Short Story: "The Snowman" (2006)

My hands aren’t looking the same as they used to. They look short-nailed and scraggly, dry. It’s all part of this bodily decay that’s happening I’m told. I’m going to start shrivelling up now that I’ve reached my twenties. You grow up and then you grow down. But that minute, that less than millisecond of time, that tiny significant fragment that is barely anything at all – a speck of dust on a speck of dust – that’s where the story begins. The moment when you reach the peak and you start to fall. We’re not always hurtling toward death from the moment we are born – no, no, no – there is period of time when the body really does want to live. It wants to live so much that it grows like a sunflower toward the bright blue heavens, you’re arms and legs get longer, you’re torso gets longer, you’re brain gets bigger, everything working together to make you the strongest being alive. Your body begins with a preconception of its own immortality.

Then you realize – you have to, you’re forced to in some way or another – that death exists and that it will get you too. You don’t fight it anymore, maybe you’ll accept it when it comes, maybe you’ll scream and wail and barricade the doors, maybe you’ll give it a run for its money.
Or maybe you too will disappear like the rest of them.

A man kisses his girlfriend goodbye, walks to the train station and has a coronary heart attack, just shy of the whooshing train doors.

A woman says “good morning” to her neighbour as she lets her dog out for its morning pee, and then has a stroke in the kitchen. The dog barks for an hour.

A child catches pneumonia from a day at the swimming pool and dies a week later. People spontaneously combust. Aeroplanes fall on houses and bears get hungry in the woods.
We have every right to be afraid.

But man has found a way to stave off death, to make its bite less swift, to make its call less unexpected, by putting the Welcome mats out.

And you thought that this was going to be a story about man’s insignificance in the face of death – the Romantic Movement that Nature is, like God, spelt with a capital letter, and we are mere – mere – mortals who have nothing to give and everything to take. But who’s thinking about that when you’re seven years old, building a snowman?

I was.

Yep. I admit it. I was one of those kids. I spent a lot of time staring at things – the grass, the moon, a puddle – I would spend all day just staring and inspecting all the elements of my landscape. I don’t know what was going through my head when I was seven, but I remember it being very silent and very hopeful. I was waiting for something and looking for an appropriate scene for it to be unveiled to me. I thought that if I stared long enough at something beautiful, something massive and triumphant, I would be shown something that no-one else knew but that everyone wanted to. Life was filled with waiting and looking and keeping my mind focused in case anything came through. I would watch the fish, analysing the movements they made in the Land of Pond, the colours as the light painted their scales and ricochet off the water. I would watch the clouds – for hours sometimes – I’d lie on the grass and play with the clouds, twirling my fingers around them like ribbons. And then I’d watch the moon. And that was the focus – the homeland of images – for me. The moon. Big and round and fat, tiny and slithery, winking, smiling, crying, red, silver, pink, blue, open, closed, ominous, invisible, incorrigible, enduring. My eyes always returned to its face. As a kid I was like a moon-goddamn-radar. Even during the day – that part of the day when you can see it up there in the sky looking out of place and apocalyptic – I would point and cheer and feel safe, like meeting an old friend who knew me as well as I knew them. And I knew everything about that moon. I still do. We grew up together.
At night, when the curtains were closed and the room was bathed in the half-light of my red lamp, I would look at my hands. I would inspect them. I would turn them this way and that in the light and make sure that I knew them really, really well. I’d play games with them and make shadow-puppets. My hands were an awesome toy that was attached to my body and with me all the time. I felt very joyous about that. No one could take them away from me, even if I had been bad or sulky or just plain annoying, I could always look at my hands and they would say “hiya buddy! Wanna play?” and I would say sure, I’d love to, and we’d live happily ever after for that evening. There was so much to do with them! At times, I must say, I felt almost overwhelmed. I dabbled in Origami, I took up Violin, I baked bread, I did handstands, I picked up bucketfuls of red clay from roots of upturned trees in the woods and made sculptures, I did all of this – and infinitely more – with those amazing tools that God had attached to my arms.

And then there was The Snowman, and I realised that not everyone else in the world wanted to create things with their hands or make beautiful music or shadow-puppets. And I knew that life was going to be a bit of a struggle then and that I would have to toughen up or forget what I was looking for. One Friday night, at 10pm, I was looking for my Snowman’s hand. His nose, mouth, eyes and other hand were all in my pyjama pocket, but one hand was still out there somewhere. I had to move slowly and silently across the double-baked snow which was frozen and thawed and frozen again so that it was more like freezer snow than sky snow, and louder too. It wasn’t packing under my feet like fresh snow – the new snow that makes a delightful sliding ‘pop’ under the weight of Wellington Boots – it was breaking like shards of white-painted glass. And I had snuck out of the house with absolute, brilliant deviance, and I wasn’t about to blow it by treading too heavily. Rosie – my pink-cheeked doll with three toes missing since the dog had chewed them off – was keeping the fort safe. She was packed into my bedding in the exact same manner I would be sleeping, with just her hair – the same colour and texture as mine – poking out from the covers and draping across the pillow. It was foolproof, despite the fact that she was one-eighth my size. I imagined that if trouble came, Rosie would spot the hall light as it came drifting through the slowly opened bedroom door and she would grow momentarily. Perhaps she would even snore. She would never do this to my face, but she would do this to save me. Toys have to keep a secret pact that they will never show their powers to their children, but Rosie – the smart, blue-eyed scamp – would have found the loophole and would use it to save me.

