Paperback Writer

I'm usually found 20 tomes deep in literary escapism but memoirs and essays really trip my trigger too.

Recent favs are Caitlin Moran’s How To Be A Woman and, of course the late, great, fabulous Nora Ephron.
        I Feel Bad About My Neck: And Other Thoughts on Being a Woman,
        I Remember Nothing: and Other Reflections,
        Crazy Salad and Scribble Scribble: Some Things About Women and Notes on Media
I read Heartburn too which I understood it to be a ‘fictional memoir’ -- loved her style/hated the husband. Of course. He was a cad and we’re meant to detest him...right?

In any case, while buzzing around Goodreads I found health, happiness, LOVE, peace, prosperity, SAFETY. a fictional memoir by Kevin Tudish. I'd not read him before -- in fact, I think this might be his first book.

Why’d I buy it? What was the hook for me? Tudish isn't writing about homicidal space aliens on deadly pioneer worlds (think Zoe’s Tale), there are no ginger headed orphans on Prince Edward’s Island or Magnificent Desolations of life after walking on the moon. You know, the uzh for me.

He’s writing about life in the Silicon Valley, growing up in an itinerant military family; dividing time between making art and making a living; negotiating marriage and the unexpected fortunes of fatherhood;

Between his light wit, questing and questioning heart and mind, the frequent, magically delicious turns of phrase, the lyricism, I couldn’t put it down.

Waddya mean the doctor will see me now? Lemme read just one more page!
            I gotta go to work? Can’t I read just one more page?
                       Our herd ‘o’ cat’s waiting to be fed? Can you slop them tonight? Yes, again.
                                     Waddya mean, ‘dinner’s burnt?’
                                                 Can’t be -- I just sat down for a sec to read one page!

The teaser first page on Amazon is what really totes snagged me* -- not with a giant space ship crashing to earth scene but a quiet, charming ‘c’mere, let’s chat. I’ll tell you a story. It’ll be spun with truths, paths walked, questions, funny stories and otherwise.'

"Sometimes it snows at Christmas, like two years ago when we got two feet overnight, but usually it's just cold and the trees are bare. Animals forage, but the miles of forest are otherwise dormant, gray and brown.

Inside, there's plenty of life crowded behind the steamy windows. More people than bedrooms, more food than can fit in the cupboards and refrigerators. The golds and greens and red velvet of Christmas.

Despite everyone's promise to dial it back this year, the pile of gifts overwhelms the tree.

You start gaining weight the first day. The walk and the crunches and the blueberry smoothie first thing in the morning are vestigial habits that give way to shuffling down the hall to the breakfast table for coffee and nut rolls.

Nut rolls are an important thread in my family history. Both grandmothers made them. My mom made them every Christmas: wherever we lived, whichever coast or continent, she rolled out the tiny crescents of sugary dough, filled them with walnuts and cinnamon soaked in milk and butter.

Three days in, you're glad you brought sweat pants."

Talking about his father -- a very different seeming man than the author -- and how he learned so

much from him:

"In a military family, war is never an abstract. You live around the armament, climb in and out of it on field trips. Everything your dad does every day is in preparation for it. Almost everyone has seen combat. But my dad never made it sinister. It was always a possibility, even a likelihood, but it was just something we were ready for, not something that kept us up at night or contaminated our lives.

He knew how awful it was, how it would never be beyond the periphery of our lives, so he made it an entertainment.

“One of the cooks on Guadalcanal used to make wine out of grape jelly. And you could cut a hole in a coconut, pour in some sugar and plug it up for a week to make some hooch.”

“They used to shoot at us from the jungle. One day, we were taking sniper fire, so we got down behind the wheel of a P-39. This Marine comes strolling down the beach. He’s got a Browning Automatic, and ammo strapped all over him. All I could think was, If they hit him, man, we’re all going up. ‘Jump out and draw some fire,’ he says, ‘so I can see where it’s coming from.’ We drew a few shots from the jungle and he let go with that Browning.”

It was all candid information about life in a war zone, but he talked about it the same way he talked about being able to ice skate on Dunkard Creek all the way from Davistown out to Poland Mines, where the creek empties into the Monongahela; or how he talked his way into every funeral in town so he’d have a chance to ride in a car. There was an affection for his experience, for learning to improvise and survive.

