Intermezzo
December 14, 2007 in article about writing
An interesting question may be as follows:
“If Life for us humans is temporary and finite, then is this experience we are having just a mere intermezzo? An interlude? A pause? ” And, leading on from that: “If so, then what are we pausing FOR? “
If Life is the popcorn break, then what is the movie that’s playing? If Life is the anomaly, then what is the constant? If Life is the lucky hole-in-one, then what is the rest of the game like?
I walk along the beach.
Windy. Overcast, dull, gray sky. Mournful sea gull cries. Tide’s coming in. I zip up my jacket against the cold. A broken beer bottle intrudes into view, a discarded six pack carton, some flattened Budweiser cans. Testimony to those who have been, and left, and never bothered to concern themselves with those yet to come.
Offshore, the waves look to be ten to twelve foot high, with angry, white, blowing manes. But the beach is shallow, and the wavelets rippling in have lost their ferocity. Tamed, beaten down, with barely a whimper, they run out of energy, and stall feebly on the gentle upslope. The small, polluted crest, barely two inches high, is a distant shadowy relic of the proud breaker further out.
I smile grimly to myself. I see too well the metaphor for human life.
A shrimp boat is coming in.
The bored and tired crew, sorting their catch, are throwing the bycatch overboard. That, in turn, has attracted hundreds of hungry birds. Swooping, diving, fighting and screeching, they compete bitterly for dead scraps. The occasional victor, his mind focused only on his prize, twists and corkscrews away from his pursuers, convinced, for that heady moment of glory, that the essence of life has been richly achieved.
I grimace to myself. I see too well the metaphor for human competitive madness.
So… those sad little ripples, pale shadows of angry waves of yesterday, are like the ticking mechanism of an old clock. As regular, as inevitable, as predictable, as a metronome.
Tick-tock….tick-tock…tick-tock…
And, one day, in between two of those sad little ripples, those pale shadows of bygone angry waves, my heart shall stop. And I shall be no more. “Passed on “, is the euphemism.
“Croaked “, is the alternative.
I don’t find it a scary thought, or even a depressing one. Interesting. Especially when you see the mad, frantic dash and grab for money and power that goes on everywhere.
Humans are funny. I feel like asking:
“Do you think you can take it with you? “
“Why the rush? “
“Hey! Bonzo! Slow down! “
Life is just an intermezzo. An interlude. A very, very interesting one. But it’s just a stage post. It’s not the be all and the end all. Listen… to the music.
Tick-tock….tick-tock…tick-tock…
I’m contented. To live each day like it might be my last.
I’m contented. To write, to listen, to talk, to sing…. and to be quiet, and enjoy the peace of the rippling wavelets breaking on the sand.
It’s not fame we should target. Or money. Or wealth. Who cares if we are published, or read, or famous? We should write for the sheer love of writing, and self expression.
It’s the experience that counts. The joy. Of life and living.
The tide’s coming in. And the winds are strengthening. There’s a storm brewing. Maybe even a hurricane.
I zip up my jacket, chuckle to myself, and stride forwards, purposefully, alone, determined to enjoy…
the Intermezzo.
Francis Meyrick
(c)
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on August 10, 2009, 9:19 pm
Of Helicopters and Humans (1): “Living in a Cubicle “
December 12, 2007 in Helicopters and Humans
my faithful old ride ‘One-Four-Victor’, subsequently destroyed in a crash, that killed the pilot…
We were flying along in a Bell helicopter, quite happily, enjoying the strange magic of the African coastline, with a pale blue wintry sky. Cirrus clouds were weaving their thin, ephemeral presence at some dizzy height above us, and the wind, blustering from the south east, was whipping up some respectable waves below us. The white pluming crests, riding along briefly like proud peacocks, spoke of the forces of nature at work below. Then they would crash over backwards, and float ignominiously down the back of the advancing wave, reduced to little more than a dirty, foaming scum. I reflected wryly that their brief ride in glory could be construed as a parody of the fate of crooked business men.
“Just like some people I know “, I thought, quietly reflecting on the infamous ‘Enron’ and ‘Worldcom’ stock market disasters, and the greedy buffoons who I had seen parade smugly across my television screen. Their high priced lawyers, who had worked overtime (wrapping immorality and deceit in legally correct technicalities) had been on incessantly as well, proclaiming the innocence of their clients. They bridled with anger and indignation at any suggestion of wrong doing. The simple fact that a child could sense that it must have taken hundreds of people to collude shamelessly, raking in millions of dollars in the process, whilst tens of thousands of retirees and their families were to end up destitute, was ignored with a display of high browed lawyer indignation. Their poor clients were wholly unaware that anything was amiss. The fact that they had sold their shares at the market’s peak, and that everybody else, including long serving loyal employees, had been encouraged to buy, was just a case of their clients good market judgment, and absolutely (the lawyers would positively sputter with indignation) absolutely NOT the result of any nefarious undertaking. And the unfortunate fact that later, those same loyal, long serving employees had been prevented from selling their company stock… that was just an unfortunate miscalculation. The best and most sincere management motives had been appallingly misconstrued by the media.
I had watched the fracas unfold, and listened to the sad stories from the victims of this, a shameless heist, in the best traditions of Al Capone. A friend of mine, a fellow pilot, had lost three hundred thousand dollars, almost his entire 401(k) retirement fund. And his marriage. He was not alone. I had lost not a dime, but I felt the hurt nonetheless. It was easy to pick up on the sense of betrayal that many felt. The sense of helpless rage and frustration, as the lawyers worked overtime to decorate up a robbery as an unfortunate happenstance. All strictly legal of course…
I banked the helicopter slightly, and watched some dolphins cruising along purposefully, rising up and down out of the water in an age old rhythmic formation. I pointed, and my front seat passenger, a slightly pale looking young man, nearly jumped out of his seat. His eyes were like saucers, and he looked breathless.
