Hergest Ridge

Out in the dark the creaking tree sways in the wind, the window beside open - fresh air coming in, Chris and I sucking on green and blue straws struck into snowcones of equally vibrant colours, playing games. A hundred such nights passed, and many others too. All good times.

The house was a doorway to things new, like music I’ve never heard before - in particular that one disc with the health warning “could be hazardous to the health of cloth-eared nincompoops.” Before then, I really was a cloth-eared nincompoop - most people today are. I’m fortunate to have been immunised at a young age.

Some years later at the same house with the red trimming and the creaking tree out front, a gathering was in progress. A hundred such gatherings took place there over time - some special others quite plain, both kinds enjoyed equally. (That house has different people living in it now, all making their own memories. So does the one just down the street, the plain, aged blue one that never should have been blue; the one where I dreamt when I wasn’t making memories or cutting class.)

I moved back into the area a few years ago, sometimes I think doing so only for the convenience of walking down the same street when on the daily walk without the dog. A dog would be happy with me - I’d be happy with a dog - but the landlord is a scrooge. They tend to be.

On occasion I pass the two homes without noticing, but most of the time I look in through the windows and experience something akin to Mr. Vonnegut’s Timequake. I know the people I see, and look - there I am, too!

The house is full to the brim - people old, young, pretty, and those shunned by God. Smart people, and the stupid ones too, those that found the address despite their handicap. You may think me not nice for saying such things, but to be nice I’d have to lie.

With so many folks on the scene, it would be boring and confusing to go into detail about all. Most likely talked about the weather, and how much they hate their boss. “How about them Jets?”

(God, I hate professional sports! The city wants to use my tax money to build a new stadium - I just want kids to worry less about student loans. The stadium of course brings more votes at election time, and fares much better at the penis envy like competition in which municipalities engage. The added bonus of easier control over those with IQs matching the temperature in Celsius makes the choice a no-brainer, leaving but one question: all season, or a seasonal venue? That’s what the choices are down to.)

One of the people that came by once, and then always after that was Heather. She kept coming around until I left town in protest, and was gone for a year. Heather was Chris’ girlfriend. Chris was the only one that liked Heather, and I suppose he probably made up with his affection the disdain we all felt, so she stuck around

Heather did a lot of awful things, like give mothers of grown children parenting advice, after working at the Tiny Tots daycare for eighteen days. She told them everything about kids, the stages they go through, their needs, wants, and signals they give that parents miss. She was fucking brilliant - there was nothing she didn’t know about!

Heather repelled all, including children. Chris was immune. Everyone likes Chris, and most did their best to tolerate his companion. (”If it makes him happy, I’m happy for him.”) One of the several children she repelled was Rebecca - the Hydra pushed the girl so far, she ended up in my lap seeking distance and a measure of protection. Earlier that night Heather took the scrambling girl under her wing, pulled the game controller from the child’s hands, and imposed a Jetmoto racing crash course on the trapped girl. With honourable politeness, Rebecca suffered through the experience while I suffered for her. With the lesson over, Heather forgot to return the controller to the rightful owner and the victim knew to let sleeping dogs lie. She also knew that a timequake was right around the corner - that the whole episode would turn into a painful rerun unless she broke the cycle by quickly making use of her newly found freewill. That’s how things ended that night - with Rebecca and me sharing the second game controller, blowing Heather out of the water over and over again. I remained seated long after my legs fell asleep, and if I had the formula to create my own universe contraction, we’d all have relived that hour from ten years ago many a times.

Many things play themselves out when I look through the windows of the homes on my walk without a dog. I tend to narrate them under my breath in a mix of languages. No one’s around to hear and try to make sense of it. If I had a dog, I suppose it would get used to the strange sounding monologue. It’d smile the way dogs tend to, put another snowy paw forward, and think “I love it when he makes those strange sounds. I don’t know what he’s on about, but it sure makes him happy. Treats make me happy. But what ever rocks his boat I’m glad he’s found it.”

“Good dog - good girl.”

The consortium of hags, unofficially anointed,

their frowns set stern, ugly and pointed,

They tug on the arms of a small, green tree,

cut from the meadow - no longer free.

Grey rags draped over bodies, shrunken complexions,

for each action suggested, a thousand rejections.

They bicker for hours, then start to yell,

Why all the noise? No one can tell.

The shrill voices and anger, with no end in sight,

the little green pine wished no part in such fight.

Its kin in the meadow, others kept warm with light,

But this event? It’s just not right!

Its options curtailed, only one left to take,

the little green tree, opted to shake.

By the time it was done, its needles down on the floor,

the old hags shrugged, and showed it the door.

Out in the snow it now stands bare and cold,

happy at last - Its sad story told.

Back against the wall, his arms around her waist and hers around his neck, time stuttered and forgot its way. If smiles were for bidding, hers would fetch the top price. Smith felt the moment absorb under his skin like ink into paper: the gray October light filling the halls of Gardenia Mall, the water lily scent of her dark long hair, the muted backdrop of sounds and echoes - all of it part of him now and forever.