I wanted to give my own kid that sense that there’re catastrophic forces at work, things that can annihilate you in an instant, but you don’t have to live in fear of them."

**************************************
So beautifully, lyrically put.

A discussion with his wife over their daughter’s misconstrued laugh leads to a memory of his own badly timed mirth overload.

"“She just started laughing at me,” my wife said. “She took this really snotty tone, and when I called her on it she started laughing.”

Like when we wrecked two cars in one night.
..........................................................................snip
The more I snickered and the closer we came to seeing my dad explode, the funnier it seemed.

Of course she laughed at you, I thought while my wife was telling the story. She couldn’t help herself."

************************************** 
You just have to read the whole story -- it’s funny, sad and I can SO relate.

More discussions:

"“That’s twice this week she’s wanted you to put her to bed,” my wife said.
“Maybe she misses me.”
“You were in there a long time.”
“We were discussing the big issues. God, eternity.”
“Really? Did she tell you the class hamster died?”
“That’s what started the conversation.”
“Did she want to know if Hammy was in heaven?”
“Yeah, and what heaven was like.”
“What did you tell her?”
“No cats, and no Republicans.”"

************************************** 
HAH! Señor, you are mistaken. Heaven IS cats but you’re right too -- no Republicans.

The thrills of seeing your child grow:

"And when she wanted to play poker with my family, and in a game of deuces wild threw down her cards and said, “Natural straight.”
I loved the experience of raising a child, but it got a lot more fun the first time she said, “Five-card draw, Jacks or better to open.”" 

************************************** 
I wanna share a bottle of Jami with this guy and get him to tell me ALL his stories! His daughter's gonna be a fabulous Hell-On-Wheels adult.

Ponderings on marriage:

"Of the myriad things I’d fantasized as part of my marriage, being able to share a sense of humor was one I wanted most. Even if she were an astounding beauty with an unfettered sexual imagination, if we weren’t able to laugh together, riff on any banal moment, then the experience of her beauty and erotic abandon would be cold comfort through the most of our lives when we weren’t fucking.
.............................................................................................................................................snip
The good moments are amplified, and the bad ones muted. You buoy one another with a sense of good fortune and a shared indulgence in the silliness of life.

Otherwise, marriage is a long low-blood-sugar episode where you feel deprived and put upon."

************************************** 
Trenchant -- that last line is trenchant, I tell ya!

Marriage and kids:

"...more often, now, I hear her parroting her mother’s impatience with me. It’s easy enough for her to find her own fault with me, but that’s at least genuine, cultivated from her own experience. It bothers me to see this alliance forming around a prejudice that’s beyond her, to see something that my wife cultivates inculcated in my daughter without her having a chance to decide whether it’s valid.

It’s easy to make kids proxies. You repeat the same things over and over, let your own pain or disappointment color the remark, until it becomes an inherited truth like racism."

Convos with kiddles:

"“Dad, are you and Mom getting a divorce?”
“Uhm, not that I know of. Why do you ask?”
“Mom was asking how I’d feel if you guys lived in different houses, if I had to stay part of the week in one house, and part of the week in another.”"

************************************** 
I was so roped into these characters that this part sent a chill through me.

I want to meet the author (duh. OF COURSE I DO!) and his parents too. He feels like an old friend.
I want to be his daughter’s art teacher.
I alternate between disliking his wife and admiring her. She seems utterly pragmatic and, possibly, fun to dish with over a nice Cakebread Sauvignon Blanc.

How much is real and how much is fiction in this fictional memoir? I suppose only the author, his wife and their daughter know the answer to that.

* In the quoted out sections from Mr. Tudish's work, any and all misquoting, typos and other assorted strange crap is my own damn fault. I can't copy and paste from the Kindle app so I just keyed it all in. I would've made a wretched typist. Good thing that wasn't one of my life goals.

Wild Ride -- The 6th and Final Chapter

Acts such as this were my downfall. I had lost respect by not carrying out my word but I kept myself in tact by not performing the feats that would have made him love me. He said he would love me forever if I did these things and still I couldn't do them.

At least I knew my brain was working even if it was costing me the man I was attracted to more that words.



