Before we really started talking over shared crab cakes and ice water Madeline was distracted.  "Do you smell that?" 

     "The crab cakes?" 

     She dialed into the restaurant and zero'd in on the source of the smell.  "I'll be right back," she said and wiped her mouth with the cloth napkin and tucked it under her plate.  Then she crossed the room and approached the piano. 

     A man was standing near the pianist, talking and smoking.  "Excuse me," Madeline said.  He didn't turn around or stop talking so she tapped him on the shoulder.  "Excuse me, but"

     "Ye-ass?" The man turned and asked.

     "But this is a no smoking zone." 

     "Oh it is?" The man took a drag and asked in a mouthful of smoke. 

     "Yes, since Thursday." 

     "Oh, I see." The man sucked hard at the cigarette. 

     "Look around.  No ashtrays.  Nobody else (i)smoking(i)." 

     "Well, I guess so," he said when he looked around.  "I'll see you there," he emphatically taped the top of the piano with an open hand like it was a baby's butt.  And left. 

     "Just a fan," the pianist said.

     Madeline came back to the table and put her napkin back on her lap and explained how she hated that people smoke.  Because people die from smoking.  And they'd worked really hard to get the restaurant to agree to no smoking.  Later in the night she had a visit from the chef who went and got the GM who crossed his arms and said, "No, we really haven't lost all our customers," as Madeline considered the bill and tip.

     She reported to me that she was receiving "strange reports" from down South where we'd all been.  I slurped my water to get down a bite of crab cake and think to myself, "Hmmmm...what should I say or not say?" And kept drinking the water as she started peppering me with questions.

    "It saddens me," she said as I stabbed at a crab cake with a three-tyned fork.  "It does?" 

     "And," 

     "Yes?" 

     "Do you know where the mule is?" 

     "I did." I stuffed most of the crabcake into my mouth and chewed real slow.

     "Did?"  She folded her napkin slow and tucked it under the plate again.  "They're moving it around.  Like a lot of things.  Drugs and women and children, weapons, and, and," she was waving a man in a suit over to the table, "And even our Nationsl Guard!" 

     Both people looked at me out of a quick greeting embrace.

"They have sports, we have school."

     "Here are your shoes Madeline.  At least, that's the bag that was in the backseat."  She came out of the restroom tucking her slippery shirt back into a skirt.  "I think I'll leave my sneakers on." No one said anything.  "Keep up with our youth!"  A finger point into a sweater vest.  "We do still have Academia in common, correct?" 

     "Yes m'am," he looked out the window at the City. 

     "Can you imagine if nations talked to each other like that?" Still processing going for Victory "like hogs at a feed."  

     "Well, to be fair," my mind struggled with exhaustion, "In the bitter end, the ticket's whole and most people stormed off (i)to heal(i).  That's what my own Daddy said to Mom's (i)the truth will set you free(i).  Daddy said, "Let the healing begin." People plucked hot dogs from the grill left behind by a couple with ten years of stuff they haven't seen in ten years." 

     "I want to hear about everything, but we should eat.  Then people who need to sleep, can." 

    "What do you make of this Mr. W?" He jumped at my loud, interruptive entry, and his pen slid and "now it looks like I've flubbed.  Which I have not." 

     "Yep, it looks like you did, so I guess you did.  Of course, you can blame it on me." 

     The Pastor's face frowned a little.  "What are you asking about?" 

     It was a passage in Ezekial.  Chapter 12ish.  He read it.  He blinked it into the dense prophecy stuff he was studying and writing about in a stare over the kitchen table.  "It's not the same as worshipping false gods.  More like," he thought.  "Like God saying that because Israel is the Promised Land and where things will culminate (i)in the end times(i) some of the Jews were feeling entitled." 

     "What's that?" 

     "I just learned the concept myself." 

     I let that justify, (i)can't explain right now(i).  He frowned.  A lot on the plate.  "All right, so what I mean it as is," the Eight Day clock hit high noon.

     "Being ingrates?" 

     "Hmmmm.  Sort of, or like taking God's previous promise to them for granted.  Kind of assuming exceptionalism." 

     "Like lawyers and politician's (i)above the law(i)." 

     He put his glasses back on and didn't want to confirm that analogy.  I pressed on.  "Mr. W., We've got a problem." 

     "More than one looking at all these thunders-to-come." 

     "We're training people up to fight evil and a real enemy.  One of my friends just went over to and came back from the Middle East.  But we are becoming very violent." 

     "What did you hear?" 

     "Somebody's grandmother Linda Mac-Manned her husband." 

     "Not familiar with that phrase." 

     "She clocked him or cleaned his clock or, she punched him!" 

     "Really?" 

     "Nobody's sure if it's Alzheimer's or just fed up." 

