“Basic Black” (Conclusion)

Jane’s father worked the night shift himself, as a janitor in the court building. It was easy to see how the kid had felt capable of offing Nana’s vampire without Daddy being aware—what was it with this new generation of mortals? Black had never believed he was invincible. He felt the fragility of his existence more acutely than ever these days. As with wildlife in the woods, vampires were being forced to integrate with humans as the mortal world expanded into their territory. He had known some pretty arrogant vampires in his time, but none of them beat humanity for being pushy.

The kid really wanted to go home. Black relented without a fight. She directed him to a tiny bungalow on the south side of town. Upkeep on the house and garden was minimal—the siding needed paint and the grass needed cutting. The windows were covered with plastic to ward off the increasingly bitter wind; double-glazing was too far beyond their means. Black pulled up to the curb and made Jane sit tight until he had checked the place out. Satisfied that her vampire had not yet appeared, he returned to the car and pulled out the flare gun. “Okay,” he said. “It’s clear.”

“Then what do we need that for?”

“Protection.”

“But you said it’s clear.”

“It is for now, but you left your gun at the home, kiddo, so this is all we’ve got.” He tucked the gun into his belt at the small of his back.

Jane led him to the stoop. A pair of rats scurried across the yard. Next door, a domestic squabble raged.

“Nice neighbourhood.”

Jane unlocked the front door. “It’s rough, but the people aren’t bad.”

He said nothing. His own haunt down on the docks had a similar sense of downtrodden community. It was not for him to judge people trapped by circumstance. He wasn’t any different from them.

The stale smells of beer and cigarettes met them at the threshold. He nudged Jane ahead of him and locked the door from the inside. It wouldn’t stop the vampire, but it would let them know when he arrived. The living room was tidy but not clean. The carpet needed a vacuum and the worn upholstery was tan-coloured under the dirt. Jane led him through to the kitchen, where he checked the lock on the back door while she pulled a bottle of Coke from the fridge. “Want some?”

He shook his head. “Can I see the rest of the place?”

“There’s not much to see. The bathroom is there, and my room is next to Dad’s.”

“Is there a crawlspace?”

She put the Coke, untouched, on the chipped Formica counter. “Are you a cop?”

“No. I just know how vampires work.”

“How?”

“Personal experience. What about the crawlspace?”

She took him around the back. The crawlspace was tiny and floored in dirt. Rats had set up house in the furthest corner; he smelled them in the close, damp air. The two he had seen, probably, on their way out for dinner.

“Well,” he said, emerging from the claustrophobic depths and inhaling a grateful breath, “he won’t camp out down here, that’s for damn sure.”

Jane looked alarmed. “Would he try?”

“He might do, if he meant to nab you right at sundown. You did a stupid thing, trying to take him yourself. You know that, don’t you?”

“I do now.” She shivered in her thin jacket, her arms clamped across her chest. Black softened a little.

“It’s okay. We’ll get him. Any idea when the shifts change at the home?”

“Seven and seven.”

“He can’t have been on staff for long, then.”

She shook her head. “He started at the end of September.”

That made sense. A smart vampire would wait until he was guaranteed at least twelve hours between sundown and sunrise; this guy had to feed on the residents at the home because he had no time to feed before his shift started. And, since work doubled as the wet bar, Black figured that he was either lazy or a glutton.

“How many deaths have there been since he started?”

“A couple a week.”

Definitely a glutton.

They went back into the house. Jane poured herself a Coke and offered Black a beer. He declined. She said her dad would be home after sunup; he usually went for breakfast with his buddies before coming home to sleep. Black wasn’t sure if the information helped. It all depended on how long the vampire took to come for Jane.

Because he would come. He had to. His cover was his salvation, one of those instances where discovery meant death. Ironically, Jane had blown her own cover by trying to take him alone. It was now a matter of who died first.

* * *

She fell asleep on the couch, curled into a fetal ball beneath a tatty patchwork throw. Black flipped TV channels from the old man’s easy chair. If Jane’s vampire didn’t show by dawn, he would have to find shelter in record time, which was more daunting a task than confronting one of his own. He gave his head a shake. How he managed to get into these scrapes was beyond comprehension. He shouldn’t have cared about Jane or her demented grandmother—but he did. The kid had recruited him without either of them knowing until it was too late. The problem was, what was he going to do when the vampire showed up? He disliked killing as a rule. He tried to limit them to self-defense, but that would not apply in Jane’s case. Killing a vampire in defense of a mortal would see him condemned by a jury of his peers—and rightfully so. Vampires did not kill vampires. They didn’t have to like each other—few did—but murder was an unpardonable sin. It was akin to mortals monkeying the apes. Vampires were superior creatures. Killing their own lowered them to the very level they had supposedly risen above.

