I was there. I saw it. I caused it.

And it was in those dwindling days of the empire that a new dance was born. Born of terror, in fleeing from hordes, barbarians, turn frock neighbors. It was born of thunder and lightening, as in those days great storms took root over the countryside weeks at a time. It was born of hunger, as the crops suffered pestilence and neglect, and their first fruits taken by mercenary soldiers with little to heed else their bellies.

I was one of those soldiers. The shear adrenaline, say of charging into a side street melee through a village crazed me for days. Coming down from the rush, I'd feel such damn hunger, I'd run through the unburnt fields to pick a' corn, sing a' song, pick a' corn all day long till my hunger satiate.

Mayhaps that's how it all began? There's no need to put myself in the center of things for any reason other than curiosity for cause and effect (its why I took up soldiering in the first place. The hitting of things then looking at how it was smashed up.

In the corn field, winding down from the rush of battle two days before, picking a' corn and singing a' song, I heard a' scuttering through the dense shucks. I dreweth my short sword and spat, hacking my way through with some seriousness, making my presence known with full gruff of creatures in greater portion than I would ever be especially in my unarmored state, nearly as naked as those knaves who go abouts getting plundered on our weekend retreats.

Slicing through and caught notice of damaged growth and there a few feet beyond spotted children, two and three hidden, huddled, shaking, mud smeared, tattered. I stared at them, my face with as much warmth as those idols in their town square after we knocked their heads off. Though somewhat absent from my present mind, I began to whistle a happy whistle. I tapped my sandal in the mud for a beat. I rolled my eyes and sheathed my sword. I unsheathed corn and played a mock flute for the children. They giggled hesitantly to each other and then at me. I took a piece of gold from my ear and tossed it to them. I said, "Boo!" quietly for the ghosts of their ancestors we'd unearthed in our sacrilegious zeal.

They looked at the gold, then back at me and one started to cry and shake her finger at me. She was angry. I said, "Then dance!" We circled each other, clearing a space in the corn, a circle. I took off my belt, dropped my short sword and various daggers and brushes. We continued circling, sizing each other up, a hawk to a pigeon, heads bobbing, a go-go beat beatboxed by the other children gathering, a dance unseen before crafted to meet the new aims of the neglected children. Neglected in home, hearth and now war, they would go on to be the greatest generation, regarding this particular dance.

That's how I think it all happened. I was there. I saw it. I caused it.

Gargadoodle. Do.

Sometimes you have to go with what you know. Its hard to go with what you don't know, because you don't know how to do it. It would be called a leap of faith, but in doing so, your leap is built off of something previously known. An entity or action with certain credentials. An offshore platform for bank accounts. A place to shout out loud with old friends, a den for the witches of Eastwick, or New Brunswick. Or a stick to throw for a certain hound dog mentioned in the last blog to chase down and chew upon...

...The ground gets softer with each step towards the creek. The whole area was once under water, from the winding of the waters path to a mile back up hill towards the cul d sac. Even up to a month prior, where we tread would have been ankle deep in water. The frogs still made their presence known, hopping from mud beds and into twigs, washed up leaves, tiny ferns and bramble. Footprints in the mud could belong to a raccoon, a badger, or perhaps the one we were looking for; a creature known as Gargadoodle.

She was long and tall and swayed like a willow tree. She wasn't Gargadoodle. But she knew of Gargadoodle. And I didn't care about Gargadoodle one bit. I cared about her. I wanted that deep hurt look she gave to stare into my deep hurt look I once craved to send back at the world, but now only wanted the balance achieved like that of the left and right hands of two'sies held tight.

You see, Gargadoodle was a ploy. To know him was to love him. And in loving him I became a vehicle for love to focus on my equal opposite. I hoped it was she beside me, both of us nearly ankle deep in mud as we came closer to the creek, our paddles packed tight in our waterproof bags, our inflatable raft lips ready to press against the mouth of our oxygen tank, our journey to find Gargadoodle on track.

Why Gargadoodle? The name, I mean? I don't know. I could always go back and find a different, less silly name. A more mature sounding name. A more sly, deft allusion to something reflexive showcasing my wit and literary might. But nay. My one day lady love out there will share a love of the name bespoken before. Gargadoodle. Do.

Or will be so...in the future!?

A hunting we will go, in our tuxedos, for in a moment's notice we may need to dance and sip champagne.

We're out in the wilderness. A slice of heaven, Parksdale, Missouri. A skyline from here to ya-ya. I bet those clouds go all the way up.

