Sugarcoat and the snake lunges faster and harder.

  It's been the experience of some. 

  Jump to defend and be the first proven wrong. 

  There's real "pinch" in sword clashing. 

  There's also a wild ride in the creativity of showmanship. 

  There is sometimes utter disappointment when someone cannot un-be themselves. 

  And while most people have lived through life and death situation, not all have fought.  Not all have walked away.  Not all have struggled through not doing that again.  Not all can see, maybe the bar should be raised. 

  As a writing-type I can understand well that there are challenges in narrative and "the show" that seem like bleak days in prison where not much really happens; or some character is dead, (i)now what?(i); or how in the world does an author get readers from point x to points elsewhere in the alphabet?!  

  But I can also understand how real men and women are not just pins in a map, not just stickers in a sports or political book. 

  I think that sometimes in the nation stories of the whole big history-in-the-making there are leaps made just to keep the story going until tomorrow.  Some people, for example, don't have the capacity or platform to get all thesis about strategy or deep explanation, so they point out highlights or insert bullets of text and talking points.  A recent foreign election--(i)first time since the nazis!(i) 

  Oh, the images conjured by the reference.  Oh, the deep feelings of revulsion for all of humanity.  For being human.  For having to vote.  For voting whether or not we want hate to rule the day.  Such talking points serve to make people stop listening.  But there's a bit of breath held in that much defending or allowing/permission some not-me humans that much power over weapons and communications.  

  Fish on hooks sometimes with media. 

  And preference to understand the real people even as we are swept along in ethereal currents of political proportion. 

  Writers often rip and crumple, stomp on and hide pages of writing.  Then sneak back and re-consider, or, burn/delete, or put away chunks of idea made manifest in text and script. 

  Politics and media have similar processes. 

  Masses of people engaged in the same movements produce. 

  "I am asking you to think about what you are doing right now!!" An on-the-way to being an academic-in-action woman finally unbunged her theoretic brain and just said it.  (i)Critical thinking(i) defined. 

  "That's what you meant? By all this?" A rolling suitcase of research and think and writing/talk (i)about(i) had been piled on a desk.  The desk held up.  Someone gasped at the emperor with no clothing.  There was a palpable release of emotion attached to and associated with that much scholarship being performed so....(i)simply(i).

A sizzling sound, a pop, and thin smoke behind the glass of

  the entryway. 

  "Bedbugs?" Someone joked to a reporter whisking her own hair further away from the (i)development(i). 

  "Is that a wig?" 

  A tongue stuck out instead of an (i)FU(i). 

  "I really think we should get away from this building," a supercalm team lead said as if reporting the score of the weekend's football game. 

  "Why here?  Why this County?" A person charged with the task of generating questions was like a popcorn machine after an energy drink. 

  "And why is the front entrance of this territory literally burnt up?" 

  "Is this a territory?" 

  "Looks like it used to be a school or something." 

  A trash can flaring up into a blazing fire had even more people backing away from the building. 

"Stop. Just stop crying."

  A throat clear, "Wait." The man in a trench coat with ballet shoes around his neck like a locker room towel issued the order to a chaffeur of a Chevy.  "Why you cry baby?" 

  It was a headful of impressions.  All of us, ten, fifteen years on.  Mostly ahright, a little worse for the wear, with a lot a heart, darkness closing in, and this, now, (i)this now like an eye of a storm(i), she said raising her eyes up to him. 

  "Well, it's a funny thing.  People have historys, or herstorys, with themselves and with each other," the man had picked up the eyeglasses smushed into the matted grass and slight mud and was endeavoring to explain.  "And that's why people can't stick together?" A strong hand took the glasses.  "Any fingerprints on them?" Asked the person who did a cast of the bootprint over the smushed glasses.  This was checked.  Photographed.  Handed back.  Dirt rubbed off on a shirt bottom. 

  "Maybe it was because we were brainstorming." 

  "On what?" 

  "A script.  We want to look at the saga of Russian revolution up 'til now, post Soviet Union." 

  "That's what you young people were up late talking about?" 

  Nods.  "And then we got blitzed." 

  Someone else well versed in the history of war was quick to point out that getting roughed up was not a blitz.  "Well, we were asleep so it felt like it." 

  "Anyone missing?" 

  "Some people got an early start." 

  "You think they took human shields?" 

  "It's a complicated topic.  More so at some times more so than others." 

  "Break it down." 

  "The tent?" Another person came over and asked. 

  "That too.  I need to know what you mean." 

  "A lot of hardcore diplomacy depends on where the fronts are hot and cold.  And, well, in some fields of work, people have to pay someone for safe passage or the people in a zone can be considered captured or hostage or used as human shields." 