Black was not an intellectual. He wasn’t much into ethics and morals, either. He did what he had to do within the confines of his own conscience. But accepting this did not solve the problem of what to do when Jane’s vampire appeared.

Time ticked on. He watched old reruns until his eyes ached. Then he scented something new in the air; something lush and luxurious. It wafted toward him on snaky tendrils that encircled his head and squeezed. He was staring at Jane before he realized that his gaze had wandered from the TV screen.

She had grown hot under the throw. Her throat was pink and moist. Her entire body would be just as pink and just as moist, pulsating with the rhythm of blood through her veins. The lush scent intensified as Black absorbed each facet—smoke and sugar and a sizzling snap of ginger. He swallowed once and made himself look away, regretting that he had not pushed his donor for two pints earlier in the evening.

The sky beyond the plastic-sheathed window had deepened to a robust, pre-dawn violet. It was too late for revenge. It might be too late for Black to find shelter; would he have to find room in the crawlspace?

He glanced again at Jane. Young, naive. Stupid, but good-hearted. He related to the stupid part. Heaving a sigh, he got up from Dad’s chair and went out to inspect the crawlspace as accommodations for the day.

The rats had returned. They nested in the corner furthest from the door, the safest spot for rodent and vampire alike. He didn’t want to bed down with roommates, but he had slept in worse places. He should move the car before Jane’s father came home and demanded to know what—or who—his daughter had been doing all night.

Then he heard her scream.

Shit.

Something crashed overhead and he knew she was struggling. Good girl, he thought, pulling the gun as he raced from the yard to the back door. Jesus, he had left the vampire an open invitation?

The smell of raw blood reached him before he hit the living room. He shouted, “Drop her!” but he was too late.

Jane was dead. Black couldn’t save her from lungs stifled by crushed ribs. The vampire was still on her, sucking hard to catch what he could before her heart quit pumping. He was a young one, too; so young that he wasn’t threatened by what he thought was a mortal bearing what he thought was a regulation handgun. Jane’s body hadn’t hit the floor before he launched himself at Black, hissing blood and saliva in an impressive show of fangs that failed to impress the elder. It was easy to derail the lad with a one-handed block to the chest that threw him hard against the wall. The plaster cracked behind him; dazed, he blinked in astonishment on realizing that Black was one of his own.

“You’re—”

“You bet.”

“Then you understand.”

“I understand that you’ve been shooting fish in a barrel.”

The vampire laughed. “Is that what you think? I’m doing them a favour. Those old people, they’re not living. They’re taking up space, and there’s more of them coming. You don’t know what I see in that place. You don’t know how many of them want to die.”

“Neither do you,” Black said sharply. “You’re not their god. It’s not for you to say who goes when. We don’t have to be killers.”

The vampire jerked his head toward Jane. “She tried to kill me.”

“She was a stupid kid. What’s the matter with you? Scared of old people and children. What kind of a vampire is that?”

“I’m not scared. I’m a preferable alternative. If you do it slowly, they fall asleep first.”

“Mercy kill,” Black said.

The vampire grinned. “Now you’ve got it.”

Black shot him. The flare hit the vampire with a solid thunk, sending him to the wall again. Eyes wide, he looked in disbelief at the smoke writhing from his chest, then looked aghast at Black. “We—don’t—kill—”

“Helpless old folks and stupid kids.”

“—each—other—”

Black stuffed the gun into his belt and grabbed the vampire by one arm. Jane’s father would have enough to handle without his house going up in flames as well. He hauled the vampire into the kitchen and shoved him through the door to the back yard. The cartridge began burning in earnest, charring the vampire from the inside out. When the magnesium flared bright behind the staring eyes, a strangled scream broke the pre-dawn silence and set the birds to rustling in their nests. Black watched the body collapse upon itself in a blaze of light to rival the sunrise; even shaded by Ray Bans, his eyes smarted. He decided against using the garden hose. The cops would find enough to piece the puzzle together. CNN would have another vampire murder to report. Jane might be remembered as a courageous kid who died saving the lives of others, but Black wasn’t worried about the outcome of the investigation.