I thought of those men, those leaders, standing in front of the cameras, flanked by their wives and lawyers. And I wondered about the middle ranking managers, those who had been high enough to get their fingers in the honey jar, and yet not high enough to have been targeted by federal prosecutors. The gray ones, the shadowy ones, who had profited so mightily from the quiet whispered conversations in the hallways. They who could have stepped up, but did not. They who could have restored at least a modicum of my faith in the human predator species, but did not. They, who will always proclaim their innocence, whilst secretly counting their retirement fund balances with six, seven, and even eight figure numbers. As if they could pay for a slice of eternity, or invest in immortality, with all that holy loot, safely (and legally, of course!) stashed away in offshore holdings…
The pale young man beside me was in his element. The helicopter flight was for him an adventure, an epic, and he did not know where to look first. His excitement, and the hunger in his eyes, was refreshing. All I knew about him was that he was a V.I.P., some back room boffin, with a string of advanced degrees, all the way from the tall skyscraper, with the tinted windows, and the long corridors, and the packed elevators. All the way from corporate head office in Houston, Texas, to a promising offshore oil field off the west coast of Africa.
The foreman, sitting in the back of the helicopter, had been very careful to extend to his important visitor every possible courtesy. His courtesy had almost been a trifle overboard, a trifle fawning, with the word “obsequious ” floating vaguely through my mind. I had observed it, but it didn’t worry or disturb me in the slightest. I formed no judgment of the foreman in my heart. He, doubtless, thought he was doing a good job, right down to explaining to me sneeringly over the intercom that this gentleman earned three times my annual salary. I had looked at my pale front seat passenger, and smiled gently. The VIP, possibly a little embarrassed by the foreman in the back, had smiled back, with a slight raise of his eyebrows. I, for my part, formed a liking for him, my pale young passenger. There was a humanity there, a sensitivity, that a stratospheric salary had obviously not transformed (yet?) into a worldly, false, haughty know-it-all cynicism. His interest in his surroundings was enthusiastic, with almost a hint of the child-like. I wondered how well he fitted in at corporate head office….
The platforms we were heading for were now appearing over the distant horizon, and I explained our whereabouts to my young friend. His interest and thirst for knowledge was keen and unfeigned. I guessed he was delighted to leave his office, and the theoretical concepts and dry statistics his working life revolved around, and to witness for himself first-hand the workings of this oil producing pumping heart in Angola, Africa.
Soon we could identify our destination platform, large and looming, a multi billion dollar investment, towering above the surrounding much smaller wellheads.
We had five minutes to go, and I would offload my charges, and I might probably never see him again. Perhaps the same thought crossed his mind. Perhaps we sensed one another’s mindset. He turned to me, thoughtfully.
“Thank you for the flight. It’s been wonderful. Thanks for the explanations. ”
I assured him it was nothing. He continued.
“I have to tell you, I love your job. What you see and experience from your cockpit, it’s… simply wonderful. It’s true I make a lot of money… ”
His voice trailed off. He was staring out the windscreen as if he was desperate to soak up the last few precious moments of this ride, before it was all over. He shook his head, wonderingly, almost musing to himself:
“….but I live in a cubicle. All I see is four walls covered in seismic survey reports, and production data. Most of the day I’m staring at a computer screen. I’m surrounded by hundreds of people in other cubicles. All doing the same thing… I can’t even begin to tell you how soul destroying it gets to be…. ”
There was silence from the back seat. I wondered what the foreman was thinking.
I found myself speaking softly, but with a deep conviction:
“Yes… money isn’t everything, is it? You can’t buy a slice of eternity with it, and you can’t take it with you. It’s a tool, often a useful one, but if it becomes the ‘be all’ and the ‘end all’… Life itself slides by, and we blink, and we miss it… ”
Our eyes met, and I sensed his agreement. The back seater remained silent.
I dropped him off, and he shook my hand. Then he was gone, this earnest young man, with the thoughtful, soft eyes. Who earned three times my salary. And so was the foreman, scurrying along behind his very important guest.
I pulled in power, alone again, and the turbine spooled up smoothly to deliver the torque required. The machine quivered expectantly, as the skids became light on the metal helideck. Then I became one with my chariot, and I felt her up..and up… and over the deck edge, vulnerable and low over the hungry waves for a few seconds, and then up into the infinite sky. I climbed through three hundred feet, five hundred… and turned on course in a rotor thumping symphony in A minor…
I flew along, and my mind was free. Free from envy. Free from hate. Free from judgment. Striving, not to feel… contempt.
They… the clever ones, the smart, well connected men with the multi million dollar homes, funded with plundered retirement dreams of thousands of little people… I envied them not. I knew full well I would not trade places with any of them for a moment. Oh, how big they thought they were… how clever… with their lawyers, and their offshore holding companies, and their dummy shell corporations… and yet, how foolish they were. How blinkered their sight, how dry their spirit, how cold their hearts…
How much apple pie and ice cream can you eat? How many hours will you lie by your marble tiled swimming pool, surrounded by the swooning attentions of the scantily clad, large breasted, brainless piranhas attracted only to your vulgar wealth?
You, perpetrators of some of the most outrageous crimes, dressed up in the fancy colored ribbons of technical legalities, do you sleep at night? When you remember the tens of thousands who lost their life’s savings, and who face their old age with fear and bewilderment? Yes, you probably do. You probably sleep just fine. Oh, it was all legal. Nobody can touch you. Your legal poodles saw to that. Yes, you sleep just fine. And that is the proof of just how shallow a spirit you are. It is proof of just how callous, how unthinking, how insensitive, the modern day intellectual business moron can be.
Oh, he will wear a nice suit, a pleasant after shave, and his finger nails will be manicured. He will be polite and charming, have some powerful University degrees, be well connected, and pump your hand with a well practiced display of white teeth and succulent charm.
And then he’ll rob you blind…
And the saddest thing, is that he is living in a small cubicle. Not a physical one, measuring eight feet by eight. But a cubicle nonetheless. A cubicle of the mind and soul, a cubicle of bondage to greed, a cubicle of hardness of heart, and a cubicle of utter ruthlessness…
I thought of my pale faced passenger, with his earnest eyes, who lived in a cubicle, but knew it, and who longed to soar above it all.
