Lisa, he said. Do you really have to go? He was lying in bed still naked, watching her pull herself into her tight jeans. Her ample bared breasts jiggled as she bounced into her pants.
Are you asking me to stay, Billy? she said, sucking in her stomach to button her jeans. Yes. Then I'll stay! she said, as if something important finally settled in her mind to her satisfaction. But I do have to get to work. I start early today. Well, at least you don't have far to go, he said. Do you love me? We have what we have, Billy. Can't that be enough? I guess it has to be. He pouted. When you put it that way... Hand me my tee shirt, she said as she snapped on her bra, adjusting herself. Billy, I like you. I like you a lot. And maybe (she saw his mood lighten visibly) yes maybe, I even love you. But give me some time. I just got out of a really bad relationship. God how she hated the thought of going to work. The customers were all such little boys. Like Billy. Mopy little boys when they didn't get their way. She needed a real man; someone who'd sweep her off her feet, rescue her, take her away from all this madness. And what was she doing... getting involved with a man who just got out of an insane asylum. She had to be part crazy herself. I see things and hear things that aren't really there, Billy had told her the first night they met. The first night they spent together. What do you mean, she had asked. And he told her about being committed for attempting suicide. Why did you try and kill yourself, Billy? she asked. I, well, I know it was me now but at the time, I thought God told me to cut my wrists. I heard His voice as clear as I am hearing yours now. He came to me and spoke to me. But how did you know it was God? He told me. I saw Him. And there were colors floating all around Him. I couldn't really tell what kind of colors, just all different colors all jumbled up. And I knew it was God. And did you? Did I what? he asked. Cut your wrists. Try to kill yourself. He held up his arms and showed her the long jagged vertical scars... scars that said he meant business... scars that meant he shouldn't be here talking to her right now but instead six feet under the ground where all dead people belong. I should have died, he said. I did die. They brought me back. My wife came into the room right afterwards and found me on the floor bleeding to death. She saved my life. I watched. It was like I was hovering over it all, watching myself, watching her, watching the paramedics trying to save my life. And there were others there too. What do you mean, she asked. Others? Dead people? Yes. People I used to know. People who loved me and who I loved. My mother. My grandparents. They were angry with me. They didn't say anything but I could tell they were angry. It wasn't my time. And now, here she was, fixing to move in with this crazy guy who talked to God and saw dead people. What are you thinking, Lisa, she asked herself. But there was something about Billy Austin. He was like no one she'd ever met. Oh sure, he was a little boy, but there was more to him than that. When he looked at her, he seemed to be seeing things that no one else could see. And the way he listened to her was like he was hearing her for the first time. Jesus Christ, she hoped she wasn't falling in love again... On Fri, Jul 15, 2011 at 11:20 PM, 118 <[email protected]> wrote: > While I turned away to spare him any shame, the hands of God grabbed > me deep within and made me turn around and visualize him one more > time. The old man still sat there with his head down, tears dry, > silent now,. The church door behind where he sat suddenly opened and > a small child appeared, running into the man's arms, calling out > "Grandpapa! There you are! Let's go down the hill" That could have > been me. I guess God answered his prayers after all. > > Uncle Alamo died two days later. I remember a cold wind blew the day > we buried him on the lonely cemetery hilltop behind where sat the > church; him and Auntie Virginia use to take me there when I was but a > boy. > > No one came to his funeral but the preacher and me. The rest are > already there on the hilltop, waiting. Waiting with the GrandMamas > and GrandPapas. Perhaps Alamo was accepted, he certainly did not come > back. And Thomas knows that he was in a good place. My bones will > someday lie there too. Daddy will join his brother, and then be there > with Mamma waiting for me. But I have a road to walk, yet; do them > proud. > > -Anonymous > > On Thu, Jul 14, 2011 at 11:01 PM, Dan Glover <[email protected]> wrote: >> What's your name? She asked the question late one night when they were >> closing up. He'd been too shy to approach Lisa but he knew her name; >> he couldn't quite understand why she didn't know his name as well. >> They'd been working together nearly a month now. But then in between >> the space of her speaking and him answering, he reasoned (to himself) >> that she did know his name... it was her way of starting a >> conversation that he himself didn't quite know how to start. >> >> Billy. Billy Austin. >> >> I'm Lisa. >> >> Yes, I