He was more concerned with getting the lock on his car door fixed.

THE END

March 25, 2002

Special Event

When the special event is undefined, you invent your own. Mine is a day off – a glorious, sunny, free day to myself. This post is the only writing I plan to do, today. I have no one tugging on my sleeve or whispering in my ear, so it seems that Cristal and Tess and Reijo and all my other little voices are taking the day off as well.

I asked Ter to drop me in the village on her way to work so I could get in my walk early. I’m glad I packed the Canon, else I’d have missed the photo op of a local peahen taking her morning constitutional. In a weird kind of role reversal, I was on the cedar path by the park and she was on the street, but we nodded politely to each other and continued along our respective routes. 

Then I strolled along the cliff at Dallas Road to home. The ocean was no more than a big puddle, the tide being out with no wave action in progress, and the mountains were so shrouded in mist that they might have been erased overnight. No matter. I truly appreciated the peace of the moment.

The pace is picking up outside my window: more traffic is revving past at higher RPMs and the young bucks down the street are hammering away at the outrageously overpriced condo they’re building. I feel slightly removed from it all, though; this is a nice place from which to watch the world go by. Tea is calling—some form of peach, methinks—and I should do something about breakfast. A half-cup of butter sits on the kitchen counter and will find its way into some form of baking later on, between my movie at 10:00 and Bill Maher at 3:00. And maybe, just maybe, today my book and I will make it to the back yard for some early summer reading.

Or not. That’s what makes today’s event so special.

Philosophy Quest

The PQ Team

Dude TV (otherwise known as the Outdoor Living Network) runs a bunch of those reality shows pretending to be documentaries out to prove or disprove the existence of ghosts, sasquatches, giant squids, the Loch Ness Monster, and other mythical creatures. Each program sets the scene, gathers the team, sends them into the field armed with advanced technology and eyewitness accounts, and inevitably ends with nothing conclusive. While this confirms Carl Sagan’s observation that absence of evidence is not evidence of absence, it has spawned a plethora of running gags and inside jokes within my immediate circle. Ter and I are always fist pumping to the self-congratulatory “Good job, bro; on to the next one!” that ends every episode of Ghost Hunters—and on an occasional Thursday, my buddy known here as Boy Sister (or “BS”, ha ha) and I embark on a coffee time discussion of our own suppositions which we call Philosophy Quest.

We debate residual hauntings versus active hauntings, past lives, future lives, time travel, the time-space continuum, extraterrestrial life and how the pyramids were built, among other mysteries that seem inexplicable but have simply exceeded the capacity of Man’s puny mind. We exchange thoughts and theories, dumb jokes and belly laughs, and I often wonder what the folks around us overhear in passing. I don’t know many people who spend time hypothesizing about what would happen if we held hands and jumped into a black hole.

I really enjoy these talks, and I believe he does, too. He’s a pretty thoughtful guy for all his typical boy tendencies. As with OLN’s Ghost Hunters and Monster Quest, however, our investigations end inconclusively, hence our program byline:

“Philosophy Quest—all the questions and none of the answers.”

Showtime at Chapters Starbucks or the library courtyard wall, Thursdays at 2:00 p.m.

No Fear

“When you no longer perceive the world as hostile, there is no more fear, and when there is no more fear, you think, speak and act differently.” – Eckhart Tolle

Is the world a scary place?

Sure.

Is the world a scarier place than the one we remember as kids?

No. We just know more about it.

Fear is a terrific tool for keeping control of the masses; if properly applied, it can be deadlier than any weapon of mass destruction. How many of us were terrified we were going to die for pinching a cookie off the cooling rack when we were kids? Ever wonder why there’s so much bad news on the nightly broadcast? It’s not because there’s more bad stuff out there; it’s just that bad stuff is “more interesting”, it garners more ratings, and ultimately makes the commercial purveyors of paranoia rich beyond our wildest dreams.

One of those annoyingly ubiquitous telemarketers whose technology has nullified the point of having an unlisted number recently managed to snare me into hearing the spiel—she was hawking an internet security service that would monitor my personal information and alert me to anyone attempting to steal my identity. This service wouldn’t stop the theft; it would only warn me that my info had been compromised. All I had to do was pay a monthly fee and regularly check my email for any notification of nefarious doings. To get off the phone, I agreed to the 30 day free trial and the brochure arrived by mail a few days later.