His awareness set him free…
And I thought of them, the faceless ones, the ones who got away with millions, who lived in much darker cubicles, but who knew it not…
And I, a simple one, unsophisticated, with dirty finger nails, and stinking of Jet A fuel, sweat and grease, I, for my part, pulled in another notch of power, and savored the rush of air around my cockpit, the beat of my rotor blades, and the howl of my Rolls Royce gas turbine engine. And the view from my office window…
Compared with you, I am relatively poor. Just a working class, front line helicopter jockey. But I am rich. Richer than all you, cubicle dwelling sewer rats of the high finance big city lights.
And I wouldn’t change places… for all the millions, and all the houses, and all the apple pie, and all the ice cream you feel you have justly earned.
Sleep well, in your self imposed protective cubicles of ignorant bliss. Sleep well.
For the night is coming.
When you shall suddenly awake. And discover, the flimsy walls of your protective cardboard cubicle…
blown away…
F.M.
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on October 17, 2009, 8:48 am
The lonely butterfly (part 2)
December 10, 2007 in article about writing
He was gone. My little friend was gone.
The lonely butterfly had disappeared into the dark gloom of a forgotten hallway..
I leaned back against the rusted, worn railings of my tired sanity.
So what, I asked myself, had struck me so powerfully about what I had just witnessed?
What was the butterfly to me?
An image, a symbol, a prophesy, or a warning?
Was I that butterfly?
No.
What did it represent to me?
The transience of life?
No….
My gaze swept over the broken, abandoned ugliness of the oil platform’s machinery. Where once money and production had been the all dominant factors, holding sway over all the sweating, tired, workers… all that was part of a bygone age now. In a mere twenty five years, and fifty million barrels, the well had been exhausted. And all that was then so vital, so pressured, so prioritized… all that was now silent. Broken. Corroded. Covered in seabird droppings.
Irrelevant…
And suddenly, I knew what the butterfly represented.
A warning.
That those creative urges in me,
that desperate longing to live on a higher spiritual and artistic plane,
that aching for a peace that transcends mere mortal words,
that nebulous vision of distant skies to be flown and explored,
that hurting need to give my writing full throttle….
and soar effortlessly above those distant, sun drenched tops…
are transient…
They must be expressed, and find fertile ground…
or be lost forever,
buried under the deluge of the daily grind,
smothered under the pillows of comfort
executed by the jeers of the shallow ones,
or postponed until the grapes wither, unborn, on the vine…
I shook my head, sadly.
The task seemed… too much. For one so awkward. So gauche. So limited…
The excuses rushed madly at me. It was only with difficulty that I side stepped away from the tired edge of resignation. The deck swayed for a moment, but I moved forward purposefully. Grimly. With determination. Onwards…
And the butterfly…
flew up, high into the sky, the caressing rays of abundant light washing it lovingly, framing it, delicately, exquisitely, against the dark, storm tossed clouds…
Francis Meyrick
(c)
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on August 10, 2009, 9:17 pm
The lonely butterfly (part 1)
December 10, 2007 in article about writing
The lonely butterfly (Part 1)
(the muse of inspiration touches a writer’s weary soul in the strangest of places…)
I watched him, sadly.
It couldn’t be much fun for him. He was lost, obviously.
Out here was no place for a little blue-and-black butterfly. We were a hundred miles offshore, in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. On a long since de-activated oil platform. We had landed there an hour earlier by helicopter, with an inspection crew. The burly white helmeted inspectors were busying themselves with clipboards and cameras. Their task was to prepare for the long and arduous task of dismantling this ancient Behemoth. This relic of the oil rush of the mid seventies. It’s name, “Grand Isle 95 “, somehow mocked the tangled, heavily corroded mass of metal and pipes that greeted us. An eerie silence hung over this former hub of activity. The diesel generators, long since fallen silent, stood frozen in a former time of glory. Now they were rust colored, broken down, useless. Everywhere there were signs of the departure of the last working shift, so many years ago. An uncaring departure. Old tools left to the mercy of the elements. Drill bits, wrenches and sockets. Now corroded together. Welded together by the forces of wind driven salt spray. Defeated by time. Discarded, and now useless.
The galley had been another scene of some surrealism. A half eaten meal. Half drunken coffee cups. Cans of beans, bags of rice, containers with flour and sugar. All wrapped in a dark gloom. Instinctively, my hand had moved to the light switch, forgetting for a moment that no electricity had flowed there for more than a decade. I moved around carefully, without the benefit of any lights. The bunk rooms, where men had once slept the sleep of the exhausted after long, twelve hour shifts, were now the preserve of memories and ancient dreams. A hunting magazine, still open on page twenty-six. Featuring the delights of an old turkey shoot. With a picture of an unlucky long dead gobbler, hanging upside down, shown off to the camera by a proud huntsman. A book, some racy novel, face down, its pages stuck together with damp. Old toothbrushes, discarded plastic shavers, and dubious looking wash towels. A positively scary looking toilet, with a roll of toilet tissue still in its holder. And everywhere a vague musty smell, and a sense of disuse. There was almost a sense of loss. For once upon a time, this had been a hive of human activity. With glistening fresh paint, and humming, shiny machinery. Millions of dollars of oil had flowed through these peeling, flaky pipes.
Cleanliness and state-of-the-art technology had once made this Ghost Town a bright flag ship of technology. Where serious rig bosses enforced serious standards of maintenance.
But now…. all that was forgotten. All that remained was a restless memory. Something that had once been proud, and noble, and important. And that was now, broken, discarded, and written off. There was something futile about it. As if Man’s best efforts are no match for time and changing circumstances.
Having wandered around for a while, I climbed back up to the helideck, and stood there, leaning against an old railing. Surveying the scenery. The tangled mass of steel and pipes, containers and tanks, condensers and coils. I watched the inspectors below, carefully picking their way around corroded steps, and the occasional gaping hole in weary floors.