know, he stammered the I know slightly, not wanting to seem too >> familiar. She didn't seem to notice, or if she did, she didn't let on. >> >> Where you from, Billy Austin? >> >> Oklahoma. >> >> Your skin looks so dark! she said, touching his arm, running her >> fingers over his skin ever so lightly, just brushing the hair that >> grew there curly and abundantly. >> >> I'm quarter Cherokee, or so my daddy told me, he said. He didn't move >> his arm. He liked her touch. He liked it a lot. >> >> Your daddy? >> >> He's dead now. So's my momma. >> >> Yeah, mine too, she said, taking her hand away from his arm and >> drawing herself a glass of beer from the spigot, tilting it expertly >> to avoid a foamy head. So you're all alone, Billy Austin? >> >> Yes. I live upstairs. His eyes went automatically to the ceiling. >> >> Really! Her eyes followed his to the ceiling. She lit a cigarette and >> drank the glass of beer down in a gulp. Plunking it down on the bar, >> she said, Can I see? >> >> Sure, come on. He led her outside, carefully remembering to lock the >> door behind them, and she followed him up the side set of stairs >> leading to his apartment. He unlocked the door and kicked it at the >> bottom where it stuck sometimes, especially when it rained. And it >> smelled like rain tonight. >> >> You ever been with a woman, Billy Austin? she asked, as she settled >> herself on the worn-out sofa adorning the living room. It was mossy >> green and sagged in the middle and its felt-like hide looked all >> matted down like it had been deep down under the ocean for a thousand >> years. >> >> I was married once, he told her, watching her eyes, gauging her >> reaction. A long time ago. >> >> Yeah, me too, she said. A distant look came into her eyes. Didn't work out? >> >> No, I guess it didn't. >> >> Well, don't feel bad, she said, finishing her cigarette and stabbing >> it out in the overflowing ashtray that rocked back and forth on the >> cardboard box he used for a coffee table. It didn't work out for me >> either, Billy Austin. Got anything to drink? >> >> Beer. I got beer. That's about it. >> >> Get me one? >> >> He went to the kitchen and took two cold bottles of Budweiser from the >> refrigerator. He liked the taste of beer in bottles better than cans >> even though they cost more. Walking back to the living room, half >> expecting her to be gone, he twisted off one of the caps. She was >> still there though, sitting on the sofa, waiting for him, so he handed >> her the beer. >> >> I see you watching me when you're working, she said, after taking a >> long pull from the bottle and shaking her long dirty-blond hair out of >> her eyes the way she did. >> >> Oh, he said, standing there feeling flummoxed and not knowing what >> else to say. He felt his face grow red, red like the neon bar sign >> that glowed off and on all night long outside the living room window, >> shouting out Nick's Place, Nick's Place, Nick's Place. He always >> blushed easy; momma used to say indian blood runs quick and hot. He >> lit a cigarette in an effort to hide his embarrassment and twisted the >> cap off his bottle of Bud, leaning over and dropping it into the >> ashtray. >> >> It's okay, she said, looking up into his face with big brown eyes that >> he could drown in and be happy doing it. I like it when you watch me. >> Come on over here and sit by me, Billy Austin. >> >> On Thu, Jul 14, 2011 at 11:00 PM, 118 <[email protected]> wrote: >>> Yeah, I can see it now >>> The distant red neon shivered in the heat >>> I was feeling like a stranger in a strange land >>> You know where people play games with the night >>> God, it was too hot to sleep >>> I followed the sound of a jukebox coming from up the levee >>> All of a sudden I could hear somebody whistling >>> From right behind me >>> I turned around and she said >>> "Why do you always end up down at Nick's Cafe?" >>> I said "I don't know, the wind just kind of pushed me this way." >>> She said "Hang the rich." >>> >>> Catch the blue train >>> To places never been before >>> Look for me >>> Somewhere down the crazy river >>> Somewhere down the crazy river >>> Catch the blue train >>> All the way to Kokomo >>> You can find me >>> Somewhere down the crazy river >>> Somewhere down the crazy river >>> >>> -Robbie Robertson: "Somewhere Down That Crazy River" >>> >>> "Here's looking at you kid" >>> -H.B. in Casablanca >>> (as time flows by in Rick's cafe). >>> >>> >>> The ghost was her father's parting gift, presented by a black-clad >>> secretary in >>> a departure lounge at Narita. >>> For the first two hours of the flight to London it lay forgotten in >>> her >>> purse, a smooth dark oblong, one side impressed with the ubiquitous >>> Maas-Neotek >>> logo, the other gently curved to fit the user's palm. >>> She sat up very straight in her seat in the first-class cabin, her >>> features composed in a small cold mask modeled after her dead mother's most >>> characteristic expression. The surrounding seats were empty; her father had >>> purchased the space. She refused the meal the nervous steward offered. The >>> vacant seats frightened him, evidence of her father's wealth and power. The >>> man >>> hesitated, then bowed and withdrew. Very briefly, she allowed the mask her >>> mother's smile. >>> Ghosts, she thought later, somewhere over Germany, staring at the >>> upholstery of the seat beside her. How well her father treated his ghosts. >>> >>> -William Gibson: "Mona Lisa Overdrive" >>> (a father's lasting gift) >>> >>> >>> >>> On Tue, Jul 12, 2011 at 10:42 PM, Dan Glover <[email protected]> wrote: >>>> They locked him up... told him he was crazy. After enough time had >>>> passed, he knew it too. He must be crazy. He could see it in >>>> everyone's eyes. He heard it in the way they talked to him. He felt it >>>> in the way they kept their distance. Like they were afraid. Not of >>>> him, but of what he'd become. Or maybe it was him they were afraid of. >>>> After all, he was crazy so how would he know, how could he know for >>>> sure of where the madness ended and he started? >>>> >>>> They asked him questions and fed him pills. Blue pills, green pills, >>>> red pills... they all went down the same so it didn't much matter. A >>>> cup of water, drink, now, lift your tongue. How do we feel today? Do >>>> we want to hurt our self today? Do we want to hurt anyone today? After >>>> enough time had passed he began to sense the correct answers, the >>>> answers that would set him free. Not just free to wander the grounds, >>>> but free to go... out there... into the world. >>>> >>>> The answers didn't work right away, the correct answers. But after >>>> enough time had passed, they didn't seem as afraid when they looked at >>>> him. A light in their eyes had replaced the fear. He noticed now that >>>> everyone had that light in their eyes but the light wasn't always the >>>> same light... the sane light. The light that said: I am okay. Now, >>>> when he looked into a mirror, he saw that light in his own eyes. It >>>> made him feel better. >>>> >>>> One day they came and told him that he was indeed better now... that >>>> he could go home. It'd been so long though that he no longer had a >>>> home to go to. Four years in an institution will do that. Everything >>>> was gone. Family, friends, wife, money... like he'd been to war. They >>>> gave him a hundred dollars and a bus ticket anywhere. So he rode that >>>> dog all the way west until the sea stopped it; he could go no further. >>>> >>>> He rented a cheap room above a tavern by the ocean. The sounds of the >>>> waves and the people below lulled him to sleep at night. He got a job >>>> in the tavern below doing the only thing he knew how to do: cleaning >>>> up after others. He noticed the light in their eyes changing as they >>>> grew drunk with liquor, meaner, uglier. They made messes on purpose >>>> just to see him clean it up. But he never grew angry. He just did what >>>> he did and he did it with a smile on his face. A smile only an insane >>>> man could wear properly. >>>> >>>> She worked as a bar maid and her name was Lisa. All the men called her >>>> Mona, though, especially after they'd had a few, and they laughed >>>> about it and slapped their knees as they did so like it was the >>>> funniest thing. He didn't get the joke but then again he'd never been >>>> to a museum and he'd forgotten all the art he'd ever been taught. Lisa >>>> didn't like it. But, like him, she never let on. She just smiled and >>>> did what she did. He noticed that it was a smile a lot like his. >>>> >>>> >>>> >>>> >>>> On Tue, Jul 12, 2011 at 10:17 PM, 118 <[email protected]> wrote: >>>>> Once he had lived with his new awareness and gotten used to it, he >>>>> wished to share it with others. When the breakdown first happened, he >>>>> was left without ability to share what he saw. Gradually, he had >>>>> recovered from the original shock, and spent time with his new >>>>> awareness trying to understand it. Now he fully understood it, >>>>> although not with words, but did not know how to communicate it. >>>>> >>>>> There was a wide divide between his personal understanding and its >>>>> agreement in the Social Layer, which is where he wanted to place it. >>>>> He felt alone, and wanted it discussed between other people. Every >>>>> word that he thought of as part of a description was insufficient, and >>>>> just plain wrong. He read how others had done it, but did not have >>>>> the patience for all the questions that would spring forth. However, >>>>> he also did not want to remain alone with his new understanding. >>>>> >>>>> He sat in front of the computer and surfed around. He found a nice >>>>> slide show that kind of was in tune with his awareness. A little more >>>>> surfing brought forth the perfect music to expand upon the slide show. >>>>> Visual and auditory, was that enough? He was feeling something >>>>> similar but much much more intense. He opened the window a bit to let >>>>> the night air in. Yes! That was it, that cool breeze fit right in. >>>>> Not only that but the night blooming jasmine was expressing itself >>>>> fully at that time. But how many people know about that breeze