While we were saving for our tent to call home, we were sent from our Cadillac home. We had to find somewhere to stay that wasn't expensive but also allowed us to come and go -- to forage for aluminum. At the shelter we had to stay indoors until four in the morning -- much too late in the night/morning to come and go unnoticed in neighborhoods and backyards. We needed to be out after midnite and until early morning -- Canyon said he knew of such a place; it was indoors and we could stay there for a week or two.

This was how, at forty years of age, I came to live in a roll away dumpster. We cleaned it up and gathered a mattress that was big enough for the three of us to sleep on. The dumpster became home.

Early mornings we were waiting to get our cash for the night before's take. We would gather alcohol, tobacco and food, returning to the yard where the dumpster sat amongst twelve others -- a yard that seldom had visitors. We had good nights and bad but we always returned as three men who had worked to gather supplies for home. We would take our sleep whenever possible. We spent time alone, in groups of two and, for the most part, as a family of three.

The weather was making a more than favorable turn and rain was hardly around -- we were living outside in optimum conditions. We bathed outdoors with gallons of water and would take turns soaking and rinsing each other. We all had toothbrushes and razors and did laundry to guarantee we were always clean -- one of Sean's many rules. We were seen by many people in the morning and throughout the days. No one was allowed to know where we were staying -- just that we had escaped the shelter and were now living on our own.

It was on one of the nights, when we'd had a particularly profitable morning, that I could no longer contain my love for Aiden. We had been drinking and napping all day -- a time when it was only me and Aiden. Opportunities like these didn't come around much. Canyon and Aiden kept the same schedule so it was often just me alone with my thoughts -- sometimes it was the three of us but rarely was it me with Aiden alone.

We sat outside the dumpster while Canyon slept, passing a bottle between the two of us, telling stories about life and whatnot, laughing. Our flirting was commonplace now but taken by the three of us as merely jest -- though all of us knew my intent was intentional.

I've never found it easy to hide what I feel when I feel something strongly and this was no different, no matter what the consequences would be.

As afternoon turned to evening, shadows fell on us as the sun dropped away -- we welcomed the dusk. I was entirely consumed by Aiden -- his presence, his warmth (which I imagine he still hides except for special occasions), and the moment which was being written while we watched.

Evening came and with it, bats from the woods beside our shelter came to life. They swarmed over the yard -- the sky was thick with them. We both became hypnotized by the mood that was set. I looked at Aiden with his long gray hair covering his eyes and shoulders, with his red tank top showing off the physique, betraying his true age. I leaned across and brushed the hair away from his face and kissed his lips.

Time froze. It wasn't until I put my hand to his face, as he turned his lips down to meet mine, that the moment was broken. He displayed genuine concern (or was it Jewish guilt?) with what had occurred and asked what my intentions were.

He detached himself emotionally from the moment and spoke of needing to digest what had occurred. There was a long pause between us as we stared into each others eyes. He then asked if this was a sign that we should try it again, and we did, longer than we had previously.

We grasped at each other with both of our hands in an embrace. I had told him I was in love with him and we kissed -- who knew what was to come? I was lost in what was and will always be the most romantic moment of my life; next to a dumpster, encircled with bats, with nowhere to call home -- I had found heaven. There would be a roller coaster of sexual tension and fulfillment, arguments that would end our special bond and lies and betrayals that would ultimately tear us apart forever. For this moment, however, we had found love between two men which knows no name and cannot be smeared or undone by events, strangers, or even ourselves.

________________________________________________________________

Brian is a bohemian writer with a fab-ola warped sense of humor and sarcasm, provided at no additional charge. He married a great guy and moved out of the States to Australia.

Wild Ride -- Chapter 5

 One night soon I would remove my bootlace and try to strangle him in his sleep because he asked me to. When I failed it would be the beginning of the end of us.



 We met up with Canyon at the recycling center and Aidan sprang his plan into action. We would be a team, not live in the shelter and we would split the recycling profits. Canyon was only one of the few people who could change Aidan's mind about anything but there was no going back once we’d agreed and toasted the occasion, with vodka and beer at eight o’clock in the morning. Aidan and I would live in the Cadillac until we had enough money for the three of us to buy a tent. Then we would live in the woods.

The owner of the Caddy had resigned himself to a thirty day stay at the V.A. detox and threw the keys to Aidan.  By any standard the car was dead so it was relegated to ‘home’ status. I took my place in the drivers seat to sleep, with Fred, another friend, shotgun, as well as the myriad people who stopped by, wanting to make the back seat their own.