And it was then that the solitary butterfly had appeared. A bright blue-and-black butterfly, in search of butterfly heaven, bright flowers and fresh grass, and a gentle breeze, and a place to prepare for the next generation. In search perhaps of friends. Wondering where all the other butterflies had gone. I watched him, fluttering sadly around steel and rust, inspecting ancient yellowed plastic and old red fire bottles. I watched him as he fluttered around the inspectors, who took not the slightest notice of him. I watched him, ceaseless in his search, flutter down dark, gray sombre hallways. And return, discouraged, but determined in his quest. I admired him, for the purity of his mission, for his perseverance despite his dismal surroundings. There was something inspiring about that butterfly. The way he held true to his calling. The way he did not slump down in defeat. The way he continued his mission. Despite an uncaring, unfeeling, steely world of uncaring soulless beings.
I watched him for a long time. I hoped he would find his friends. Bright flowers, and green grass. And a gentle breeze, to help him as he went from flower to flower. I hoped he would complete his mission. I hoped, that, despite all the odds, he would contribute, meaningfully, to the next generation.
Poor little butterfly.
Somehow….
I knew exactly how he felt.
F.M.
(c)
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on May 12, 2011, 11:31 am
The Drive by shooting
December 2, 2007 in Auto-biographical (law enforcement), Sheriff Pilot
I was about to fall into bed, exhausted.
I had way, way exceeded normal duty time, due to a series of law enforcement events.
In fact, the previous night, I had hardly slept at all. I was dog tired, bone weary, crabby, irritable and my body ached to be let go to sleep. I was actually sitting on my bed, shoes off at last, starting to undress. In another five minutes, I would have been sound asleep. Sleeping the peace of the exhausted. I would have been out for at least eight to ten hours…
My pager went off.
I stared at the numbers… Dispatch….!
With the emergency code…
What the hell do they want? Don’t they know I’m frickin’ well exhausted?
A second later, both my home telephone and my cell phone started ringing. Simultaneously. By magic. The dreaded ‘triple whammy’.
Especially at one o’clock in the morning.
Dammit. Dammit. Dammit to hell!
I answered the phone, none too subtly, ready to tell them in no uncertain circumstances….
“WHAT…..?! “
The dispatcher was apologetic. I was normally friendly. She knew I had been working a very long shift. She phrased her inquiry very tactfully.
“Lincoln twenty one asked us to call you. He knows you’re down on sleep… But he’s asked us to call you about… “
Lincoln 21…
One of our patrol commanders. A good guy. He never called unless there was a real good reason…
She continued: “….about a drive by shooting in progress “.
A drive by shooting in progress??
The squirt of adrenaline was instantaneous.
I hate drive by shootings. There is something so cowardly, so random, so inherently cruel about the joy of firing off bullets at breathing, living human beings. It’s probably also the gun owner in me, the collector, with a small but impressive armory, who furiously resents the implicit breach of trust. Hundreds of thousands of gun owners in the US enjoy their weapons responsibly, for hunting, shooting competitions, or just plain fun. It’s called ‘plinking’. And it’s a harmless pursuit. Knocking over empty beer cans, and exploding milk bottles filled with water. These owners seldom get much attention in the liberal media. The small lunatic fringe however, the inevitable Neanderthal throwback, the candidate for any Darwin award in the category of rearward human evolution…. there’s always some cretin, with an IQ of minus two-and-a-half, who gets a thrill, an adrenaline kick, out of skulking around in a car, usually after dark, waiting like a sick predator for his victim. The rounds often kill or maim the innocent, as they go through walls, or ricochet weirdly. I’ve had rounds flying around my ears, and a bullet that has struck an object is often tumbling through the air. If it comes close enough, you can hear an evil sound, the whirring-sighing fast-paced noise of a bullet announcing its presence, with still plenty of energy left to kill.
whaf-whaf-whaf-whaf-whaf……
Out the door like a 45 caliber hollow point bullet, I raced to the hangar, listening to dispatch talking to units enroute. Not good. It was in an area behind the mountains that was going to take a while to get to for the patrol cars. It was also a difficult area, with the houses spread out, and multiple dirt roads, making escape easy. The helicopter was probably going to get there first. Minutes later, I was running into the hangar, noticing with satisfaction that our standard procedures had been fully followed. The on-duty helo observer had already got there, and opened the hangar doors, started the ATV, and towed the helo on her dolly out to the take-off point. The blades had been untied, the engine inlet cushions had been removed, the blades swung ninety degrees to the nine o’clock slash three o’clock position, and she was ready for me to hit the starter. I, for my part, always left our girl full of fuel, the oil and hydraulic reservoirs checked, and all I had to do was check quickly for any unexpected leaks, and hop into the seat. Hit the starter, bring the N1 up, introduce fuel, and listen to the turbine groaning into life.
Streaking low over the dark mountains, as fast as we could pedal, the cockpit was quiet. There were three of us. Silent, with our own thoughts. The instruments glowed a dull military red. Dispatch was passing back a steady stream of information. The calls were coming in constantly. An old Ford Thunderbird, off white, with a brown scabby vinyl top. Three or four youths inside, presumably drunk, mowing over mailboxes, and shooting at porch lights and through windows, and driving very fast and recklessly.
Having a high old time… No reports of injuries, yet, but that was just a matter of time.
There’s no way of telling where those rounds are going to go…
The sergeant with me, an old hand, proposed we perform our final run in ‘black’.
That meant lights out. No anti-collision light or navigation lights. Just a black flash, banking hard, or flying straight as an arrow. The Hunter. Deadly. Mean.
Quietly angry…
We arrived in the general area, and now we were straining our eyes. We could see a dozen or so car headlights, but they all seemed to be moving normally.
We were looking for a reckless speeder, who….
There! Over there!
Way in the distance, I spotted a set of headlights that seemed to move erratically, as the car came around a corner. That jerky, hesitant movement of the lights playing over the landscape, when a car is fishtailing…
We altered course, and now we were closing rapidly on the target.
The sergeant, in the light of a flashlight, was studying a map, trying to correlate the latest dispatcher information with the area we were approaching.
Dandelion Road. Dandelion Avenue. Dandelion Street…
His voice was curt. “We’re in the right area! That might be the bad guy right there…! “
The cockpit fell quiet again, save for the noise of the turbine wailing, and the blades, reassuringly, throbbing their steady beat.
Minutes past. Quiet, silent minutes. Introspective minutes. Other worldly minutes.