and >>>>> that smell. >>>>> >>>>> He decided that he could not share it over the computer. He would >>>>> have to wander the lands and find people who he could show directly. >>>>> An while such a journey seemed long, he knew that by doing it that >>>>> way, he would no longer feel alone. >>>>> >>>>> >>>>> >>>>> On Tue, Jun 14, 2011 at 12:37 PM, 118 <[email protected]> wrote: >>>>>> Hi All, >>>>>> It has been said that communication through writing lies within the >>>>>> realm of static quality. Certainly it can be said that it is based on >>>>>> Subject/Object grammar. How then do we point to dynamic quality, >>>>>> without getting stuck in these circular discussions which only point >>>>>> towards themselves? >>>>>> >>>>>> I propose that there is a method in writing which is based on Dynamic >>>>>> Quality. In fact there are many methods being used today with such a >>>>>> basis. Train of thought, or automatic writing is one of those. Often >>>>>> I have to read my posts after I have written them to see what I said. >>>>>> In this way writing is more like talking in the present tense, in the >>>>>> moment. >>>>>> >>>>>> So, what does this look like when we are relating something that >>>>>> happened in the past? Well, we must remember that things that >>>>>> happened in the past were happening in the present at one time. By >>>>>> present I mean that infinitesimal (non-existent) fraction of time that >>>>>> we live in. In order to explain this, I will use an example that has >>>>>> nothing to do with MoQ, since that is much more difficult. I will >>>>>> choose the following sentence written in standard past-tense grammar, >>>>>> and convert it to dynamic quality format. >>>>>> >>>>>> "The lovestruck man swam across the cold river to be with his expectant >>>>>> lover." >>>>>> >>>>>> OK with that? Now here is the Dynamic Quality Format: >>>>>> >>>>>> "Feeling alone and despondent, the intensity of desire was building. >>>>>> Each step brought him closer to that object of his desire until he was >>>>>> met by a cold river which presented a barrier. Yet, his wanting >>>>>> pushed him forward. As he entered, the cold began to travel up his >>>>>> body until he was completely free of suffocating heat. Arm over arm >>>>>> he entered into a mesmerized state where each moment was unique and >>>>>> separate from the previous. He had no idea how long he was in this >>>>>> state, but found himself surfacing at the shore, and the spellbinding >>>>>> cold was replaced slowly with heat once more. This much closer, he >>>>>> moved slowly towards that which he sought in order to satisfy the >>>>>> longing which had held him for so long. This was the woman who was >>>>>> expecting him." >>>>>> >>>>>> So, why do I call this "writing in Dynamic Quality format"? It is >>>>>> simply because as one read this, everything is opening up to the >>>>>> reader as happening in the moment. The subjects and objects are >>>>>> revealed as they happen. It is not until the end of the sentence that >>>>>> the beginning is defined. This is the way life works if we live in >>>>>> the dynamic moment. Each moment defines those that occurred >>>>>> previously. >>>>>> >>>>>> Give it a try and see what you guys come up with! >>>>>> >>>>>> Cheers, >>>>>> Mark >>>>>> >>>>> Moq_Discuss mailing list >>>>> Listinfo, Unsubscribing etc. >>>>> http://lists.moqtalk.org/listinfo.cgi/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org >>>>> Archives: >>>>> http://lists.moqtalk.org/pipermail/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org/ >>>>> http://moq.org/md/archives.html >>>>> >>>> Moq_Discuss mailing list >>>> Listinfo, Unsubscribing etc. >>>> http://lists.moqtalk.org/listinfo.cgi/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org >>>> Archives: >>>> http://lists.moqtalk.org/pipermail/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org/ >>>> http://moq.org/md/archives.html >>>> >>> Moq_Discuss mailing list >>> Listinfo, Unsubscribing etc. >>> http://lists.moqtalk.org/listinfo.cgi/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org >>> Archives: >>> http://lists.moqtalk.org/pipermail/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org/ >>> http://moq.org/md/archives.html >>> >> Moq_Discuss mailing list >> Listinfo, Unsubscribing etc. >> http://lists.moqtalk.org/listinfo.cgi/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org >> Archives: >> http://lists.moqtalk.org/pipermail/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org/ >> http://moq.org/md/archives.html >> > Moq_Discuss mailing list > Listinfo, Unsubscribing etc. > http://lists.moqtalk.org/listinfo.cgi/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org > Archives: > http://lists.moqtalk.org/pipermail/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org/ > http://moq.org/md/archives.html > Moq_Discuss mailing list Listinfo, Unsubscribing etc. http://lists.moqtalk.org/listinfo.cgi/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org Archives: http://lists.moqtalk.org/pipermail/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org/ http://moq.org/md/archives.html