  Faces drained pale. 

  "We should get to our destinations." 

  With that the barbeque was concluded.

"What are your questions?" A moderator asked of

  our little bunch.  Mostly colleagues but also a couple strangers.  Strangers with some of the shared basic credentials for (i)intellectual conversation(i).  A girl decided from a little list and explained, "Before we got switched up again as groups, we were really getting into motivation factors." Everyone was thinking about war.  So we have questions like, (i)Why harm someone?(i), and (i)What's your future seem like it might be(?). 

  The questions were delivered into another room of tables like fresh meat. 

  Some goofy, overtired moments.  Someone started singing "We are the world," and someone spewed from what had been the Soviet Union sang, (i)We are a tink tank(i). 

  And spontaneous letloose talking like grappling hooks.  "So you say billions and billions of peoples but each on their own for getting money and food?!"  An American not yet attached to an org or corp gulped.  "Yep." 

  People exchanging articles of clothing as currency.  "Have a date night?"  

"It's really about each person before the Lord," the priest said

  somewhat distracted by the flash bulbs of the crime scene photographers and the flared up disgust of the detectives who'd stayed.  Many refused to enter the desecrated seminary. 

  The parish had grown and with that growth had come ideas about community and divisions around the application of church. 

  "It's about the Sacraments, church is really about the Sacraments," a nun in an old fashioned black habit had wrestled open a locked closet and retrieved a mop and a bucket.  The children told to stay with the holy people were magnetized and asking questions.  There was a feeling of a dam having been broken and all the people being like logs floating off and getting crammed against an unfamiliar shore. 

  "I blame this on the Jesuits." An organ player in a sweater and dress slacks waited for the photography and gawking to pass to the next practice altar before setting a tipped over holy candle upright amidst the spraypainted symbols and street objects arranged on the slab of cement.  "How so?" Another sister in a more light colored habit put a cardboard box on the floor near the now-defunct altar.  Even before they'd entered the vast basement of praying places they'd been instructed to consider the site just a building that needed cleaning up.  "I'll say," said a captain of a nun in pajamas and an overcoat. 

  "Is this what you were writing?" A woman from a different program held up the notebook and asked. 

  "Maybe." 

  "What just happened?" Another person rushed into the wooden-walled room and asked. 

  Sighs and the plunking of book bags onto metal chairs in a circle. 

  "People can't even agree on the meaning of the word (i)dog(i) so how in the world can they uphold Academic tradition?!" 

  "We're at war again." A Veteran announced. 

"Hold it right there robot."

  "I prefer humanoid.  

  I prefer humanoid. 

  I prefer humanoid." It kept "saying". 

  Two EMTs helped the person off the gurney. 

  "But I can't join if I don't give my biometrics," kind of whined the young man. 

  "What all did you stab with these?" An MP asked a nurse who appeared to be human but faded of vitality.  The nurse showed, still full. 

  "That's why I invented this," said a woman tasked with safety, group safety, and so nation safety.  "What is it?" A consumer report writer asked.  "Can I get a volunteer?" The woman joked.  She put a patch of fabric on her wrist and turned up the sound on a wireless monitor.  People ooooo'd and ah'd and someone asked, "But what about hackers?" 

  The inventor didn't miss a beat, "Good question.  I have more thinking to do." A subdued round of applause came from people both protecting their own inner circles and charged with guardian/service  jobs. 

The often-amazing cycle of human interaction with nature.

  Sign flashes FEMA working on waterways! 

  Another hat in the ring.  It's an additional layer of administrative guidance in a complex web of caretaking.  People in WNC carekeep a lot of forest area. 

  This endeavor involves locals and visitors/guests.  All people with varying degrees of skill and talent and interest. 

  "Did you know?" Great conversations often start with little jostlings.  People cramming into tight task schedules, kinda feeling each other out with antennae.  (i)People of the past built the little hatchery spot with shaking water.  And this?  This frees up some of the eggs that mama fish are nesting inside.(i)  The "shaking water" spot is in a creek or a brook; a cement pad/square often submerged in the running water just like the ancient rocks smoothed by the flow. 

  "Different kind of running water," a person explains of all size trees tipped over on the slopes of the mountains.  (i)Saturated soil often atop rock and affecting the earth in between tree roots.(i) 

  "And the people cleaning the campsites?  Is all this work coordinated somehow?" 

  "It is."  

  "Go slow so I can take a picture!" 

  "For tradespeople, well, it's actually more than a courtesy to take pictures of any jobsite," the woman explained diplomatically by way of introducing a young person to a construction crew.  "Why?" 