Was this our guy? Was he likely to start shooting at us? What kind of weapons did they have? Rifles? Were these guys pros? Hunters? Or just damn kids?
There was no way of knowing…
It was becoming obvious that this vehicle was moving very fast.
Traveling down a dirt road now, we were coming up steadily behind him, but it was taking a while. He had to be doing seventy or so. Down a dirt road?
The tail lights were moving from side to side in rapid, jerking movements, which checked with a vehicle being driven very fast on a loose surface.
Nearly…there. My finger was on the searchlight trigger. The manufacturers call it a “Starburst “. Not without good reason.
There! I couldn’t resist a dry comment just prior to hitting the switch.
“I wonder if this is going to grab somebody’s attention… “
And with that, I ‘star bursted’ them…
The light took two seconds to warm up, and then….nailed… an off-white Ford Thunderbird, with a dirty brown vinyl top…
The cockpit exploded with three voices yelling simultaneously.
Real professional, and real cool, calm, and collected. Just three professionals at work.
“GOTCHA! YOU SONS OF…. BITCHES! “
“WAY TO GO FRANCIS! WAY TO GO! “
“WHOOPEEE!!! NOW WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO, BOZO??? “
Yes, indeed, now WHAT are you going to do, Bozo?
In answer, the Ford Thunderbird slammed on his brakes, and careered crazily to a stop, in a shower of dust and pebbles. And then… he sat there.
The helicopter, for its part, now swung into an orbit, fixing the Ford smack in the middle of the Starburst. Beside me, the sergeant was on the radio to dispatch, and I, for my part, feeling like a bear who has just found a honey jar, was prepping mentally for my little speech…
And still the Ford sat there, in the middle of the road, and I would have given most anything to have known what they were saying right then.
“It’s a flying saucer! No, it’s God come to punish us! Oh, fukkkkk! It’s the cops….!!!! “
The metallic voice over the public address, eerily floating down from the sky, with a whop-whop-whop accompaniment, addressed them sternly, with a slight Irish accent:
“This is the Sheriff’s Office! You are considered armed and dangerous! Do as I say or you will be shot! Driver! Switch off your engine and place the keys on the roof! “
I delivered the speech, one of my favorites I’ll admit, and with a mental (Heh-heh-heh!) I settled back to see what was now to unfold. They, for their part, slamming back into gear, raced away, with us in pursuit. I wasn’t worried. You can’t outrun a helicopter. And the cavalry was on the way…
In the end, the Thunderbird driver proved his Darwinian evolution to be a rearward one, definitely retrogressive, by racing for several miles, with us in a leisurely pursuit ( “Good, I can finish my sandwich now “, sort of thing), all the way to his brother’s house. Where they proceeded to all bail out, run in, and slam the door shut.
Perhaps they DID think it was a flying saucer coming to take them away…
“coming to take them away, ha-hah!
coming to take them away… “
The boys rolled them up easily, and that was another trophy notch I could cut out of my cyclic stick.
But I do sometimes wonder… when the light suddenly, out of nowhere, enveloped them, right out in the middle of the desert night…
What were they saying, right then…??
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on May 13, 2009, 8:16 am
Black Thunder
December 2, 2007 in Short Story (emotions)
Black Thunder
The Louisiana fishermen, standing by the side of the LA 82, barely paused in their conversation. The rolling thunder, that had started as no more than a distant, growling threat, was increasing in volume. It was louder now, and became the unmistakable sound of an approaching large V-twin motorcycle. Still the fishermen chatted about the day’s events, although each man’s senses was aware of the disturbance. It was only when the conversation became a little more difficult, owing to the intrusive decibels, that they paused momentarily, eying the intruder coolly.
The motorcycle, black and far too fast, swept around a slight bend, the black jacketed rider hanging over at a seemingly suicidal angle, forcing his wayward charge around the bend. He had changed down a gear, but now that he was through the bend, the wrist that flicked all the horsepower back on, also sent shock waves crashing through the fetid swamps. Waves of sound hit the witnesses, making conversation difficult for a brief moment. They turned their heads, slowly, matter-of-factly, and quietly took in the appearance. It was a large machine, black and chrome, with a windscreen and saddlebags. It was moving very quickly indeed, with the hunched shape of the rider oozing concentration and measured risk. He looked tough, and mean. His black leather jacket, the heavy gauntlets, and the white crash helmet and goggles all combined to make him look not of this world. Not given to the emotions of fragile human beings, but a different being.
Hardened, resilient, contemptuous of convention.
The two ladies in their little white Toyota made unkind remarks as the demon sped past them. They complained about the noise, and the excessive speed. Both frowned in disapproval, and gave vent to their displeasure. He was obviously a menace, a cruel, hard, ruthless speed freak. A danger to civilised folk. Perhaps even, they thought in their minds, a dangerous spirit. A threat, a rapist perhaps, violent, and unpredictable.
They were relieved when he sped out of sight over the distant horizon. They saw him as almost a criminal, for sure a very suspicious character, perhaps a psychopath.
Hardened, resilient, contemptuous of convention.
The off duty ambulance driver, tending his garden, also frowned his displeasure. In his mind, he saw the dozens of motorcyclists he had peeled off the road. The terrible accidents, the collisions involving steel and flesh, fenders and human bone. He thought of the blood and guts, the smashed brains and the gasping, rattling last breaths of the dying. He had seen it all, and he hated motorcyclists. They, the organ donors, deserved everything they got. A sub species of humanity, they felt no emotion, and deserved no pity. They were fools, all of them, and possessed not an ounce of intelligence amongst all of them. They were unthinking, unfeeling, primitive beasts. He watched as the black thunder roared past his house in a cloud of dust and fumes, the Neanderthal cretin on board accelerating faster even as he passed by.
Hardened, resilient, contemptuous of convention.
Aboard the motorcycle, he….
…only stared forward. Concentrating violently on the road ahead. Measuring every ripple and crack, every bush and side road, in a fluid scan. He banked and braked, accelerated and changed gears, in a smooth, well practized performance. A symphony of motion, a crescendo of gears and cams, an explosive rendering of exhaust notes bouncing off the limpid wetlands.