I looked it over as a matter of interest, certainly not with any real intent to sign up. As I read, I realized (duh) that a company cleverly associated with my financial institution was hoping to incite a paranoia of something that, yes, is happening elsewhere and may happen to me … but is it likely? Am I going to live in fear of a possibility? Heck, I live in an earthquake zone that’s 100 years overdue for the Big One!

I didn’t wait for 30 days before calling to say that I wouldn’t be buying the service. When I was asked why, I politely replied that I refuse to live in fear of my own email account. Imagine, checking every day for a notification, not seeing one, breathing a sigh of relief for the stay of execution, then having a heart attack when one day I open the inbox and …

I do admit to a slightly paranoid regret after the call. I imagined being red-flagged and thus given preferential treatment for a security breach.

See how clever they are? Be more clever. Don’t buy in. Live your life without fear. See the world for the wonderful, beautiful, magical place it is. When scary things happen, trust that all will end well because it will. You’ll get through it and somehow, even if it seems unlikely or impossible, you’ll be all right.

We all will.

With love,

Much Ado About Nothing

Sometimes it’s okay to be inert. Sometime it’s necessary. It helps to recharge your batteries and get you centered to tackle the next challenge in running life’s gauntlet.

Back in my own personal Dark Ages, I was gifted at Christmas with a desk calendar of daily affirmations. I’m pretty sure that the motive behind the offering was purely tongue-in-cheek, but I placed the new agey object prominently among the stuffies and Star Wars toys that cluttered up my cubicle. Each day, I’d read the affirmation, and if it was particularly laughable, I’d share it with the person who’d given me the calendar. She was as bitterly cynical as I was (though born in July, she should have been a Virgo), so her response would be similarly derisive to mine and we’d have a good malevolent snicker about it.

One was so ridiculously airy-fairy that I pinned it to my cubicle wall and highlighted this line:

“Even when I appear to be doing nothing, the Universe is working through me.”

The perfect excuse for a disgruntled civil servant to become less motivated, wouldn’t you say?

I realize now what that line truly means. I have since learned that doing nothing is actually doing something. It’s resting. It’s healing. It’s stabilizing jangled energy after a particularly unsettling event or series of events. It’s regrouping to enable my outwardly extroverted helping complex. The tricky part is choosing to do “nothing” over “something else”.

Once again, Ter is my greatest gift. She gets it. She recognizes the signs before I do and is often the first to suggest that maybe we should skip our Saturday lunch-and-shopping routine to leave me at home where I can do a few hours of nothing. I’ll sometimes fight because I don’t want to disappoint her or I think that doing something different will fix my mood, but in truth I suspect she’s more relieved than disappointed when I acquiesce. Who wants to tow a whiny fifty-two year old preschooler all over town in the guise of spending quality time together? Truly, we both benefit from my acceptance that nothing is preferable to something—at least for one weekend.

That silly affirmation clearly struck a chord all those years ago because I’ve remembered it—just as I remember Mr. Spock saying that expending energy running up and down a stretch of green grass and calling it a rest is illogical.

Therefore, do nothing once in a while. The Universe may appreciate being able to work without having to chase you around all the time.

“Basic Black” (Part One)

The car door flew open and a girl plunged into the empty seat. “Drive,” she said.

Black did no such thing. But next time, he decided, he would definitely run the red.

A poke in the ribs pushed his foot to the gas. The Maverick bellowed and jumped forward before the light had changed. Black jerked on the wheel to get around a corner he hadn’t intended to take. “I’ve got to get that lock repaired.”

The second poke was more insistent. “Just drive, okay?”

He slipped a sidelong look at the girl huddled in the passenger seat. She was young, hardly out of her teens and in way over her head. She smelled of blood—among other things. Good thing the window on that side was broken, too. In an enclosed cockpit, the reek of garlic would have sent Black into an asthmatic seizure. “Does your mother know where you are?”

“My mother’s dead. Shut up and drive.”

“Any place in particular? Hospital? Cop shop?”

The third poke almost hurt. He swerved into the first space that allowed him to twist in his seat and grab the barrel of the weapon.

It was a compact umbrella. He forgot about lambasting her in favour of an incredulous gape. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I have a gun,” she warned.

“So have I.” And he showed her.

She drew back. “What the heck is that?”

“A flare gun. Want to see how it works?”