  A leatheryneck'd man went into a story-of-the-day-so-far which involved crew getting arrested on the way to work; two too hung over to work; stolen materials that hadn't been put up overnight; stuck with not physically strong workers not off on service duty somewhere.  

  "So, now behind schedule?" A writing/photography team asked.  The man sighed, and let his head hang, frowning.  "Did you know that a lot of the people, clients and workers had to take some time off to re-schedule everything?" 

  "We can't do that." 

  "Independent?" 

  "Not public, more private, but not a corporate thing, but we of follow the 'cane money." 

  "Cane money?!" 

  "Hurricane's create budget cycles." 

  "Do you know if it's the same budget as the Department of Agriculture?" 

  "Why?" 

  "The States are working within the department spheres on account of hot war Overseas." The person covered mouth.  "Not sure if that's (i)classified(i)."  People tiredly stared at a campfire. 

  People approaching.  Coordinating types jumping out of saggy, sunbeaten camp chairs.  "Ag?" 

  "Interior." 

  "There's more of you guys down three sites." 

  At certain parts of the process it's easier on people tasked with transcending personal politics to rise to the challenges of administering resources to not "relax" together.  And of course, mix in the tiles of War Department into the tile puzzle of function and there's stuff that cannot get talked about in a general crowd. 

  It's a professional American tide change when parties and religious forces and a participating "public" all have to accomplish a goal.  And some people think big even as others micromanage and still others fight for some modicum of "independence". 

  The best of great work hard to explain themselves.  It's not necessarily "politicking" especially when systems get rearranged into a good amount of bid work and contracts. 

  "Furthermore, I looked at the statistics.  You hot young ones and the cougar over there are in the minority.  97.5% of the men here are (i)married(i)." Eyebrows were going up, lips frowning and sort of snarling, and a few people dropped heads in hands.  "I'm gonna call her out on the statistics," said a magazine writer.  "But you're not in the Forest Service, how would you know the stats?" A young person asked. 

  "Where's she getting the half a point from? I wanna know." 

  "None of this is the point.  Why can't we get to the point?" 

  "Oh the drama." 

Sweater guy was always finding stuff.

  Some girls had dragged an old rifle crate into the woods so he could put stuff he found in there. 

  An older sister in one of the really big families slingshotted a stone at his back once he walked left at the vine sculpture.  He didn't turn around.  She shot one at his ankle.  (i)OOOWWWwwwah(i), he dropped down to rub the ouching bone.  Two guys came close, pushed him over, and picked up the glove with blade fingers.  He didn't fight back that time. 

  The old battering ram actually worked.  A lot of people stormed in.  Bursts of chuckles-at were met with salient points reaching targets. 

  Team lead picked a middle kid to seize the contraband.  Kid stepped forward and shoved the helmet out of eyes.  "Give us the script David." Guy looked around the room like he wasn't David.  Like he wasn't sitting on the script.  One older to middle kid said, "Yeah? Yeah.  God's the author of this soul.  (i)Not you(i)." 

  The holed up gang (i)ooooooooo'd(i).  "Bet that news hurts John." 

  "Wait isn't that David?" Someone asked. 

  Another older to middle kid growled.  Eyes sought a face. 

  Another kid approached the stolen Church folding table throne.  "Gimme the sweater and I'll try to convince all these good people here to let you keep the script." 

  He put finger under chin and wondered out loud, (i)hmmmmmm(i), and then slammed an open palm on the table top. "NO!" 

  "SCARED YA!" Another boy said to the room rushers. 

  While smaller kids joined forces to rally into "Did NOT", an older teenager threw up a palm and started drawing pass-plans above most peoples' heads.  A guy looked at that, fished a fistful of newspaper rubberbands out of a jeans pocket and tried to aim for the sitter's face.  It hit a known-to-be pretty serious guy's shoulder.  He brushed off his shirt where the projectile had (i)whapped(i) and bounced. 

  The sitting guy rose and pointed to the door.  "Everybody (i)OUT(i)!" 

  One of the smallest kids crawled under the table and swiped the pillowcased script. 

"Your PROBLEM at the moment," a man tapped a manila folder,

  "Is that," folder whipped open, two photographs revealed, "That little person is (i)not(i) African.  And that weapon or whatever in Hell (i)this(i) is," the photograph was ripped unstapled from the folder and held in front of a face that had rolled cocky eyes and looked away, "What spoiled the beauty." 

  An arm around a little person by another little person and a vanity mirror handed between women. 

  "Ready?" 

  A bated breath nod, quick. 

  And staring at the reflection.  