I was being stared at, as usual, by a hound dog. He was panting an easy going smile. He tried to maintain eye contact, and I with him, as we in the group munched cold chicken on the heated rocks, the opening of the trail within the over wise dense bushes, dense like a homemade pesto. Dense like a fire-brick pizza. Dense like a backyard game of hopscotch. The trail was dense like everything we left behind in old New York.

Except, it was a different kind of dense. It was uniform. It was in the natural world with a natural order. Sure, the backyard and stoop squabbles down 5th by the Bowery were if nothing natural. Natural to the area, to the squalor, the glint of sun off bricks, reflections distorted in show-room mirrors where person and product shown back in unified and deified light. Natural like the young girls flipping their hair at anyone with the fleeting attention that papa couldn't deliver between working night shifts and drinking away day shifts. Natural as the word "bupkus" spit between Spanish and Italian by men in shirtsleeves playing dominoes to beat the afternoon heat.

But we were in a real nature now. Natural as natural only in the density of the unification of what it was that made of the thing. Examples? Just go outside and breathe the fresh air, you termite. Stop burrowing into my bad writing for a taste. Its out there.

So anyway. Me. The group eating. The hound dog staring. Parksdale, Missouri. The sun was going down and we were getting sleepy, overheated in our tuxedos. Still awaiting word from the party ahead on whether to make camp and take out the partyfare, the champagne, the whistles and blowers and mad-cap laughs.

It was almost New Years. Did I mention that? Yup. Almost. It was a month away, and we were doing reconnasance to see if an outdoor hiking biddy party in tuxedos could be done for our farewell to the year 2887.

Did I mention it was the future? And we all had dog ears as a genetic mutation? And dog ears had us? And dogs were still dogs, but we could empathize more because we could all hear really good, and listening is the key to empathy? I think I forgot to mention those parts.

But its all true, nothing but the true, so help me Trudy.

Did I mention the hound dog was named Trudy? Or will be so...in the future!?

Did they have hobbies? Did they think about him? Cats.

That's why they call me bloggy Monday. Because I said so. Its the reason and I'm the rhyme. I'm the scheme and the dollar sign. I got deals that Cohen can't match, my optics latch to the latest catch and color me blind.

Its time to unwind with another installment of GC Subconscious.

Dog wind chime mutt strutt mcGoo.

If I could add one more element. Mountain man Wanted for Rodeo, Mixed Genre Beard-Oriented Confederate Send-Off, engagement, one-night only.

Shallow dissapear into the abysss. The shallow abyss.

Some people go into nature to leave the complications of the everyday and to meditate, perhaps seeking unity through the memories past that made up key moments in their lives. They need to leave the distractions for the unity of motion and intention in nature. And they do.

They do. I should. They go, I stay. Process of salt water in my veins, I'm ship on my mental sea in need of high tide while standing still I still rock along.

Oblong is the shape of my rear end from so much sitting, still my mind goes a mile a minute. In Euro, it would be a kilometer per three fourths a minute. In liters, in litters, a kitten hero arises, a cook, on Schemerhorn, not far Atlantic from me.

The management of the building didn't know what to do with the litter of backyard kitties born one cold December day. Many were given away, but one runt couldn't be placed with a decent home. So the little lady of the Management, Delorita, took in the baby cat. Named him TinTin de'Clawed. Made him a chef. Gave him lessons in pastries and rudimentary basting of meats. Told him that a good chef always tastes, a great chef spits up hairballs. It wasn't true, but the cat couldn't understand English, anyhow.

But he understood the showing. He understand the demonstrations and took to it like a substitute for cat nip. He chased the "laser pen" of knowledge all around the kitchen and through his years, learned all sorts; knife skills, herbs, soups, timing the courses, and of course, how to make friends with the mice so they stay away–for simply chasing them only leads to cartoonish behavior, and letting them be is nip for the health inspectors.

They were a team, Cat and Delorita. And they cooked! Mostly for family meals.

Many times cat looked out the window. Thinking about his brothers and sisters in their homes? What their lives were like? Did they have hobbies? Did they think about him? Cats.

the buzz of bees

A constant buzz was in the air. The flowers were full of them, but also the tall grasses, the beach sand, the low lit cabins at night. It was nearly the end of summer and like the bees, whose sound they emulate, the plants, trees, humans, even inanimate things were all getting busy.