She fumbled for the door release, but the handle was missing and she found herself trapped. Black caught the flash of light on a wet darkness near her throat. Hoping that his instinct was way off base, he slid the gun back beneath the driver’s seat. “Did a vampire get you?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You believe in vampires?”

“Don’t you?”

She cast a furtive glance through the back window and fidgeted in her seat. Black understood immediately. He drove away from the curb.

“Are you hurt bad?”

“I dunno.” She fingered her bloody t-shirt. “I think I’m okay. It’s just a scratch.”

“Teeth or nails?”

“Nails. He grabbed me from behind. I threw garlic oil in his eyes and he let me go, but I felt something rip . . . ” She paused to get control of a quavering sob. Black turned left at the next light.

“Does it hurt?”

“Stings.”

“You should get it looked at.”

“Why? It was nails, not fangs.”

“It doesn’t make a difference. You’ll need a tetanus shot.”

She began to shake. Shock was setting in, not from the wound, but from the cause of it. Stupid kid; why the hell had she been carrying garlic oil?

“What’s your name?”

She paused. “Jane.”

“Okay, Jane, you weren’t by any chance hunting this vampire, were you?”

Another pause. “What do you mean?”

“You said your mother’s dead.”

“She died years ago, when I was little.”

“Littler than you are now, you mean. Did a vampire do her?”

“No, it was cancer. Why do you care?”

“I don’t. You’re the one who jumped into my car and threatened me with an umbrella. Do you want my help, or don’t you?”

“I just want you to take me home.”

“You can’t go home. Garlic oil didn’t kill the vampire, it only made him angry. If he’s got your blood on his nails, he can track you from here to Hell’s half-acre—and he’ll do it, too, because you’ve discovered his secret. What sort of gun have you got?”

“It’s my dad’s. It’s—in the bag I left at the home.”

“The home? Where did you meet up with this guy?”

She took a steadying breath. “He’s been preying on the residents at my grandmother’s nursing home. Nana told me that a man has been sneaking into her room at night. At first I thought it was her dementia, but a few of the other ladies on the floor have said the same thing. And people have been dying on a regular basis.”

“Kid, it’s an old folks’ nursing home.”

“I know that,” she snapped. “I dismissed it in the beginning, then I saw him myself. He’s working the night shift, posing as a nurse.”

“ ‘Posing’?”

“I know what a vampire looks like. And even if I didn’t, what happened tonight only proves my point. He is a vampire and he has to be stopped.”

Black was this close to being amused, but the kid’s naivete was no laughing matter. “So you took it on yourself to stop him.”

“I’ve read the books. I know what I have to do.”

“What books? Myths and legends? Pop fiction? Jesus Christ.”

She heaved a deep sigh, resigning herself to lack of experience. “There’s truth to most myths.”

Black shook his head in grim amazement. He couldn’t up and leave her. If she had run afoul of a vampire—and he had no reason to believe she hadn’t—she was in trouble up to the eyeballs. She was so green that she glowed, and if she came to a bad end, a species just starting to accept the reality of vampires in their midst would go completely nuts. It was already happening in pockets all over the world; hardly a day went by without CNN reporting a vampire killing somewhere in Europe or North America. The tragedy was that not all suspected vampires were the genuine item. Some were mortals who liked the idea of playing at vampirism, and these unfortunate souls were not helping the cause at all. Vampires were dangerous and, as young Buffy in the seat beside him had discovered, peasant lore did not always apply. Some vampires cashed in on the publicity and used it to their advantage; others cowered in fear, skulking through the shadows like convicted criminals without having been tried. Though they were best approached with caution, not all vampires were evil. But try and tell a mortal that—especially a mortal whose life had been altered by an immortal’s touch.

Jane’s shoulder started to ache and he decided they had better seek medical attention. He drove her to the hospital emergency room, steeling his nerve against the onslaught of noxious odours waiting beyond the automatic doors. “Don’t tell them a vampire got you,” he advised.

“Don’t worry,” Jane replied.

He hated hospitals. For all the antiseptic and antibiotic progress mortals had made, nothing could be done to quell the stench of imminent death. Jane was signed in and sent to wait for a doctor; bothered by the harsh light and the smell, Black retreated to the parking lot, where he sank back on the Maverick’s dented fender and swallowed great, cleansing gulps of brisk autumn air.

A vampire posing as a night nurse at an old folks’ home. Give the guy credit, it was a plausible cover. Not much better than bargaining with junkies for a pint of their best, though. He sparked back to the bright, hot smell of Jane’s blood drying on her t-shirt, and a brief vision of himself with the cotton in his mouth flared before his mind’s eye.