Not only did we have the homeless people who needed a place to stay stopping by, we had other street people such as drug dealers and whores. They knew the car and its occupants and were always willing to bring something into our ‘home’ -- a bottle, a pipe or their naked bodies. The days were filled with adventures that no one could imagine -- ten dollars still goes far in the armpit that is our city.

One night as we were drinking and smoking and talking,  Aidan made a simple request that I kill him while he slept. He was at the end of his line and wanted out. He wanted someone he trusted to make it happen.

I thought I was that person and agreed. I gave him a handful of medication that would render him unconscious and helpless and, of the dozen pills I gave him, he secretly took only two, a sign to me that he was bluffing, that he didn't want to go through with it. He should be thankful I noticed the pills he had left in his hand, the ones he tried to hide. It's the only reason he's still alive.

I switched seats and sat in the back with our temporary occupants -- that left me sitting behind him. When he asked if I could be depended on, I told him I had some experience with untimely death but I was drunk and had little to use in the way of tools.

As I untied my boots, I made the connection that I had something to use to bring his sorry life to a conclusion. My preferred method would have been to drug him though.  I had tried choking him with my hands while he slept but his arms instinctively went to his throat and he was a big man. The laces would have to work. He took the first lace away, so I tried my second one. I had a vision of ten years at least in prison with a group of people who knew Aidan and would have a deadly interest in the man who killed him in his sleep.

I curled up on my seat and went to sleep knowing that I would have explaining to do the next day but that I'd done the correct thing at least to protect myself. He woke up groggy the next morning and was bitter. He came up with a plan that I was to cut his throat with a razor knife the following night as we were beginning to can our route. He placed the knife in my hand and begged that I not let him down again.

There was suspense the entire night as he walked in front of me, the plan was that I come from behind him and just do the deed -- he gave me many opportunities. As the sun came up, he admonished me -- he was disappointed to see the sunrise,

I looked at him and said that I was selfish, that I wanted him here with me and that I would not do it.

Acts such as this were my downfall. I had lost respect by not carrying out my word but I kept myself intact by not performing the deeds that would have made him love me. He said he would love me forever if I did these things and still I couldn't do them. At least I knew my brain was working even if it was costing me the man I was attracted to more that words can express.


________________________________________________________________

Brian is a bohemian writer with a fab-ola warped sense of humor and sarcasm, provided at no additional charge. He married a great guy and moved out of the States to Australia.

Wild Ride -- Chapter 4

 I've never had such fun in a bush next to a church in the pouring rain with two strangers than I had that day.



Aidan snored, I snored, we both snored -- that's how we ended up together. At the shelter they group snorers together, like the brass section in the Miami Sound Machine.

For an entire week, we got to sleeping next to each other. I was in bed seven, he was in bed eight -- every time the staff announced our beds, I rejoiced. This unbelievable man was to my left -- unimaginable joy.

I had arrived to the shelter with my favorite book, and I leaned over him, in front of eighty men, and read it to him -- it was Dr. Seuss' The Cat in the Hat. I read it to him and he let me read it to him with a hand grabbing his upper arm, hidden from everyone in sight.

For that week I would be standing in line -- a leather bag would be thrust next to mine. Aidan would ask me to watch it, to guard his spot in line, a spot that no one at the shelter would be fool enough to say didn't belong to him. When we showered together, in separate stalls of course, it was mentioned that we were 'saving water.' Slowly everyone came to know what was happening and they became determined, as determined as I was to make us together, they worked to keep us apart.

It was also during this time that Aidan disclosed that we needed more money and that Canyon had a way that could provide it, so long as we became a team. We all had something to bring to the table, Canyon had his brain and intuition, Aidan was the muscle to provide protection if we were caught, and I was the guy who would push the cart -- affectionately know as the Ox.



The following week came with Aidan, Canyon, and I standing in line, having gotten there intoxicated. When we did our intake, Aidan went in front of me and I heard loud voices in the hallway. Aidan stormed past me saying he had been thrown out. During the search, the staff member had crabbed too close to his crotch and Aidan's arms went up in defense, enough to scare the staff member out of his mind. Staff members have the final say and Aidan was barred for life from the shelter.