     "I'll ask my wife to look into that.  Make a note on this one." He handed me one of eight writing pads.  "One for each thunder," he winked. 

     "That's not funny." 

     "Wasn't meant to be." 

     "Seriously though.  My reading is telling me, God's Word is no peace and that's in part because people took the gift of Israel and being chosen or blessed for granted." 

     "That's a good start.  Maybe you should write a book.  Your own book." 

     "Too many prophets not enough days left until (i)the end(i)." 

     "About that," he took his glasses back off.  "The End?" 

     "I know you signed up to do a reading at Church and I appreciate that, but I'm worried about that too." 

     "I've practically memorized it." 

     "Oh you have?! You'll do fine then I'm sure."  But his brow furrowed.  "Something besides messing it up?" 

     "It's new material for lots of folks." 

     "And it matters (i)how(i) people learn about such big stuff?" 

     "I think it does." 

     "Well, if you think so then..." 

     The clock ticking was making me feel sleepy.  "It's the same with the war stuff, I think." 

     "Hmmmm?" He'd put his pen to paper again.

     "I'm glad, (i)you've got this(i) Mr. W." 

     And I was.  The vibe of one in a high energy current can be extreme.

      (i)Just about(i) turned into did and done.

     "Not gonna lie, I beat the fuck out of her."  That was pretty much the whole statement.  (i)Case closed(i).

     The loss of momentum left a bunch of people with an on-steroids attitude and no focus.  That was why an advertising person was like, "Hell yeah, I let them watch sports." 

     "Because they have nothing better to do?" 

     "No.  Because if they don't get their downtime and have something to talk about that proves they have something in common, it'll be (i)bullshit(i) all down the line."  

     An actor visiting parents was staring.  He'd come prepared to decline eating someone else's meal, but be unrelentless about TV/Radio.  "If they'd justa played my song man," was the sorrowful (i)told you so(i) to an older generation having to bail out, resus-i-tate, and otherwise forestall losing their own children to " the madness".  "Were you at that fight?" A girl Detective water-coolered in the host's kitchen.  "Whhhhooooo-we," he kinda shook his head vaguely (he'd been sleeping), "Some nasty bruising."  He inadvertantly lightly touched his own ribs.  "They're calling it, air quote, 'male machismo,'". 

     "Do you feel bullied by my relatives?" A dusky-voiced Latino asked. 

     "Not exactly.  I feel like the Jews are messing us up." 

     "Said the generic US citizen?" 

     "Pretty much.  Like everybody else.  You have 2.5 children and ten seconds to respond no matter the topic." 

     It had almost been a loss of momentum.  A few weeks of PT for a man who'd been on the threshold of retiring had us hunting for ways to ease the burden of stress on middle age bodies.  A different saw, better ladder.  "It's got to be adapted," a lifer-buddy barked about the cable TV wires.  Standing on the ground us Carpenters finished and saved sips of coffee and ice, looked at the mess of wire spine, (i)a blotch on precision(i)?  "Mebbe," the man spit.  A tug on a baseball cap and hiding eyes from.  A support person, woman, moved in closer. "Na-ah," she flicked his cap up in a "I'ah, I'm gonna love you," kinda way.  "No secrets.  We don't hide from each other." 

     "Okay." The gentle giant looked at his feet.  A nose-bleeding concussion was still fresh in our minds.  The young person talked through (i)crisis in the field, here(i) with engaging "jokes" and multi-disciplinary scramble.  After the Emergency Services were (i)on the way(i) the same support person had dug through a musician's purse and dug out little packs of pepper.  She put it on the running mental list of (i)things to talk about(i) at whichever campfire her "tired ass landed at" as the sun sank low. 

     "Thank God you all are here," the young person was about to crumble into viscous-disturbing crying relief of stress.  She held eye contact and called for more "funnies". 

     "Or a good story," she moved her finger in front of eyes.  "Fluke we were, are here." Mostly middle-age but serviceable Americans kicked at mulch and oil in dirt on the off-road.  "You gotta do better than that," she called over her shoulder.  "What? No pay, no gab?!" 

     A man with a beard in a braid said, "The traveling Pastor's back overtah Rugby."  A shock tremor passed through the young person's body.  "Come help me steady and watch the nostrils."  

     "Am I gonna die?"  

     "Now, son, there ain't never a time fir that kind of talking 'cuz if you can ask, you're (i)probably gonna make it(i)." 

     "Darn."  

     "Let's do this," an off-duty EMperson had pulled a roll-on luggage from a car.  He flipped open a knife to quipping (i)that's not a knife, that's a knife(i) and blessed and volunteered the baggage.  "If we can get this handle out, it'll serve as a back brace type apparatus." 

     (i)Shit(i) "I just got that one." 

     It was spared by the no sirens, lights on Ambulance switchbacking down 

     (i)inside(i) the scene.