And she thought she could spot a vampire at fifty paces. Oh, sure.

to be continued …

“Basic Black” (Preface)

Tomorrow’s post is part one of the piece that won fifth place in the Writer’s Digest short story contest in 2005. It actually won fifth place in its genre, which put it in the top twenty-five winners, period. And that’s all the horn blowing I’m going to do, because I wrote it first for love, then to see how it would do. The notice that it did better than I’d imagined was a pleasant surprise.

Okay, in truth it registered 8.5 on the writer’s Richter, but again, that’s all I’m saying.

Though it was written after “Black and Blonde”, in Black’s timeline, it predates his meeting with Tess. I had to condense it to less than 3500 words, so it’s lean, mean, and a fairly accurate thumbnail of Black’s character. I don’t know if the judges liked it or him or what; all I received was the letter saying that I’d placed, a year’s subscription to WD magazine, and a cheque for $50 that I never cashed. Pretty exciting stuff considering I’d expected more from the other story I’d submitted. That’s my Ariel—full of surprises.

I’m posting it here with plans to make the whole series available online; when “Black in Back” is finished, it will go up as well … though it will take significantly more Saturdays to complete.

Naturally, he doesn’t care, but I hope you enjoy.

Entitled

Which comes first? The story or the title?

Usually, it’s the story. Occasionally, it’s the title. When I wrote “Black and Blonde” in 2001, the characters came first, the story came from them, and the title came last. I liked it, though. And I liked the character of Ariel Black so much that I wanted to write with him again. Regrettably, he didn’t have the staying power to warrant a full length novel and I’ve never been hip on writing short stories.

In 2005, I decided to write an urban fantasy piece for a short fiction contest and lit up the Bat Signal in hope that a hero would show up to help. Black answered the call. The story came next, then the title: “Basic Black”. It won fifth place in the contest—woo hoo—and solidified my affection for a character who doesn’t win people easily to his side. Not that he cares. In fact, I highly doubt that he gives a rat’s rear end. I was self-publishing the first two volumes of “Fixed Fire” anyway, so I bid Black a second farewell.

Playing with words has been a hobby for my whole life. I like to mess with phrases and double entendres and all that jazz, so one day I was rolling some stuff around in my mind and snagged a beauty of a title: “Black in Back”.

This time, I called on him specifically. And he said, “Forget it.”

See what I mean about him not giving a $***?

Crap, I thought. Now what do I do?

Well, let it go, of course. Only I couldn’t. It dogged me for days, a clear indication that a story needed to be told, but if it wasn’t Black doing the telling, then who the heck was it? Whose voice could shoulder a title bearing his name? I pondered it for-what-seemed-like-ever. The sequence ran something like this:

Black in Back … Black in Back … Black—in—Back! Eureka! That’s it! He’s in it, but he’s not telling it, hence his status as “in back”! Augh! I’m a genius!

After that discovery, I got traction. It stalled a bunch of times because I got in the way, but over the long weekend, I stepped aside, threw Moist’s greatest hits onto the stereo, and let Tess do the talking. It’s her story; I just didn’t know it when the title first arrived. It’s not done yet, but when it is, I’ll probably post it here. Black was designed for the 21^st Century Poets’ forum anyway, so cyberspace, much as he dislikes it, is as much his turf as the seedy waterfront he calls home.

No, he’s not happy about it, but that’s the chance you take when you consort with mortals …

Miracles From Beyond

I dare you to convince me that people who move on to the next realm have no influence on what happens here after they’ve gone. Take the Billboard Awards on Sunday night. I didn’t see the show because Thrones was on, but I heard about it later. A hologram of our dearly departed Michael Jackson performed a song from his newly-released album live on stage with a dance troupe that blew-my-mind when I saw it on Youtube the next morning. I’m still astonished by the brilliance of it all, of the idea, the technology, and the endless hours of painstaking work that surely went into producing those four magical moments.

Because it is magic. And because it’s magic, you must know that MJ himself would have been all over it—he loved mystery and illusion as much as music, and he used it all to support his genius. He was always pushing the envelope in life, and while it could be argued that he pushed it a tad too far on the budgetary scale, heck, it’s not like he didn’t have the funds to pay for the product. The man knew how to put on a show. And I am utterly convinced that he had a hand in Sunday’s astounding success. He loved to dance, he loved to sing, he loved to perform—there’s nothing creepy about a CGI MJ, not when he would have loved it as much as his audience did. It’s entertainment, and entertaining is what he did best. I just know he was involved from beyond this realm.