I watched him from a window and worried for me and for him. Where would he sleep? Was I protected in a shelter where everyone had been threatened by our alliance? I had known the arrangement was too good to last but was dismayed that it could end so soon. Canyon came to my side, we rolled our cigarettes for the next day, and he swore that he would find a solution. We would all be together soon and it wouldn't be in the shelter.

Aiden was a popular guy -- there was a white Cadillac parked by the street in front of the shelter and that's where he'd stay for now.

One night soon I would remove my bootlace and try to strangle him in his sleep because he asked me to and when I failed it would be the beginning of the end of us.

________________________________________________________

Brian is a bohemian writer with a fab-ola warped sense of humor and sarcasm, (provided at no additional charge). He married a great guy and moved out of the States to New South Wales, Australia.

Wild Ride -- Chapter 4



I was sitting on my bed, my thoughts full of how to do what's next, what to do. Then he was sitting

on my bed.

He told me he wanted to know how he should go about getting help -- he'd heard I was a person who could help him and was asking for an instructional of how to get what he needed. On my bed, sitting there, was the icon from my mind and he needed my help. And all I wanted was to get him under the sheets. Thank god I was drugged or he would have noticed my instant 'attention.'

 I tried to keep the conversation light. From the luck of the draw, his bed was just above mine. We were neighbors. He told me his name was Aidan but his friends called him Killer. I called him Aidan -- I will always call him that because we were not friends. We were never friends. These are his words and not mine, 'We are what we are.' That wasn't true though -- to his friends he would say "Me and Sam are me and Sam." He was a strong presence but at the same time was missing something in his life. I became determined to fill that void.

He was tired and quickly drifted off to sleep. This left me perched on my bed, looking over at him, thanking God for having sent him to my life. I also wished it was tomorrow, because I'd have the pleasure of having known him better for two days rather than just the one.



I returned from an appointment and was walking up the hill of what leads into the city's worst neighborhood when I looked past the church, towards the liquor store. Coming out the door was Aidan, with a brown paper bag and a spring in his step. I caught his eye -- he walked over to me and started talking. The dialogue was friendly and masculine -- within minutes I was invited to drink with him and Canyon.

Thus began the painful emotional struggle of always wishing we were alone, knowing that his friends had seen the appeal that he so clearly emanated. They were attracted to him differently than I was, no sexual tension, but it was the same in that they felt better about themselves when they were around Aidan. They fed into his desires, wishing to make him happy so they were able to bask in the light his soul radiated. We walked behind the laundromat with bottles in hand and began to bond in the way that men do.

Even in homelessness and poverty, there is bragging beyond measure of accomplishments -- where you’d come from, where you were going and how you would go about making your wishes come true. Canyon was smart, you knew it from talking to him for five minutes,. He was also directed in his goals by his priorities. His priorities were cocaine, beer, cigarettes and being with people he considered friends. He and Aidan had been friends for years. Over the consumption of beer in a back alley, I got the capsule version of who they each were.

Aidan, knowing the last fifteen years of his life was miserable entirely due to substance abuse and mental illness, was the voice of reason to dissuade any illegal activity. Canyon was the devil on your shoulder, waiting until you were just buzzed enough to consider listening to the suggestion to run astray. That and he had impeccable timing. We scored and walked down the street, looking for an acceptable place to consummate the relationship, substance wise.

 As we walked down that street, Aidan walked in front of me. I looked down at his hips, picked up an empty soda container and said "nice can." He thanked me, looked over his shoulder and saw I was pointing at the soda. I knew I had found a way to get my point across and that my point was taken. This is how you hit on someone who is clearly able to reject you without facing the rejection square in the face.  I was not rejected though. It was all I needed to pursue the chase.

I'm proud of myself for being so clever, thank you very much. I've never had such fun in a bush next to a church in the pouring rain with two strangers than I had that day.

Tune in Friday for Chapter 5 of Wild Ride!
_______________________________________________________________

Brian is a bohemian writer with a fab-ola warped sense of humor and sarcasm, (provided at no additional charge). He married a great guy and moved out of the States to Australia.

Wild Ride -- The Crush (chapter 3)

 Winter’s end was nearing and the weather was starting to take a seasonable turn for the better. I had assumed my spot in line, the winter arrangement had ended. We had our beds assigned to us in the order of our appearance -- the earlier you returned to the line, the more favorable chance you had at a bed. It was never a guaranteed, done deal unless you had a permanent bed assigned to you. This made the wait longer, as you had to arrive earlier, which made standing in the line about as much fun as a root canal.