In his mind…
…there was only hurt. Hurt that cleaved, sweltered and festered. A betrayal of trust, a lance from behind, a dagger in the night… He could have screamed in anger, defended himself with passion, or fought with fury the charges brought…
Instead… he bit his lip, set his face to neutral, and rolled on the throttle.
Faster. He would go faster.
Only then…. could he forget.
Perhaps…
F.M.
(c)
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on December 28, 2008, 10:47 am
Jessica is not coming to play today
November 24, 2007 in Short Story (emotions)
Jessica is not coming to play today
credits: Evangelis ( “Missing you “)
frenzfrenz (YouTube)
Thursday, March 8th 2007
I guess this is not a good morning for me.
Oh, the sun is shining. I’m home, for a week off. In my comfortable house. With the dogs lying around outside, contentedly dozing in the sun. I hear the busy sounds of wifey in the kitchen. Preparing dinner. Soon she will come in, with her happy smile. And I, delighted to be home after work, will smile back. We shall chatter, and talk about trivia. We shall joke, and laugh at the drakes chasing the ducks. And the little one-eyed stray kitten, which has kindly adopted us, and condescended to grace our company.
Rolling on its back, whopping its paws at imaginary flies.
But it’s not a good morning for me.
Oh, I have interesting projects to get back to. We’re fencing the front yard, so we can have more grazing for the ducks. It’s a milestone project, as I have not done much fencing. It probably shows in the work done to date. But I’m trying hard to make it look good. I’m reasonably proud of what we have done so far.
But it’s not a good morning for me.
I should reconcile the bank statements. I have taken a loan from my 401(K) to pay off the credit cards. It will be satisfying to get rid of those interest payments, which are not tax deductable, and represent waste. After that, we are determined to live within our means, and avoid any credit card debt. It’s a topical subject. It’s on television. The politicians, lapping up the public attention, lawyers mostly, who thrive on standing on the great stage of their own inflated self importance… they have now another crusade to gather votes with. Look at me! See how good I am! I’ll tackle the big bad credit card companies!
Vote for me! I’m a wonderful person!
The window dressing will go on for a few weeks, a month or two at the most, the credit card companies will summon their brightest minds for their own window dressing, and in two months or so everything will be back to normal. Small people will still get screwed. The weak, the uneducated, the unwise, will receive lurid credit card offers through the mail. They will be unable to resist. Something for the children perhaps. A one-off special need. And before they know it, that six thousand dollar debt is ramped up to eighteen thousand dollars. With a penalty interest rate of twenty five per cent. It’s like taking a drowning man and throwing rocks at his head. But that is modern America. Where the rich get richer, every day. The poor get poorer. And the middle class, its buying power steadily eroding as the years go by, is being squeezed for profit and taxes as never before. Yes, these are the issues that matter, are they not? This is what occupies our minds. I sit back in my chair, try to enjoy a cup of tea, and look out the window. One of our Guinea Fowl comes flying around the corner of the house, with three others in hot pursuit. Moving at light speed it seems, the hunted one disappears under the house, with her pursuers close behind her. If they catch her, they will beat her up. It seems nature does that. The strong picking on the weak. Tormenting them. Making their short lives a holy misery.
Yes, I’m home. I love home.
But it’s not a good morning for me.
Why?
Because, my friends, Jessica is not coming home today.
How she would have enjoyed our little one-eyed kitten. They would have played together, in the sun. And she would have enjoyed our ducks. The beautiful white Peking drakes, with their shiny yellow bills. Our miniature horse, Buckie, with his long mane and winter woollies, would have ambled into view, and with a shriek of delight, Jessica would have run over to the fence, her long hair trailing behind her. She would have rubbed his nose, and fed him baby carrots. She would have laughed, and talked to him. And Buckie, a spoiled, mischievous creature, would have devoured every last one with relish, pausing only to take a quick nip at Gertie, short for “Gertrud “, our ever-comical pigmy goat. Gertie, for her part, her short tail wagging excitedly, would come over at a pygmy gallop, her fat belly swinging dangerously from side to side. Her bright eyes, ever friendly, would have sized up Jessica in an instant. And seen a friend. A harmless human being. Nothing to be afraid off…
No, it’s not a good morning for me.
Jessica is not coming to play today.
Another human being raped her repeatedly, he hurt her, and he beat her. He laughed at her little screams. He enjoyed it. Then he buried her in two plastic trash bags, along with her favorite toy, a stuffed dolphin.
Jessica Lunsford is not coming to play today.
Not Ever Again…
F.M.
(c)
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on December 28, 2008, 10:57 am
If you’re good…
November 24, 2007 in Short Story (spiritual quest)
IF YOU’RE GOOD…
If you’re good, you can come with me.
You’ll have to be good. Otherwise I won’t take you.
Give me your hand. There now…
Close your eyes, and listen to me.
We’re in a helicopter, a small one, flying along…
Precariously, fragile, alone, above the Pacific Ocean.
The nearest land is way, way over the horizon, five hundred miles away.
There are no man made structures here. No houses. No sky scrapers. No bridges.
No ships. There is no sign of Man. There is nothing, nothing to remind you of him.
He is not important. Not even remotely.
Only the waves to watch, and the foam, blown by the wind.
It’s been like this for a long time.
Yes, long before Man came, with his ships, and his arrogance, long before that, these waves were here. Did you know that? And probably, long after Man has gone, long afterwards, these waves will still be here…
With only the wind howling a wordless, unheard Requiem.
Open your eyes now. See?
You can look around the whole horizon. Three hundred and sixty degrees. Only waves. And clouds. The visibility is excellent. It’s a bit blustery, but the cold front is what’s responsible for this view. Do you like it? Do you sense how small we are? How insignificant? There’s not many places on earth you can see the whole horizon like this.
How far do you think we can see? Twenty, thirty, forty miles? More?
Do you see those heavy rain showers over there? Let’s fly over there. You can hold the cyclic stick. Like that. Now, very gently, move the stick to the right. Can you feel us bank? Listen to the blades slapping the air….
whop-whop-whop-whop….