This may seem unrelated, but then there’s Marty’s mother. Over in the hockey world, Martin St. Louis of the NY Rangers had to deal with the shock of his mother’s unexpected passing as the Rangers’ series against Pittsburgh went to game 7. NY won the game, the series, and has moved on to play the Montreal Canadiens in the eastern conference semi-final. (For the uninitiated, the winner of this series goes to the Stanley Cup final against the western conference champs.) Between beating the Pens and winning game one against the Habs, Marty and his teammates attended Mme. St. Louis’s funeral, and the emotional outcome of her loss has galvanized the team around her son. No joke, I’m pretty sure that’s why they won the conference semi; not that she pulled any strings from beyond, but because her son suddenly had greater cause to overcome and his buddies rallied to help him. He’s known for his stubborn perseverance anyway; fire the little bugger up and he’ll move mountains.

The primary reason why Montreal remains in the hunt is their goalie—BC’s own Carey Price, who won hockey gold in Sochi and has looked absolutely unflappable so far in the playoffs. With him in the net, the Canadiens beat Boston in their conference series. Boston, the biggest, ugliest, meanest gang of thugs in the league, was beaten by a bunch of speedy sneaky gnats mostly because Price consistently kept the puck from crossing the goal line, sometimes by the thinnest of miraculous margins.

Alas, Price was injured in the first game against the Rangers, who kicked the Habs’ collective butts by an outrageous score of 7-2. And now he’s done for … the … series. I’m sorry, but the conference is suddenly New York’s to lose. With absolutely no disrespect intended, I believe that Marty’s mother is working magic from above. He’ll probably win that Cup ring this year, a bittersweet trophy for sure, and part of me kind of hopes he makes it because in some mysterious manner, he’ll know sa mere was watching and maybe even manipulating the stars a little in his favour. And I’m okay with that, because I’ll know it, too.

So, if you’re looking for evidence of otherworldly influence in our reality, you need look no further than Marty’s mother and Michael Jackson. Though I do wonder why Ter’s dad has been unable to work a similar miracle for the Maple Leafs …

“The Welcome Gate”

“Look! There it is!”

Avery ran toward it. Zack grabbed her arm and pulled her back before her hand touched the latch. Startled, she turned on him and snapped:

“What?”

“Don’t be in such a rush,” he warned. He looked serious, his gaze fixed on the white picket gate with the heart painted on the wood.

Avery blew a raspberry. “It’s the Welcome Gate, stupid. What could go wrong?”

Zack razzed her back. “How about everything?”

Avery frowned at him. He was such a nervous Nellie, a real worrywart. She often wondered why she was so fond of him, he was always so anxious. “You’d have more fun if you lightened up a little.”

“I can have fun on this side of the Gate.” He tugged on her sleeve. “Come on; come away.”

She let him lead her a few paces in retreat, then she dug in her heels to argue some more.

“Why did you agree if you didn’t want to come?”

“I couldn’t let you go alone. You get into trouble without me.”

This was true. Zack was her voice of reason. But still. He’d agreed to go with her and they’d made a plan and now he was hedging and she was losing her temper.

“It’s got a heart painted on it. How can something with a heart be bad?”

“It could be lying.”

She huffed in frustration. “You’re such a girl. Look—there’s sunlight and green grass on the other side.”

“There’s shadow, too,” he observed.

“You can’t have light without shadow. Come on, Zack. We’ll have a grand adventure.”

His face was long beneath his moppy brown hair. “What if we get separated?”

“Is that what’s wrong? You’re afraid you’ll get lost?”

Zack said nothing, just stood on itchy feet and stared at the Gate as if it was about to swing open and swallow him whole.

“ ’Cause you won’t,” Avery continued. “I’ll be with you the whole time.”

His puppy eyes met hers. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

“It’ll be hard,” he said.

“It’ll be fun,” she insisted.

They were both right.

And on the Seventh Day …

… they meditate.