Talk always ranged from who had acquired what during the day, who you'd seen making way around town, and always, who was too intoxicated to fool the staff, who would not be getting 'in' that day. Our shelter staff consisted of easy going and not so easy going people who could, it seemed, smell alcohol from all the way down the line, and the rules were vague.

For some, just being intoxicated barred you from entering. For others, as long as you weren't trying to smuggle a bottle in during search, you could do no wrong. It was during the chatter of 'who will? who won't?' that I spied a new face in the line, talking to Canyon.

This was Aidan and, once seeing him, I knew we were going to join forces instantly -- the way you recognize an old friend. He was familiar and a charismatic stranger at the same time, clearly from prison with a 'the sun revolves around me' attitude. Like a Santa Claus who had taken the low road, he wore glasses that made him look smarter -- a tank top that made him look foreboding with a broad chest and muscled arms, long gray hair and beard that made him look wiser than any man I have ever seen. Incredible eyes that showed his enthusiasm for just being outside after being caged so long -- vitality effused from him and he had a voice that was, at once, all that I was willing to hear. Everything else was shut out, and I hung on his every word. He had a voice that was deep and masculine but clearly loved to laugh.

My mission was clear before I spoke to him and I planned my strategy immediately. I had food stamps, or what we affectionately call 'grub stubs', and headed to the corner store, breaking line and asking a mate to guard my bag, and my place in line. It was a warm day and I casually grabbed at ice creams in the freezer until the store clerk looked at me as if I were totally insane, loading them onto the counter. I returned to the line and started eating one and offered them to my friends in line and then made my way towards him. I casually looked in his direction and asked if he wanted one -- it gave me a chance to look more closely at him and introduce myself. AND also see if I could generate two flickers of interest -- one of genuine friendship and one that was entirely sexual.

In a Native American sense of understanding, it was clear to me that Dan had left this world and my life because he knew that Aidan was coming. There was nothing anyone could do to stop our meeting -- it was best to relinquish any hold on me, because the minute I looked, I was lost in him. In a world of wanting and feeling attraction to people that goes unanswered, hoping you're right, understanding when you're not, who'd have guessed that this guy would hear the message and have one of his own for me?

Who could know that he would ask me to kill him, and that I would agree to do it?
_________________________________________________________________________________

Brian is a bohemian writer with a fab-ola warped sense of humor and sarcasm, (provided at no additional charge). He married a great guy and moved out of the States to Australia.

Wild Ride -- Chapter 2

I chose a shelter outside the city, in a suburb of Boston, that I knew was a toilet -- a bad place with even worse inhabitants. This is where I decided to settle in -- it fit my feelings of myself at the time and was where I deserved to be.

Surrounded by strangers, with an income that could provide necessary toiletries and tobacco, I pursued my recovery and made a pledge to ingest the medications, prescribed by doctors, that would restore my sanity and refrain from the self prescribed medications that had led to my near demise.

Transitioning to shelter life is a hard road, and what's worse about being sheltered is that for most of the morning until afternoon, you aren't sheltered at all and are exposed to the elements of your environment. Shoes protect your feet, a jacket keeps you warm, but what protects you from the deviants who have years of experience in this life compared to your complete lack of knowledge?

The people who are first in line to befriend you are the people you've needed to worry about most. If you were treated with indifference, it meant that you had nothing worth taking. If you are approached, it is by a predator or predators who have seen something you own and are completely motivated in the mission of making sure you don't own it for long. You have a choice. You can share your belongings willingly, or watch as they are carted away. By dispensing cigarettes, you are really guaranteeing that you get to keep some of them. The ones you give away insure your safety and you're accepted into the group, making it easier to sleep at night with your possessions under your bed, your wallet in your pillowcase and your shoes under your head, with the false sense of security that they will surely be there when you wake up.

Originally I intended to be a loner, to attend my day program and stay sober, but survival being an instinct that I possess, I soon discovered that you were either friendly with certain people or preyed upon by them. I convinced myself that, being an attractive likable person who could hold his own on the streets, alliances would have to be made -- lest they discover that I was as vulnerable as any other pigeon walking the streets.