Do you see the way the nose is swinging around? Line it up with that rain shower, the big one. Very good…. stop there, and we’ll aim straight at it. No, silly, we can’t fly all the way through it, because there is turbulence in there, that could hurt us. But if you like, we can
fly along the edges. Watch the rain drops spatter on the windscreen…. Just for fun.
Would you like that?
Do you know how you tell which way the wind is blowing? By the foam…
You’d think the wind would blow the foam downwind, wouldn’t you? But that’s not the way it works. The waves move under the foam, which falls upwind. That’s how you can tell the direction of the wind. Interesting, isn’t it?
Now, we’re getting closer to that storm cell. We’ll have to be careful, because there are micro bursts around here. Violent down drafts, with heavy rain and turbulence.
And waterspouts, powerful monsters of wind and water, that are more than a match for a frail little man-made craft such as ours… We don’t want to crash out here, all on our own, do we? Nobody would ever find us…
No, that wouldn’t be nice at all, so we’re going to be very careful.
Ah…! There’s the first drops now, spattering on the windscreen, running away to the sides, blown by the speed we’re going at. You like that, don’t you? Now, there is something else I want to show you. Do you see that white speck over there? Do you see how it’s growing? That’s called a foamer. Some people call it white water. It’s made by fish, Yellowfin and Skipjack tuna, as they chase around catching small anchovy. Yes, they’re really coming up now. See the big Yellowfin? See how they erupt clear and high out of the water? It’s almost like they are having fun, isn’t it? Playing at who can jump the highest, at who can make the biggest splash, at who can make the most white water. Do you see them chasing each other? It’s like their playing ring-a-ring-of roses, isn’t it? Yes, they’re having fun… like a bunch of schoolboys just let out of school…
But this is what I really wanted to show you.
You see the way we’re surrounded now by micro bursts? Oh, they won’t hurt us, they’re still too far away. That one is five miles away, and that one more like six. This one here is still three miles away,and all we are getting is a few drops. Now, have you ever been in a great big old Gothic cathedral? The ones with the huge high roof, and the massive pillars? Imagine you were in one of those…. If you craned your head back, and looked up, you’d see the pillars flowing up, and up, seemingly forever, until, at length they joined the massive span of the ceiling. It’s as if the pillars flow up to heaven itself. The architects in the middle ages built them like that to remind people of how great God is. The believers would come, and admire the builders’ work, and feel awe in their hearts…
Now, can you see we are in a Gothic cathedral out here?
Can you see the pillars of rain and storms, with above it the ceiling of angry clouds?
Can you understand, out here, some of the awe that those medieval worshipers must have felt? Which do you think is the more impressive cathedral? The man-made versions, or this one? Can you relate to how small I feel? How breathless, how timeless, my little tip toe through life, startling only in its brevity, actually is…?
I’m going to take you home now.
Because I think you might be getting tired. I’ve shown you something I’d like you to keep in your mind’s eye. It’s something to think about. Something to be aware of…
Well, I hope you’ve had a nice day.
I’m glad you came with me. You were very good.
I’ll going to take you home now, so you can play with your toys. I know you’ll be glad to get back to your doll’s house, and your little toy cars. I know how much you like to play with them. Maybe, if you’re good, we’ll do it again some day. In the meantime, you be happy now, and I hope you enjoy playing with your toys…
…your skyscrapers, and your big houses. Your cars, your newspapers, and your magazines. Your stock index, and your 401(K) plan. Your Roth IRA, your cable news, and your gold coins. Your University Degrees, and your books of so-called knowledge. Your dry, institutionalized, comforting, God-in-a-box religion. Your career, and your promotions. Your ambitions, and your pride. Your sense of achievement, and your delusions of superior knowledge…
You do have a lot of toys, don’t you?
F.M.
(c)
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on September 11, 2011, 1:58 pm
Dreams to Allah
November 24, 2007 in Short Story (spiritual quest)
DREAMS
At least it was cool, living on the rooftops.
And it was quieter. The teeming noise of the Cairo slums was always present, but muted somehow. After the horrible, fume and grime wracked journey home from work, and the tiresome trudge up a dozen staircases, worrying about the cracked masonry and the rotten boards, it was a relief to be back at home. His young daughter would greet him with a squeal of delight, and rush to her papa’s embrace. How he loved his daughter! He would hold her lovingly, caressing her soft hair, and musing quietly into her ear.
“There now, my little flower… have you been helping your mother today? And how is your little brother been behaving? “

Photo: A gift from Allah
And she, proudly, all of eight years old, would tell him how she had been washing shirts, and helping her mother run their small laundry business. It brought in a much needed dollar-and-a-half a week, and together with his meager earnings as a laborer, they managed to make ends meet. Their four dollars a month rent was his chief worry, and once the first of the month had passed, and he had managed once again to pay the rent, it was with a feeling of relief that he could relax on that score for another four weeks.
His little girl, his happiness, his beautiful gift from Allah, was bubbling on happily about her day’s work, and about her little baby brother, whom she adored. He nodded and smiled, and winked at his wife. She smiled back, cradling their four year old son, who was asleep in her arms. His angelic face, peaceful and innocent in his dreams, radiated that quiet bliss, that simple trusting, that children have in their perceptions of the goodness and infinite love of their parents.
At night, after their simple meal, as the children would fall asleep, he would busy himself around their humble home. Arranging the corrugated iron sheets a little better, or propping cardboard in some cracks. It didn’t rain very often, but when it did, the water poured in through a dozen small cracks, and they would have to frequently empty the plastic tubs and the old Coke cans they used to catch the incessant drops. He had found some old plastic sheeting, and that addition, weighted down with four worn out truck tires, had improved things a lot. Allah, the Merciful, the Compassionate, was good to them. His wife and he were lucky, compared with many others. At least they had a home, and a roof over their heads. They had two beautiful children. His gaze would slide over to the two little bundles of loving huddled beside him, in the unsteady flickering light of the kerosene lamp, and his pride and delight as a father would overcome him. When the call to the faithful came, echoing and melodic, he would leap to the task, and roll out his prayer mat with joy in his heart. He would pray to Allah in gratitude, and thank his God for all his many blessings. He would pray for his children, and their future. He would pray for his people, and the nation of Egypt. And he would pray for the people of the world as he knew it. Even the Americans were included in his prayers. Those infidels, the strange ones, the aggressors against the Arab people. The providers of guns and tanks and missiles to the Jews. Even for them, he would pray.