To those around them, the kiss that followed might seem like a natural climax, and everything that led to the kiss a means to a common and predictable end. But a kiss can be shared with a neighbour, classmate, ones child or parent, a total stranger - it often is a means to an end. In time, it might wash from his memory like footprints on the beach, but the moment that lead will survive until both perish in flame, like ink on paper.

While most search for answers and connections to the universe, Smith understood that the woman before him with her embracing arms was the only connection he ever sought or desired. No position of power, no religion, or bank account could ever bring out the meaning of life with the grace and ease she did.

He liked best about himself the part that loved her so deeply and intricately. This simple truth was a great power, and like all natural forces it had no master. All you could do is hope that it does your bidding, while knowing at the back of your mind that someday it might come for you - a position well worth the risks, for what better way to die than of your own passion?

Her soft sweet lips pressed against his, time again found its composure and pressed on as it always did. Smith would have a lifetime to recall the roles played and cast performing, the stage and atmosphere, even the smell. Throughout his life he’d recall every detail, and when face to face with death, the reels of life’s cinema would spark the memory to life for one last time, this time in black and white. For what is life but a play in which everyone acts a part until the curtain comes down?

22:00 “Mad, Mad World” streaming directly into my mind, new jogging shoes on my feet, sailing through the night under the dark gray sky and the green trees really bring out the wonder of life. So many things coming together, the various pieces so much more than their sum.

There is something about that music track, the quiet piano all by itself, like a warning that no one wants to hear. It takes everything in its surrounding, plays on the shadows and calm exterior appearances, weaves all into one, and then gently waves a red flag, “You’ve been warned.”

17:30 Seven times they’ve sang “Happy Birthday” - that was the message, but the exact song is foreign to me - in less than two hours. The song comes with free desert for the celebrating individual to whom attention is drawn by the folks at Montana’s. Although I didn’t mention Caddy’s birthday, I can’t help wonder if he’d keep quiet for me. I think he would. Montana’s has been our Birthday Lunch place of choice for a couple years now, and I can’t remember having to wear the silly Viking headgear on either occasion. Surely, I’d remember that, which means he did indeed keep quiet.

Time flew by as it always does during these meetings. We met at the mall where my friend bought a pair of running shoes, and I decided to finally do so for myself. An impulse purchase of sorts, but one that was significantly overdue. Three weeks in pain from various injuries and old sores aggravated, last thing I want is for my feet to act up again. The summer is too short for sitting it out for such trivial reasons.

We visited the book store where I nearly bought “God is Not Great” by Christopher Hitchens . Had we left a few minutes earlier, I would have done just that. The few extra minutes was enough time to cool off - I should wait until the book is available in paper back. I have several books on my list of reading for the summer, and some of them are available cheap, or free on the web (Animal Farm looks to be out for open distribution). The library is of some help, but I have been told that the wait for Mr. Hitchens’ book is long.

“Red Strangers”, “The Lion Children”, “Atheist Universe”, “Snake Oil and Other Preoccupations”, and if I get really ambitious a shot at “Euclids Elements” are on my short list, along with anything by George Orwell. Yes - I do realise that Euclids Elements consists of 13 books, and No - I’m not even dreaming of reading more than the first book before fall is back in our hemisphere.

Back over lunch-turned-to-dinner, Caddy brought up an interesting point. Well, to be exact several interesting points are the norm and today was no exception, but there is one in specific I’d like to bring forth. He alluded that the side of the debate he presented with myself was quite the opposite of that he presents with other individuals. In other words, if the debate was with someone else, he would likely be asking a lot of the questions I am asking. Without getting into details and turning our personal conversation into a public forum, let me get to my point: There have been times where I agree with an individual, but press on with arguments against his or her stance. I play the Devil’s Advocate, but the other side is not aware that truly I happen to agree with them. “Why?”, I asked myself in reflection to such episodes. Am I just being facetious?

Caddy’s comment made me realise that to learn anything we need to be able to turn on our own views and challenge them, and sometimes the best way of achieving this method is to have others whom agree with you ‘fight for the belief’ by having it questioned. Besides, some of the best debates are those in which you make a convincing argument for something you don’t actually believe. Pulling off a feat of this nature shows a deeper understanding of the issue at hand, and can be very rewarding.

So, it’s settled then: I’m not trying to be difficult or facetious. Learning is the sought end result. At least that’s what I tell myself, but we all know that it’s impossible to observe a system from within without bias weighing in heavily on all such assessments.

12:00 Altering between Blocky (Addiction Defined - 543,891 Points), a couple of projects for clients, and a second reading of “The God Delusion” by Richard Dawkins, the day promises to be a fine one.

8:00 The city is covered in a blanket of fog. Two pigeons have once again decided to make my balcony their home. If it wasn’t for the mess they leave, they could stay. That, and they’d have to shut up, because on a day like today I’m going back to bed.