I reinvented myself as a street worthy soul who could drink and provide drink to worthy sidekicks and was once again back to a world of drugs, a world I had a great understanding of, one I could pretend to enjoy. I found I was magnetic to the worst of the worst, stealing, drinking, and scamming were traits that were revered, and when in Rome, I found I am quite Roman.

When the idea of 'canning', or turning in recycled aluminum came to my mind for additional income, I took to it like an honest soul.

Two people came into my life who showed me how to make real money doing it. The word 'people' I use exceptionally loosely but, the reality is, they became parent figure. I acted out for attention and acceptance, believing I had found people who I could depend on and trust, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Let's just say that one night I was snoring loudly. A stranger came to my cot and kicked it, waking me up saying his first words to me, which were "Stop fucking snoring!" Snoring is as uncontrollable as your natural habits of say -- heart beating and breathing. This was an impossible request, but what the hell, I could give it a try. It was early morning, what I later found to be prime canning time. This is how I met Canyon, the master canner of the city we called home. Canyon it turned out could smell aluminum in a sense, and worked alone in the early mornings. It would take a show of force from a charismatic person to turn this into a profitable triad, and unknown to either of us, he was on the horizon.

Tune in this coming Friday for chapter three of The Wild Ride _________________________________________________________________________________

Brian is a bohemian writer with a fab-ola warped sense of humor and sarcasm, (provided at no additional charge). He married a great guy and moved out of the States to Australia.

Wild Ride

This is the first of six chapters --  a story by my friend Brian Luciano. 

I walked into my house with unbelievable pain in my lower back and the realization that Dan was dead -- never coming back to the house. The police had finished questioning me hours earlier and released me.

There were phone calls to Dan's family and explanations necessary, of course. All of which I was not prepared to do at the time.  I called my day program to let them know what had occurred and that I would not be attending that day, then I sat on a recliner and drifted off to a much needed sleep. 

I awoke in a swirl of commotion  -- ambulances, police cars and my roommate doing what she could to control the situation, which was well out of her scope. I walked upstairs and blurted that my back hurt, and was instantly on a stretcher. I'd thought I pulled some muscles dragging Dan to the tub and returning him to the bed after his overdose. I was taken in for observation where later I found that my organs were failing due to an overdose as well. By 'getting rid of the evidence' the only way I knew how, I'd ingested a lethal dose myself.

I was in so much pain that they prescribed morphine every two hours for what went on for days and I made this observation: drug overdose sometimes seems like a peaceful and easy way out but it can be more painful than death itself. I've never been in such a state of pain that doctors, knowing I suffered from an addiction to heroin, would prescribe morphine and, when asked, no one could say if I would live or die.  It was touch and go for about a week and still I played the game.

I was not suicidal by psychiatric standards and was improved to the point of release. I was not released to an institution or a detox but was put in a cab and sent home. Since I had money and no desire to go home, I was dropped off at the local tavern, where in agony, I squeezed onto a bar stool, ordered a beer and a shot and drank until the distance home seemed acceptable even with the pain.
I returned to my house, and stood in the space where Dan and I had so many escapades and was filled with a sudden anger with myself, which was followed by nothing, nothing but the knowledge that I couldn't stay in a world of Dan's possessions knowing they were always going to be a strict reminder to me of what had passed -- knowing I could no longer enjoy what average people enjoyed. I deserved far less, and was going to escape to a world where I received or gave nothing to anyone and would protect the world from a toxic demon -- AKA me.

I packed two bags of my belongings and left the rest never to return to the scene of the best and the worst times of my life. In my twisted way of judgement there weren't any other options.


Tune in this coming Sunday for chapter two of the Wild Ride ________________________________________________________
Brian is a bohemian writer with a fab-ola warped sense of humor and sarcasm, (provided at no additional charge). He married a great guy and moved out of the States to Australia.

Through April Woods

Yeah, I'm a month early with April but, on this cold, snowy, sleeting late winter day -- I think we all need some April, some tales of the mysterious wood.

by Della Marinis
originally from Fürst Told Blog, April 13, 2010

I walked ahead because the others dragged their feet. The woods were damp and cool that morning and the sky a deep blue I hadn’t seen in months. The scent was resonant, speaking something other than the city so that I became lost in it and didn’t hear the approaching crackle of leaves underfoot. Not at first.

