the moment and the half a page.”

 “You're welcome.” melting with the sound of her voice.

 My back burned from her eyes looking at me as I walked away.  Now wishing I took one last look back to get another glance, maybe a smile just for me.  She trenched a dendrite in me; she lingers to return at another time.  A time for a serendipidous event.  Her shiny surface was as bright below as what I saw.

 

A different speed

For a friend, I purchased a gift card at a local coffee shop.

After the cashier activated the Christmas gift card, placing it in a holder, she had to put it in an envelope.

This challenge presented itself, the speed of the envelope the card had to go into, was not equal to how fast she had been all day.

Fiddling with the exercise, she figured to complete it, a down shift to the next clip had to occur.

Within second she reevaluated what she was doing in order to get it done. Moments added to the total time since she slowed down. Once finished, she looked relieved, handing the envelope with its contents to me.

I smiled, saying. "It seems the envelope was not at the same speed as you were."

She felt my sympathy and smiled back, saying, "I think you're right on that."

Stella, Stella

Shut your ears tight against this blarneying Irish liar and actor. Read no more of his letters. He will fill his fountain pen with your heart's blood, and sell your most sacred emotions on the stage. … He is treacherous as only an Irishman can be: he adores you with one eye and sees you with the other as a calculated utility. He has been recklessly trying to please you, to delight you, to persuade you to carry him up to heaven for a moment (he is trying to do it now); and when you have done it, he will run away and give it all to the mob. … Oh dont, dont, DONT fall in love with him; but dont grudge him the joy he finds in being in love with you, and writing all sorts of wild but heartfelt exquisite lies — lies, lies, lies, lies — to you, his adoredest.
G.B.S.

The Hero's Luck

Lawrence Raab

 

When something bad happens
we play it back in our minds,
looking for a place to step in
and change things. We should go outside
right now, you might have said. Or:
Let's not drive anywhere today.

The sea rises, the mountain collapses.
A car swerves toward the crowd
you've just led your family into.
We all look for reasons. Luck
isn't the word you want to hear.
What happened had to,

or it didn't. Maybe
the exceptional man can change direction
in midair, thread the needle's eye,
and come out whole. But even the hero
who stands up to chance has to feel
how far the world will bend

until it breaks him. He can see
that day: the unappeasable ocean,
the cascades of stone. A crowd
gathers around his body. He sees that too.
someone is saying: His luck just ran out.
It happens to us all.

The Fall

Gypsy was a furry, wheat-colored collie, who lived and played on a ranch – several hundred acres of hills and woods, full of good things like rabbit trails and streams. She loved it there. At the ranch house she was given a comfortable bed and good meals. Her Master, who owned the ranch, made no unreasonable demands on her. She knew that her job was to love her Master and to be faithful to him and to obey other commands – to follow, to come, to lie down. And she also knew that she wasn’t supposed to chase the chickens and the rabbits. Actually these were easy for Gypsy, because it was in her nature to obey and to love her master.

But one day when Gypsy was prowling on a hill far away past the spring house and pasture, two things happened at once: the Master called her and a rabbit dashed across the hill. Gypsy turned and raced towards the Master, as she had always done. Then she stopped. It entered her mind that she didn’t have to obey. Perhaps the Master didn’t understand about that rabbit. Anyway, these were her hills. The rabbit was hers, too. Very likely it was all lies – that story of everything, including herself, belonging to the Master. How did she know that the food in her dish came from him? Probably there was some natural explanation. She was a free dog and that was the end of it. These thoughts went through her mind swiftly while she stood irresolute. Again came the Master’s command; the rabbit crossed the hilltop. Gypsy whirled and raced after the rabbit. She had made a choice. She was free to choose.

Hours later she came home. She saw the Master waiting for her, but she did not rush gladly to him, leaping and frisking as she had always done. Something new came into her demeanor: guilt. She crept up to him like a snake on her belly. Undoubtedly she was penitent at the moment. But she had a new knowledge – the knowledge of the possibility of sin – and it was a thrill in her heart and a salt taste in her mouth. Nevertheless she was very obedient the next day and the day after that. Eventually, though, there was another rabbit, and she didn’t even hesitate.

The Master still loved her, but he trusted her no longer. He put Gypsy in a pen and took her for walks with a rope around her neck. All her real freedom was gone. But the Master gave her from time to time, new chances to obey of her own free will. Had she chosen to obey, she would have once again had perfect freedom to roam her hundreds of acres. But she did not. She always chose, if she were out of reach, to run away. The Master, knowing that hunger would eventually bring her back, let her run. He could have stopped her. A rifle shot would have ended her rebellion once and for all. But she was allowed to live. Perhaps she would someday choose the way of obedience and true freedom.

One day, during a journey by car, Gypsy and her young daughter Flurry were taken to the edge of the woods. Always before, Gypsy had limited her disobedience to the ranch. But now, coming back to the car, she suddenly felt the old thrill. She turned and ran away. The Master called with a note of sharp urgency. Flurry, in her innocence, came at once. But Gypsy, her ears dulled to the voice of the Master, continued her rush into the dark forest. After hours of searching and calling, the Master sadly abandoned the lost dog and with Flurry beside him, went home.

Flurry continued to live in freedom, always being obedient to the Master who loved her and took good care of her. She was happy to be in his service and she loved the look on his face when she did something that pleased him. She obeyed gladly of her own free choice.

But lost Gypsy, as long as she still lived, wandered the woods and roads as an outcast. She had lost her way home. She became dirty and matted with foxtails and thorns. Stones were often thrown at her and she was always hungry. She had more puppies who, like her, were lost and inclined to disobedience – as were their puppies for generations to come. The kind and benevolent hand of the Master was unknown to them, except as a tale.

But this is the way Gypsy chose, and continued to choose, until finally there was no more choosing left to do.