The bears are adorable, but they’re also rowdy. On a given day, Moon Pie is liable to hang himself (by accident) on a purse strap or a bauble chain, Burl and Elliot are scrapping over the football, Rufus is in a snit about something, and Pumpkin is trying to survive amid the chaos by punching a hole in it. Gingersnap, Spirit Bear, and Gorden are milder in temperament than their feistier fellows, but even one of them will lose patience over the ongoing shenanigans once in a while. Either their energy was getting hairier or my aura has grown more sensitive to dissention because a few Sundays ago, I took away the football and gave them a group time out. I sat them in a circle, gave them a gazing ball, and told them they’d get to play tomorrow.

At first they were like, What is this? Definite grumbling and some puzzlement ensued. Moonie thought the gazing ball was a toy and tried to bat it over to Burl, but it’s an amethyst crystal that weighs more than he does, so it didn’t go very far. Not surprisingly, Spirit Bear was the first to grasp what I was trying to teach them, and in his quiet way, he got them to fall in line. When I checked on them a few hours later, they had settled into a peaceful groove and were far more relaxed at bedtime than if they’d been left to wreak their usual havoc throughout the day.

Now he’s the group guru. It’s taken some time, but since they’ve been spending Sundays in mindful and collaborative quiet, they seem calmer and less contrary during the rest of the week. Of course they still have their moments—you can’t alter their personalities completely and I wouldn’t want to—but I think they actually look forward to Sundays and their weekly “bear sangha”.

I know I do.

Who’s Coming to Dinner?

Another creative exercise was to invite 20 people, living or dead, to dinner. I gave myself the #20 spot, as even numbers ensure that no one is left without a supper partner. Circulating with cocktails ahead of the meal doesn’t require a specific pairing:

1. Terri (duh)

2. Nicole (poet)

3. Oscar Wilde (poet/playwright)

4. Will Shakespeare (poet/playwright)

5. Simon LeBon (poet/singer)

6. Agatha Christie (writer)

7. Victor Borge (musician/comedian)

8. Danny Kaye (actor/comedian/performer)

9. Bernie Taupin (poet)

10. Diana Gabaldon (writer)

11. Samuel Pepys (diarist)

12. Auguste Rodin (artist/sculptor)

13. Giancarlo Bernini (artist/sculptor)

14. John Singer Sargent (artist/painter)

15. David Brenner (comedian)

16. Jim Henson (puppeteer)

17. Herb Ritts (photographer)

18. Franco Zeffirelli (director)

19. The Mystery Guest (?)

20. Me

Then I had to create the party list, menu and theme of the evening.

Theme: “Art and Artists—Writers, Poets Artists, Actors, Performers and the Art of Creativity”

Discuss: inspiration

Demonstrate: process

Discuss: craft

Perform: sing, dance, tell a story, recite a poem, tell a joke, reveal a master’s secret.

I must say here that I loathe parties—particularly large ones, which means those attended by a greater number than four (and I am counted among the 4). As far as the menu plan, you’ve got to be kidding. What to feed 20 varied people from the span of centuries? Make it a potluck; everyone bring something to share. I’ll make the cake: white, with vanilla butter cream and a custard filling.

* * *

Eagle eyes in the audience will recall that this piece briefly appeared last Wednesday, but when it went live, the formatting was so wildly out of whack that  I pulled it to fix the problem.

Have I mentioned how I hate MS Word?

Random Ramblings

Recent ramblings of an idle brain …

The German word for stupid is doof—and I’ve lately had so many opportunities to use it that it’s already become a permanent part of my vernacular.

Citrus juice is an enemy of open wounds—I already knew this, but I’d forgotten it until my molar was pulled. As part of my liquid diet, I decided to treat myself to a fresh fruit smoothie and ordered one with mango, banana, orange and lime. It’s called a solar flare, and that’s what happened when it hit the extraction site. Doof!

I was actually prepared to become a temporary NY Rangers fan until Montreal beat the Bruins in Game 7. I may think I don’t care which team wins a playoff series, but it comes clear when the first goal is scored that I do have a preference. *&%$ (chink!)

My body can be a healthy weight and still be waaaaaaay out of shape.

No matter which version or how many times I watch it, I always hope for a different ending to Romeo and Juliet. I claim I’m not a romantic. I’m starting to wonder about that … and by the way, Leonardo diCaprio played a fabulous Romeo in Baz Luhrmann’s 1996 offering of the eternal tragedy. Ter and I watched it last week and I was gone the whole time. Just fell into the kid’s eyes and bled for him. Doof mushpot.

Long weekends are the best weekends! Enjoys yours.

With love,