Photo: The Quran by Amoor
Perhaps, one day, they too would come to realize their need for Allah. Perhaps, one day, even the Americans, would come to know the depth, the magnificence, the infinite mercy…of Allah. He would frown in his prayers, as he thought back to the events that had transpired. The attack on America of September the eleventh. Their big buildings, proud and tall, tumbling down into the dust. He had seen the pictures on his rich cousin’s black and white television set. His rich cousin, who had electric. And running water. He even had his own toilet. And the television. Propped up on the table, with the room overflowing with people, he had stared at the destruction with his jaw sagged open. Around him, his friends and neighbours had cheered and danced, and gone hysterical with delight. He too had tried to feel elated and exultant, swept along with the emotions of his companions. But later, whenever he had prayed, the pictures of burning people leaping to their deaths from the towers would come to his mind. It was hard… to hate those people. Who were dying, so horribly. And he would pray for them. Allah…was merciful. Allah… would forgive them. For being Americans. For being so proud.
He knew in his heart, with an utter certainty, that Allah…would receive them.
And then there were the Jews. Everybody hated the Jews. They had stolen the land of the Arabs. They oppressed their neighbors, and they used American money to hold on to their ill gotten bounty. Yes, everybody hated the Jews. But he would frown again in his prayers. The concentration would be etched all over his face, his eyes shut tight, as he poured out his heart in silent praise to Allah…
“But you, Oh Great One, you have all powers…

Photo: the All Seeing One
With your hand you could smite the Jews if you so wished! You could rain lightning and thunder on their heads! Yet you do not! Is it because they too are your people? Like all the people of this dark world? “
And his fingers, trembling with devotion, would search through his treasured Koran, for the verses he loved. He would recite them quietly to himself, and then be silent, letting the words trickle through his thirsting spirit. He knew, Allah was good. Allah was wise. Whatever Allah was doing, or waiting for, it was Good. Allah would deal with the Jews, in His own time. Maybe they too, for all their evil, for all their sins, for all their thievery, maybe they too.. were His people.
Maybe, one day… it was his dream. Maybe, one day, all the people on the earth would see Allah. Maybe, one day, all the people would come to realise they were brothers and sisters. Maybe, one day… there would be peace. Oh, these dreams… How he cherished them! To be friends with the Americans! To be friends with the hated Jews!
His lips moving in silent prayer, he would gaze up into the heavens, and watch the contrails, high, high up in the sky. What were those long, shining white lines, that criss-crossed the dome above his head? Oh, he knew they were airplanes, with people on board, but what made those long white plumes? Sometimes, if he squinted his tired eyes, and looked very carefully, he could just see the tiny tip of the spear. The bright pin at the head of the plume. Tearing across the pale Egyptian sky.
How wonderful it must be to be up there! In his dreams, he too would go on a flight to America. Would he be able to see Allah from up there? How much would it cost? Thirty dollars? More? That was an impossible sum. He was lucky to make that in three months.
How long would it take? An hour? Two hours? A week? How wonderful it would be to spend an hour or a week so close to Allah!
He would sigh, knowing full well he would never leave this district in Cairo. Maybe his children would have the chance. Maybe they would fly in an airplane one day. If he could afford an education for them. How he loved his children. His gifts from the Compassionate One…
He would finish his prayers, and return to his humble abode. A quiet man, a modest man, a poor man by Western standards.
And a man wholly unaware… of the immense richness of his spiritual life.
* * * * *
At thirty five thousand feet, in the first class cabin, the sour faced man in the Saville Row suit in seat 1A was being whispered about by the cabin staff. He was demanding and surly, and complained about everything. He rejected the wine, and was snarly about the Caviar. His steak was tough, and the silverware stained.
Beside him, his beautiful companion, displaying immaculate make up and a gaggle of diamonds and glitter, pretended to be asleep. How she hated him! How her children hated him! How everybody hated him! She would bide her time, but when she did strike, she would go for the jugular. Her lawyer was already quietly compiling the case. Pre-nuptial agreement or not, she would have his financial guts before she was through….

Photo by a_kartha
He gave up on the steak, which was utterly inedible. The fools! The service was once again abysmal! That was it! At the next board meeting, he was making it an urgent priority for the company to bite the bullet and invest in their own private commuter jet. With their own staff. It was simply intolerable to expect him to travel under these tiresome conditions. It angered him to suffer such appalling cabin service. The fact that he couldn’t just relief his frustrations and summarily fire somebody, as was his habit, annoyed him even more.
He looked out the window, and realized they were passing over Cairo. Cairo! How he hated that place! With its stinking, sprawling slums. With up to seventy thousand people per square mile. With no running water, totally inadequate sewerage, massive congestion and hopeless education system. Cairo! A nuclear strike would be the best thing that could happen there. It was full of Arabs anyway. It would be doing the world a favor.
He continued to gaze out the window, morosely, and looked down, quite oblivious to the fact that another human soul was, at that precise moment, gazing up… at him.
From a kneeled position.
On a tired, well used prayer mat.
Francis Meyrick
(c)
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on June 7, 2009, 6:34 am
Exile
November 24, 2007 in Auto-biographical (spiritual quest)
credit: Mantovani – Exodus
(we hold something precious in our hands: the fate of our very own true inner self. “a fragile craft in gentle hands “)
EXILE
I wonder often what dark dreams
were flowing through my silent mind
and where did all those waters flow
the streams of unrelenting thought?
My refuge was to ask for naught
and dwell aboard where few dared go
A fragile craft in gentle hands
In far-off lonely foreign lands.
That stranger lurks within us all
and it is odd to pause, recall
those dark and brooding times I sought
and inner bitter wars I fought.
And all this frenzy in my soul
as if I never could be whole
as if I couldn’t live or die
so many hurting years… gone by.
F.M.
(c)
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on August 28, 2012, 10:09 am