 Then I turned and scanned the stretch of birch, alder and pine for a face. I could see no one, just a low, swinging branch. Someone was there but had gone.


There was soft April light ahead and it drew me further in, nonchalantly, a smiling forest in a dawning season. Another quivering limb, this time ahead, and I knew I was on the trail of something. Something smaller than a person but larger than a bread box. I picked up speed.

 A glossy coat darted across my path and then slipped behind a tree. I expected it to be white but it was dark, coal black and coarse but oddly gentle against the spiky brush of the forest. Still, I felt a little like Alice chasing the rabbit, on the edge of an adventure.

  I steered clear of the mossy logs and (bottomless) holes camouflaged beneath the leaves. Where was everyone? I had set my own path and behind me the trees were quiet but for the clear phrases of the Song Thrush. Then it caught my eye again – the black knight trotted swiftly between heavy trunks, still playing his hand.

Finally I came to a stream that was cold and flowing fast, carrying along young leaves, clinging like cupped vessels for beetle-sized riders. I waited there, plunking in stones that I imagined lifted his spry ears. But I couldn’t see my absconder. I saw nothing but a whisper of his stare through the leaves.
I lost the trail but found my friends and once at home again, felt restless. I looked around absently until it dawned on me something bigger than a bread box was missing. Something not there before, but clearly gone.

I thought my wants started with want, but have discovered it’s the thing itself that sets the chase. Like the white rabbit. Down the path. It seems he’s out there and wants to be found.

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An evocative bijou from my fabulous, Berlin dwelling cousin Della Marinis. She writes young adult fiction, has been a teacher, a toiler in the HR fields, has two amazing kids, a tremendous husband (Martin), is fluent in Dutch and German and she's 9 kinds of wise and funny besides.

My February Guests

AND we have short fiction!
a post by Della Marinis -- originally from Fürst Told Blog, February 17, 2011

Last night I had ghosts as dinner guests. Friends and family who paid the courtesy of a visit though I hadn’t seen them in a very long while – the last time only within a dusty frame or from my memory as a small child. Some had lived and died before I was  born, so I was frankly surprised to see them at all.
This February recalls all the Februaries that came before – dim, drizzly or bright with vague temperatures that hardly kindle an emotion. Sometimes the sturdy breeze brings a hint of spring or promise of storm but mostly, it lingers between worlds.

It was for this reason I began with soup – a deep green pea that I hoped might appeal to both a winter and springtime palate.

Still, Enid puckered her lips at the first spoonful.
“Is it endive?” she asked.
“No, no, no my dear,” whispered Gerald beside her, adjusting his monocle. “A velouté d’épinards, certainly.”
“I do find it tastes something like blackberry,” piped cousin Minerva from across the table.

Her hollow cheek was a downy shade of grey even in the lamplight.

I wondered if my guests were capable of tasting at all and sat silently as the conversation ran to other nonsense, from the peculiar pattern of my violet drapes (which do not exist) to the French ancestors once inhabiting the house.
“What year was that, exactly?” I plied cautiously, with a glimpse at Great Aunt Bertha’s bloodless lips.

She turned her eyes up at the ceiling in a moment of grave thought.
“Why, 15…1585 it must have been,” she wheezed, fixing one unnerving eye on me and adding defiantly, “we were quite a formidable family then, you know.”

“Our house is only a hundred years old,” I protested but the subject had already changed – along with the food, for at once steaming bowls of fish
stew flecked with parsley appeared before us. The ghosts heartily dug in.
Soon, long gowns swept the flagstones, men smoked cigars and a dog fell asleep by the fire. Someone gestured toward the portrait of Miss Mary above the mantle and like a distant dream I heard sighs, snickers and all the usual ebb and flow of a dinner party that was winding down.

When the guests had gone I chose to just ignore the scatter of cups and plates, hoping they’d disappear as mysteriously as they came and made my way up the stairs.

I could hear the rain tapping softly at the windows followed by quiet and then back again, something in the way of ghosts caught between worlds.

This, as all Februaries I have known won’t be remembered, though it will likely remember me just the same.

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© Della D. Marinis, 2009-2011
Della Marinis is my tremendous Berlin dwelling cousin. She writes young adult fiction, has been a teacher, a toiler in the HR fields, has two amazing kids, a magnificent husband (Martin) -- all that and she's 9 kinds of wise and funny besides.