 "No scar." A guardian-parent rubbed two shiney lucky pennies together.  "Now we go.  Work s'more." 

  The little person took the hand of the guardian-parent. 

"Daddy couldn't watch," the little girl told.

  A few good women and men were still floating around the rooms of the home, cloth tape measures hanging on them, sniffing the aroma of coffee in the morning. 

  "He was sleeping," Sherry assured. 

  Finger pointed at, "(i)They even put zippers on some of Nana's old dresses." 

  "Good as new." 

  "The weather girl's here Daddy!" A little boy in a suit whispered something to the man still in his pajamas.  Other kids demanded to know the secret.  The man started laughing and stifling the laugh at the same time.  "He said," laughing to hard to talk, "She's the first one that, that," he sat up straighter and his belly button disappeared behind the buttons, "She's the first one that doesn't sound like a husky." 

  On the way to shower he said, "I think we should let the kids interview her." 

  "So, Diane is it?" 

  "DamBIT." The hat full of coins dropped onto the cement porch floor.  Kids in Sunday clothes scrambled every which way after the rolling ones.  A penny landed on the baby's foot.  Wooden spoon windmilling in the air, (i)You kids, I mean it now, put all the money back in the hat.  We don't need those peoples' money.(i) 

  "DAHT HAHT," the long black finger pointed at the flopper.  The black woman had turned at the waist from where the top step had tripped her up.  "STUPID STEP!" One little girl admonished the step.  

  The whole week had been a landslide since we missed the Odd Day for getting gas.  By Sunday Daddy made us walk to Mass.  Even though the Mass was Holy and we got blessed, the quietness of the growing-town-sometimes spooked us.  By the time a third black person dressed in white stepped out of bushes we'd passed Daddy got hushed for being paranoid and then coo'd with a (i)don't want you to scare the kids(i).  "I'm scared Daddy," arms on hips then crossed and a shake of the pigtails had him picking up the baby girl.  "That one's walking funny," a brother said like a ventriloquist.  "Nobody look." 

  On the fourth day of the half a woman (since the second night) being on the steps, we thought she was asleep.  Mama's barefeet snuck her towards the mailbox.  A hand shot out from the full-breasted torso and clamped around her ankle like a shackle.  Most everyone screamed. 

  Mama's not strong yet again heart showed on her face to be sloping down to her stomach.  One kid (i)whooped and shazamed an Indian holler(i) walked as if on the high diving board, faster almost running, then launched to another kid's, "AIM FOR THE POOL!!!!!!"  Hand let go of Mama and caught the kid.  Threw him like a spider monkey.  Others crept from inside the house and shouldered mama inside.  

  A gloved hand with blade fingers caught the sun near the pine tree. "That's the sweater guy," a taller but younger kid kept a hand on mama's shoulder so she wouldn't get up.  Mama reached an icy cold hand up and put the corner of the brown curtain over her face.  "Why you doin' that Sher?" A kid asked.  "Embarassed I got scared," she said. 

 "I'll use my 'lowance," a kid put a coin in an empty cut up Janitor In O' Drum bucket.  Opened the fridge.  And poured a shot glass full of orange juice.  "Daddy's," kid told the fridge guard.  "But mommy needs some." 

  "Make her drink it," one kid in underwear and a big leather belt with a GI Joe knife sheathed ordered.  Kid padded back to the fridge.  Another coin dropped through the masking taped slit.  "What's that for?" The guard demanded to know.  "A little scissor birdie tole me the nurses are back from overseas.  I'll wait to give them some." Guard shrugged and bit at calloused skin where a finger nail had turned black and fallen off. 

  Kid went out the back door after unlocking seven locks. 

  A coughing and (i)weeeee-ing(i) sound outside had people peeking.  The half woman was sitting up and sipping the OJ.  The kid had put on a wool nurse's cape and nurse's hat. 

  On the fifth day Daddy put a bathrobe over the half woman when she was snoring hard. 

  And the seventh day was almost over when mama got an idea.  "Is it a Lucy idea lady?" A friend of the fridge guard asked.  Mama frowned.  "You bigger boys better stay away from (i)my(i) daughters." 

  "Which ones are yours?" Asked a boy in dyed black overalls. 

  "All these are mine," she waved a big spoon at all the children and licked the last taste of brown sugar from it.  "Good to know," the boy put his thumbs in the overall suspenders and locked his hands together. 

  She lashed together all family bathrobe ties and tested it as a lasso. 

  

Somebody or sumpthin' fired a shot.

  "At a song?" 

  It would be hard to explain the depths of where we'd come from. 

  "I like a challenge," a voice expressed (i)willingness(i) to know.