I was in Cabin 9 with my new friend, Patrice. She was one score past seventeen. I found her milling about the supplies store with her cat in a bag peeking out. She'd seen a lot in her days and still loved to boogie down the aisles as the Isley Brothers played over the tiny speakers. There was little room for bass coming from those speakers, planted high on the ways, still Patrice swayed from corn starch to baked goods humming low notes to fill out the needs for the song.

I saw her in the check out line. I distracted an elder lady, pointing to the gum and slipped by to be behind her. Patrice saw my move, and when I put down the plastic bar to divide her purchases from my own on the rubber belt to the cashier, she took the bar in hand and gave me a smack on the arm.

At first alarmed, I then took one of my farm fresh eggs and threw it at her shoes. She laughed a deep and intense laugh, her tiny frame shuddering, her long, blonde curls thrown back with her body an arc to boom out her continuous laughter with force to reach through floorboards below and through my very shoes. A quake.

The quince paste? She rubbed in my face.

The mustard? I got on her skirt.

The kumquats? She made me do squats, bending low and taking a bite with each dip.

The cashier thought us crazy. We were. But not crazy enough to know how to get to the next place to elongate our craziness. We paid, offered to clean, but instead were pushed out by broom and it seemed we were buddies to be.

I flipped a coin. She caught it in the air. I said I didn't care and we'd go to cabin 9. We did. We made a feast of frozen things in the oven–which all came out spectacular. We made like the bees. We were busy. We played Yahtzee. She sneezed a few times, I took that as a mating sign. I dove for her and we made the most out of the dwindling sunlight, the summers final offerings in powerful scents and smells as the sensory world would again be shepherded by old man winter into the luminous final stages of the year.

We were people of the fall, anyway. Apple pickers. Tree climbers. Collectors of all things nuts. We were predisposed with a genetic understanding of winter and the shadow of death. We were star children betting on a place beyond death, though just below the furrowed brow, in some furrowed frontal lobe, we unconsciously understood that pain and suffering to get to the next astral plain would be unbearable. We were like onions. We felt compassion for them–that's why we cried each time cutting a peeling them, thinking of all the layers we'd sliced away, heated in the skillet of final agony, becoming translucent, ghost-like but oh so flavorful! All in order to make it to the next stage, the next showtime, the next performance if karma was a cooking show, surely we'd been through the prep stages. Surely.

But it wasn't up to us to name the time and place of presentation. It was the show's producers, the cosmos–and one got the feeling, especially while laying out at the beach dropping eggs on each other, pushing away the hungry hermit crabs and shooing away seagulls–that maybe the cosmos were askew. What if they hired the wrong host for the show of shows? What is said host wasn't ready with lines memorized, the corporal being prepared to deliver with conviction when the cameras began shooting?

Oh. It was illuminating and the purple from the night sea, the inky inkiness so apparent in the last chapters on the road; we succumbed in slumber and woke to find ourselves as ourselves, curious about this person wrapped well in our arms as ivy, shaken as whole milk to butter, the buzz of bees.

dirk storm strum the accordion.

On the life and death of Willard Oates. No, wait, on the life and death of Willard Oates. No wait. On the life and death of Willard Oates. No, not yet. On the sanctimonious sanctions on the life and death of Willard Oates, and Johnny Hasbeen. Hart strings hammer lock click bang. Sausage party, too many men, disruptions. No need to fight now, no need to right wrongs, no need to get by with all the caviar. Women heal women heal women heal. Heal toe, cha cha cha. Simple, elegant, secret element. soda fountain fought and fighting, hold the torch there's no more hiding hard up hamstrings no more running tired dirk storm strum the accordion.

so that would actually not be surprising there

Richard was on the mic, the spotlight beamed solely from his neck up. All else was dark. He wasn't doing well.

Yes, even the lighting guy turned on him after a series of bad puns and ill timed elbow scratches. Was Richard once again doomed to bomb? Was his life as a rising comedic star to be dashed? He had to think fast.

And that was his problem. He was thinking. He should have been doing. He wasn't seasoned enough a working comedian. In fact, he only had one good line but it took him far and wide. One one minute joke, and then nine minutes of fluff he could do nothing with.

That one line, more a curse than blessing. For years he'd been doing open mics on the lower east side. The night before (sometimes the hour before) he'd write on a cocktail napkin the five things wrong with a selected topic, usually found in a newspaper, in the trash, near the cafe the open mic took place. The crumpled quality and creases could make funny word play out of any metro topic.

