Merry Christmas

(Back to working with the phone, again, just so many ‘work-arounds’ available)

Long ago, long, long ago; in my youth (anytime before 1986, 40 or younger), when I was so afraid to express myself, I credited my grandparents, elder uncles, with having and instilling, well…values.

Geneticly, ideologically. hell, tempramentally my family has been all over the religious map – personally, I am not big on the rampent exclusivity – just me.

That being said, and it must, I created a character (again with the long, long…) my Jewish grandfather and when you approached his house, at this particular time of year, there will be candles burning in every window, wreathes on the doors, a fire in the dinning room hearth, and food there would be such delights.

And there would be grampy, in yam and prayer shawl, all smiles and Merry Christmases, greeting all, gathering any any all to sit, eat, be warm; and if you asked him why, his answer was simple: “Any holiday from any faith that celebrates peace, love, and goodwill one person for another, we will always honor in my house.”

I claim no organized religion, but from the bottom of my heart, I wish you all the Merriest of Christmases; I’ll burn my candles, for the lost, a beacon; the homeless, a shelter.

With much love.

Peace out, pilgrims

Being Honest

Had the opportunity yesterday to visit a marvelous, huge, used book store; that is, regrettably,  going out of business. But, they are haveing such a clearance sale – and I found that, remarkably, I had a little folding stuff in my pocket.

I found reference books, for all manner of subjects (I  purchased most), all centered, at that moment, on my quest.

I promised my son, a while back, that I would always be honest with him; that spills over into the rest of the world, ’cause something just may get back to him.

In the interest of keeping things honest, balanced as it were, in the universe…there is no way in hell I am ever going to be writting the great American (or Lesser Slabovian) novel.

I write silly stories that make me feel good, hopefully someone else along the way, as well.

It sometimes takes longer for the honesty/truth part to filter throught the universe and finally sink into my thick skull.

Got further adventures of Charly, Stephen and the Tijdelijke veiligheidstroepen (Temporal Security Forces) on one of their lesser, more important missions: Where have all the storytellers gone? That comeing to you tonight.

 

Peace out, pilgrims.

Nothing to see here, its just about me, again

“It is good to love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is well done.”

Vincent Van Gogh

I seem to vaguely recall a fool’s errand. How that errand brought me to this peak, I do not know.

It seems that I have out lived all those that would lead me, and all that would follow me…

 

Of all the things, ideas, ideals, (for want of a better word from my limited vocabulary) accomplishments I have pursued, aspired to, in love; only two have stood the test of time. The desire to write and the peace of understanding connection.

As for understanding connection, that requires…just acceptance. George.

George is my ever faithful, ghost companion. George came to me during the days of madness and loneliness of childhood. George rarely speaks, George is just there, and that has the transformative ability to change loneliness, isolation into just being…sometimes alone.

The desire to write. Objectively, I am weak in areas of dialogue, setting, plot, and a clear understanding of character development. aside from that, I’m pretty…mediocre.

I shall confess, in advance, that everything I write will reflect me, somewhere, without that touch of me nothing is genuine…genuine not “right”.

Here’s to aspirations, beginnings, marvelous middles with all its twists and turns, and the endings, sweet or sad, that inevitably come.

 

Interview with the Village Idiot

‘Thank you for joining us this evening, Mr. Idiot…”

“Please, just Idiot is fine. My dad liked to call me that a lot.” The Idiot smiled and looked around, “You did say there would be cookies.’

“George, cookies…do you have a favorite?”

“Oatmeal raisin.”

“George, oatmeal raisin…what, oh…and to drink?”

“Preference: dark roast coffee, black, in a nice heavy mug, and thank you George.”

“…got that?…yeah, yeah…George says, you’re welcome.”

“Thank you, again, for sitting down with us for this interview, Mr. excuse me, Idiot.

“For the benefit of our audience; it is difficult to find idiots that will admit they’re idiots or discuss what their world may be like…we can only imagine.

“Are the cookies – oatmeal raisin are the Idiot’s favorite – OK?”

“Perfectly devine. Thank you, George, again…and the little chocolate was very sweet.”

“Idiot,…”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t asked a question, yet.”

“Please do…ask your questions.”

“I’m curious, are idiots able to recognize each other, as idiots. Are there tell tale signs people should look for to know when they are dealing with an idiot?”

“Yes and yes.”

“Why don’t we take a short break…GEORGE!” The interviewer spun from his seat and walked in the direction of the voice (George?) that seemed to be coming from another room.

“Yes, here we are, again, with Idiot, and this interviewer’s drive to understand the secret underbelly of idiocy. Idiot, you’ve said that you can recognize other idiots. Not to ‘out’ anyone (yet), how many idiots are there in congress now?” An almost sinister grin came across the face of the interviewer as he relaxed into the back of his chair his arms crossing as he moved.