Mary Gauthier's "Bullet Holes In The Sky" 

"Tipping Points"

      Back then there were enough people in the room who remembered the games like "Contraption" to strike up a conversation about "culture" even as we were loading cargo planes.  We were suddenly all (i)on the go(i).  The scales were being held sway by us people--civilians and military.  We had to chuck the metaphoric scale-holder in the middle.  I'll explain why later, but when people started blowing themselves up and being blown up we realized "language" was more than just "a difficulty".  Humanity was embodying warfare.  And technology was increasingly "the assist".

Not really missing.

  Some of the creatives were just getting louder and louder.  And the Rumanian girl was literally being passed back and forth as translator until they found a more quiet spot.  The real point of the story was that just like everybody else's parents, theirs were (i)in charge(i) while doing all this other stuff.

     Think campaign and battle and all of us in that mode.  Centering on God and family and getting through each thing that comes up.  There are a lot of American ways of doing that!

     For a lot of creatives there's been a lot of time spent on tuning understanding and diplomacy.  It's not that creatives don't have objectives.

     The woman with the shoes, she, (i)ran away(i).  Some of the guys helped her.  I was kind of afraid when I stumbled upon her.  In her own tent, own camp space.  She let me look in there.  Very cozy.  Tennis shoes and treadmill shoes and slippers.  Jogging suits and pens.  Lots of pens.  She said in a gentle voice, "I have some ideas."  She also had a quash of friends who were her support and because everyone was still young they all were working through the minutia of (i)fighting fire with fire(i).  Creativity can be a fire.

     The Rumanian and I just got along well.  Found common ground in...seeing the ordinary and striving to "see" or understand how that ordinary is imbued with God/"magic" in terms of inspiration.  Being oldest children had us able to step outside of big picture and assess what needs to happen (i)according to(i) and why that may or may not work.  And we drank, a  soda toast to America as, like, going at different paces because we're all individuals though we team up for mission sometimes.  Just like "family". 

     The pastor wrote more than one book.  When he got his strength back he helped Briefcase Boy and me be less scared about wars and plagues by faith.  And hearing that from a God's final witness (long arguments about "only" prophet, "ultimate" prophet....) helped us each ground our own creativity and business acumen in a timetable.  The fact that we'd heard stuff like, "you only have one life," wasn't dictating our paces.  Very individual types but deeply spiritual.  I made him show me the tree was okay.

     Me? I'm trying to get my truck fixed.  Finish up a carpentry job on the other end of the mountains.  Working at Wendy's.  Same old, same old.

     As things get (i)tense(i)er and tenser, the battling gets point for point.  At the end of that day so long ago, our moms and dads won the day on (i)family safe(i).  And Father Hen was able say, "No, Linda, it's not a circus." 

Listening to, Melissa Manchester, "Ain't That A Kick In The Head"

 

On the way, way up north

     (i)Looks(i), "So what?" 

     "You can stick that where the sun don't shine." 

     "What'n the hell (i)is it(i)?" 

     "It's a smokestack."

     One to explain hardware.  A little icebreaker laughter.  "Called a digibyte." 

     "Honey, only thing I want a bite of is steak and eggs." A look up and down.  "And your ass.  I'll take two of those and call you next week." A retreating look but standing still.  "Here's our business card." 

"What are you still doing here?"

      "It's like a Country Music song I can't get out of," Briefcase Boy's eyes crossed and that made him look really weird.  "Don't do that." 

     His truck was mashed on one side.  Not mangle mashed but like side-swiped.  The runner board peeling up like a sardine can.  "Oh man." 

     Inside the bartender was wearing a nice sweater, jeans, and almost dress shoes.  He'd dug out the bigger chili pot and was tasting both.  "Does this taste the same?" He scooped some into two shot cups.  "Are you crying?" 

     "Must've been a spicey bite," he wiped his hands on a bar towel apron and moved off to square pans of cider.  "Those friends of yours are really something." 

     "What'd they do? And, did the Briefcase guy hurt anyone?" 

     "To hear tell the trees fared better." 

     The Pastor's wife came into the kitchen in a bathrobe and towel on her head.  "You're still here too?!" She gave the bartender a ten dollar bill and he scooped out two bowls of chili for her.  "He's gonna try." 

     "That is so good!"  She went back out a back door.

     "What's gone on in the four days I was camping?" 

     (i)Whew.(i)  He moved off to wash dishes.  After about five minutes he said, "And a whole lot of good music.  I mean really good.  True talent." 

     "What's the Pastor gonna try to do?" 

     He rested a wet pan on top of some cans of applesauce.  "Write a book!"  He lifted the pan to a rack.  "Wish I could do that." 

     "Start small.  That's all I'm saying.  The whole book part comes and goes."