And he was tolerated. By those also thankful to at least be tolerated, they laughed, and with unease. It was a sickening five hour weekly ordeal for all those involved, like a waiting room to a dentist who only stole a tooth a visit till the once bright-eyed and bushy tailed–still remaining bright-eyed and bushy tailed–looked a little crazy with gaps in their radiant smile.

Somehow, Richard got hold of one good joke about dogs and it stuck. The first time used,an October Monday, he started with a smile and a pause and spat it out. There was a surprise chuckle from those seated which echoed to the back bar. The chuckles spread like the chuckles of the Irish, with a twist at the end as if questioning the light fare of the humor, like the first time as a child realizing you could hear yourself laugh in your head verse laughing out loud, and then experimenting with the feeling and sound.

It was so good a joke that Richard got standing handshakes coming off stage. The top jokers actually put down their notes, which they only consult in between acts, and looked him in the face. It was a look of hard-earned, begrudged respect. A crowd of ten elders gathered, funny men who legend had it had sold jokes to cable tv shows. They asked him to do it again next week. Richard was if anything curious. He agreed, but still had to compute in his head what he did right. "Why so funny?" he wondered.

The next week and the week that followed he could do no wrong. They all waited for the one joke within his otherwise horrific list of zingers based on the summer city heat index. Each set he placed this golden egg in different settings within the otherwise rotten eleven; the top, the end, the middle, the middle-end, the top-top. He got to be a real craftsmen devoted to creating an arc to his act, to looking cold and hard at his lists and ask aloud, "Is this shit?" He started tweaking everything.

And then he got the call from Warner Brothers. Not "the" Warner Brothers, but Joyce Brothers brothers Warner and Timmy. I should have written Warner and Timmy Brothers, come to think of it.

Anyway, they wanted to book the act they heard so much about, had come to see a few times themselves. So they did. Gotham! Phil's! Gerties'! Comedy Madness! All the big venues, Richard did his act. And the people kind of loved him? He at least got by. They didn't mind the stink as long as the one funny joke acted as a breeze, fresh air clearing out all the stale jokes left behind from the night, from the day, from their own jobs, lives, lies, license to laugh.

Richard, again, was, if anything, curious. And he couldn't really take being a one joke man, simply because he wanted to know why. Why was it funny? Why was the rest of the material so bad. What is the secret formula that can be tapped and applied to make shit into gold?

He'd been told one must steal, beat, and break to get inside a joke. And he tried it all. At home he'd shut off the lights, draw the curtains and take out a gun. He'd hold it into the air and address the joke. He'd make his demands for the secret. He'd pull the hammer back and wait. Ge got tired of the approach day after day and decided to bribe the joke. He held up ham sandwiches, bottles of brandy, girlie magazines (the joke sections), but still nothing.

He'd write down the joke and think about each word. He'd rearrange them, retranslate them, sub in one for another. Still nothing was illuminated. And another gig was only a day away. He started to sweat.

Yeah, so back to the top. The spotlight is a guillotine. Richard knows his time is up. He's over thinking. He was told not to, but he can't stop thinking about not over thinking. So he does what any sane person would do, he over-over thinks with the idea that if the engine in his mind goes fast enough he can transcend time and space.

He wakes up the next day in 1955. Oh wait, it was New Years Eve, by the way. Of the year 1954, so that would actually not be surprising there. I should really edit this.

if they in fact had a happy ending, all of them, as stars.

They called her The One. She was followed by The Two and The Three.

They were former inmates at Sing Sing.

Not the prison, but the song. They were backup singers. They did stints in the 60s. Two week runs, six nights a week, five hours straight with forty minutes on and twenty minutes off.

They were last in Boston. A lot of mob bosses owned the clubs. They particularly liked the swing music and being an r&b combo, their group only knew one. So they played Sing, Sing over and over, five times a night, six nights a week.

The band had no horns. And that's when the singers stepped in to mimic the parts, hand motions and all. 1 = Gladys, trumpet. 2 = Ethel, clarinet/ alto sax 3 = Josephine, trombone.

Otherwise, they sang back up for Aretha type songs while Fats McGee played piano and sang, all the way from New Orleans to country western to cool jazz. Rogers on bass, Timmy on drums, Leroy on guitar.

Fats & His Tummy Rubs was the billing for they way they sang and presented the tunes in nightclubs across the northeast and down south.

At first the girls liked the gig. They were fresh-faced, had heard of Fats through the same church circles in which they themselves met; few times a year at pageants and youth conferences.