“None.” Idiot sipped from his second cup of coffee, smiled, lifted the mug in a salute to…and mouthed a “thank you.”

The interviewer’s back stiffened, his crossed arms momentarily holding him together, “None”, there was a slight rise in pitch in his response. Clearly not the answer he anticipated. “None, surely there are some…Mi…”

“None.” Idiot held his mug with both hands, resting on his right thigh; he enjoyed the warmth, the weight of the mug, the smooth enamel finish, Idiot smiled. He threw a nod again to some unseen person…; ”and that is a pity.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Preciously the reason I’m here.” Idiot smiled.

“How were you ‘outed’, excuse me,diagnosed as an idiot, how old were you, what are the long term ramifications of a diagnosis like this.” The interviewer thought a softer approach might yield the results he was after.

“That would be my family, that ‘diagnosed’ me. I can still hear dad, ‘This is my son, the Village Idiot. Stand up, Idiot. Show them what an idiot looks like.’” after a moment’s pause, Idiot continued. “In retrospect, that was the kindest thing dad ever did for me.”

It took the interviewer two seconds to register Idiot’s response, the statement and the text used. He leaned forward, “I don’t understand.”

“That is just a bit vague, would you please be a bit more specific?” The idiot asked. “You don’t understand what?, and how am I to contribute to your understanding?, I am after all, an idiot.”

A chuckle could be heard, that was George.

The interviewer was shaken, almost collapsed in his chair, head just above knees, the interviewer turned their head in the direction of the idiot, sipping his coffee, smiling all the while.

In an attempt to regain their right standing position, the interviewer pulled themselves up and squarely faced the smiling idiot.

“You don’t sound like an idiot.” The statement was fairly spit at Idiot, whose smile broadened.

“Did you think there was a distinctive squawk or grunt that was the ‘idiot sound’, or an annoying giggle perhaps?”Again a chuckle could be heard.

“No, no…you…you spoke clearly.”

‘Enunciation or syntax?”

George came through with a refill for the idiot’s coffee while the interviewer pulled themselves up from the floor.

Once more, holding on to the interviewer standing, the interviewer slid into a more relaxed pose. “Both, act…..”

“Thank you.”

The interviewer looked at the smiling idiot and thought…too quick…not an idiot…new direction for the interview. “Let get right to the point. Are …”

“Please.”

One sharp glance from the interviewer and there was silence, “Are you actually an idiot or an insignificant idiot wanna be?” The anger in that question seemed to even catch the interviewer off guard. “What I mean is…”

“Have you a dictionary handy?” The idiot accepted fresh coffee and a well used volume of Webster’s New World College Dictionary from the ever ‘on-it’, George. “Thank you and thank you…this will move things along.

The idiot thumbed through the tome to find the definition he wanted,“Here we are. Would you read the definitions that George has already indicated AND highlighted. George you are a wonder. Thank you.”

The interviewer took the pro-offered volume the idiot extended, “Would you please read the highlighted – thank you again, George – definition.”

The interviewer read the definition. “Idiot: ignorant and common person; idio: one’s own, personal, distinct 1] a retarded person mentally equal or inferior to a two year old. 2] a very foolish or stupid person.”

“What has this to do with our interview? Everyone knows the definition of idiot, Idiot.”

“Actually, idiots are the only ones that understand it; its a bit of a private joke.” a warm smile came across the face of the idiot. “All, everything is in idio; we idiots are all different, personal, distinct and I say, yeah. Mentally equal to a two year old.

“Children just discovering their worlds everything brand new, every taste a delight; discovering their own voice…trusting…incapable of practicing or understanding guile and only an idiot that has retained two for seventy years can relate to just how developed a two year can become mentally. Most children and their parents are trying to rush them as quickly as possible away from two. ” The idiot smiled his smile, warm, open, with a touch of Santa Clause tinkle around the eyes.

“The very definition, the label of idiot removes any expectations anyone might want to impose on you. You are free to make mistakes, without judgments. Understanding that winning or losing are both inevitable, eventually.’

The interviewer stood and walked toward the idiot. The idiot set his mug on the floor and rose to meet the interviewer. The interviewer extended a hand to the idiot. “You are always smiling.

“Tell me, Idiot, what is the secret to your happiness?”

A look of bewilderment came over the idiot’s face, “Secret?, I don’t understand. No secret.” The confusion passed, the idiot smiled, “Just be happy.

“and for the long term ramifications of being an idiot. Sometimes it’ll get you cookies and coffee.”

Be splendid – always.