But you know how these things go. No? Well, I got to get back to practicing so without having to throw anything crazy in the mix, lets just say they all got along and became stars. All of them. They are remembered today as the Pointer Sisters (I'll have to go on wikipedia, read their bio and see if they in fact had a happy ending, all of them, as stars. But for now, lets go with it).

lighthouse on the lake shore up north

Ship-shape and shapeless at the same time, Bernadette swaddled her baby in a towel and headed down the main drag towards the pharmacy.

"I'll take two of these," she declared to the boy behind the counter. She held up a glass pacifier. The boy looked at the baby and then back to Bernadette.

"You want the glass ones, ma'am?"

"Yes, I do," she replied, "two of them."

Bernadette caught the boy's glances. She signed and moved through the aisles and racks of greeting cards and old folks rummaging. She picked up her paper bag, paid and left folding the receipt for her dress front pocket.

She walked Greene street towards the pier as the sun set, giving the baby boy a slight bounce on the cobblestone. She thought of her sister up north and the upcoming baby shower. She'd have to plan quick, take the train on a Thursday to make the most of the weekend. Baby showers in the bigger cities. She wondered if people brought their young children; would a baby ruin the surprise, dampen the anticipation and excitement when they start behaving as babies do?

She'd never had a baby shower of her own. She kept things quiet and liked it that way through the lean years and as the family gathered a little wealth unto themselves. Had a partner in her good husband, holding similar interests and hobbies. For one, she liked holding the bills on her lap while painting. Specifically, she enjoyed acrylics on the paint-by-numbers. She'd follow the instructions, sometimes mixing her own shades for a #1 blue, and giving a fade to the skyline with a little dab of orange and a smidgeon of white.

As she made her way to the water, a few stars out, the little one under her arm cooing, she thought again about her sister, the dresses they wore, the patterns they used. How different will it be? With Bernadette's oldest child just starting pre-school, the age difference could play out how between the siblings? Will they fight more or less? Will they share secrets? She always held an image of her sister as her pretty little thing, through it all and all. When they smiled together, strangers took notice, strangers that otherwise passed them by as two more children about their games.

"There are mines, and the jewels inside," went the night song they'd sing. Bernadette and her sister shared the room in those early days, their voices low hum, a beacon through the darkness between their beds. She'd sing and imagine the two of them going down a mine like in the Saturday morning movie she'd seen, and toiling and chiseling, flashlight helmets in the dark, finding ores of brightest green and orange and yellow. They'd chip away huge chunks of it. Not like jewels worth millions, but like the cookie chunk found in a sundae at Frannie's Homemade.

Down at the pier, she could smell the rain, a muddy lake water, catch a glimpse from the lighthouse on the lake shore up north.

dog, cat, mouse, broom; dog, cat, mouse, broom.

A writer is to their handwriting as an owner walking their dog.

I lifted that line from my old notebook. Now to tease it out. A dog's snout can sniff up a whirlwind of scents, but we, the owners, can't lay claim to the olfactory of our beloved animals. We can just see that they enjoy what they're doing. And vicariously, we feel joy in doing, sensing, the doggie busy-body.

Isn't that enough? You, the selfish, who would lay claim to both beast and burden? Let it go. Let them have their way. You don't need to micromanage your dog or cat with bird songs. You still have the dishes to do, by the way. And bills to pay.

And when winter comes along, if those bills aren't paid, are you gonna be able to afford Jordy's new four-leg sweater in the cold months, his once luxurious fur thinning out through his exponentially sped up doggie years?

Focus on your own olfactory. Take joy sensed through your own five. Stop stopping off at the hamper to huff on yesterday's merits. Stop climbing down the ladders you've risen just to rise again and admire the view of past competitor's receding hair lines.

These are the dog days of summer, I've been told. They are followed by the cat days of fall, chasing the mouse days of winter, and the mouse shits on the broom of spring that knocks about the dog, cat, mouse, broom; dog, cat, mouse, broom.

Coda

Soften the softener used in said laundry when you do finally wash out the clothes stored in said hamper of the past glories.

The dryer sheets of the mind add nothing to the design and cleaning the lint before is futile. Only clean after.

Sensory deprivation will get you no invitation to the ball. On the other hand, trying to own your pet's best senses will only get you invited to the pound.

Without construct, there is only missed opportunities to destruct.

Without a claim, you will still most likely be allowed to retrieve your dry cleaning. But its a hassle.