In the meantime, I had to do my part and try my utmost to keep her from having to break the rules or even bend them. I didn’t want her to get into trouble when it was me who should take the rap. So I tiptoed across the snow in just my socks. Pyjama-clad and freshly bathed, I slipped quietly down the stairs – ignoring the 3rd, 5th and 6th because they squeaked (and boy, that 5th/6th dilemma was hard to figure out. I couldn’t jump two entire steps without falling and disrupting the silent world with a God-awful clattering, but if you knew exactly the place to stand on the 6th step – a little to the left and as close to the wall of the previous step as possible – you could make it with only a few seconds delay to your overall stair-scaling time. I, of course, knew how to do this and had practiced many, many times – sometimes even, during the day in full view, without anyone knowing what the hell I was doing. I was a quiet, good kid and they had no reason to suspect me.) I shimmied across the hallway wall, staying carefully out of the light cast by the ajar living room door. I spent a full five minutes opening the back door cautiously, slower than it might have seemed physically possible and utterly noiselessly. A mouse, asleep in the letterbox, would not have stirred. Then I’m off – out – into the night. I had to be careful not to let myself get too excited. I had to remember that, as successful as that part of the mission had been, it was only a part of the mission. Celebrating now would be devastating. It would be foolish to let the triumphant yelp in my stomach come flying up to my mouth. I put my hand over my potentially treacherous lips and swallowed the excitement down, like a spoonful of syrupy, banana-flavored antibiotics.

Now, I guess I need to explain the miraculous something that had happened earlier in the day. I had been cooped up in school, hands cradling my sleepy head, listening to Mr Warthrop explain The Water Cycle, when a stirring beside me from Katie Prichard and Isabelle Basingstoke attracted my attention. Both their heads had turned toward the window and they were now staring fixedly outside. When I followed their gaze I was immediately struck by a feeling that I can only explain as the inner turmoil of silenced yelp. My stomach bubbled joyfully and I could almost feel my pupils dilating, swelling like cotton, to take in the entirety of the scene. On the other side of the dusty-grey windows was a magical world of whirling whiteness. Snow was falling so thick and heavy that it had already carpeted the playground and the “nature trail” in an immaculate, even spread. More heads began to turn, and a low mummer started to rise. I knew that by break time we would be in a state of collective hysteria, quite literally breaking through the classroom door to be unleashed upon the world. I could not feel sorry for the immaculate snow, waiting so peacefully beyond the confines of the scrap-book walled classroom. It wanted us to come and play with it, to wreak un-self-conscious havoc, to set it free from natural order and stain the blank canvas with our tiny footprints.

When the time came, and Mr Warthrop dismissed the half-standing troop before him, we burst outdoors into the Narnia of our dreams. We stamped our feet and pressed our footprints deep into the luminous floss. By the time school was out, we had completed the second miracle: we had transformed the clean sheet of blankness outside the window into the black, slushy aftermath of uninhibited fun. Chunks of mud and grass attached themselves to snowballs and coated our snowmen like a wild fur. My wet toes were numb inside my shoes, my fingers burning and my face flushed with cold. My trouser legs were wet and clumps of ice hung in my hair. As my classmates and I flooded through the gates with our parents, we breathed the collective sigh of a job well done. It had been a successful day.

Home was warm and my skin tingled. My mother had nurtured the fire to an invitational level, and while it danced in oranges and blacks I could hear it expel a satisfied ‘ahhh’ as it eased into a steady flow. But a child’s work is never done. The playground may have been a corrupted space by this time in the afternoon, but the back garden – my back garden – was completely intact. It was my own, private world and it had waited for me all day. I yelped when I saw it, bouncing from foot to foot and pleading with my mother to hold dinner off for later and let me straight at it. As I bounded out the back door, knowing that time was short, I couldn’t help but pause on the final step and admire the glow.

That perfect image of even, bright whiteness was with me as I stood out there once again, in my pyjamas, in the darkness, in secret. I recalled the afternoon’s exertion, starting at one of the garden’s fluffy sheet and rolling it up, rolling, rolling, rolling until my fingers were blistered beneath my gloves. Then to another corner, rolling again, picking up clumps of mud and stray hairs of grass, tweezering them out with my frozen pincers, until I was left with a ball of snow the size of a bicycle wheel. Up went the smaller ball onto the larger, my red face puffing for air as I lifted it, and suddenly, the first semblance of life appeared. A body, good and fat, ready to become my best friend.

When the darkness came and I was forced inside, I sat on the sill of my bedroom window, inside the curtains with the heat of the radiator below, and stared at my snow man. His bottle cap eyes stared back, glistening with sentiment unsaid, as he waved up at me with arms made from twigs and hands, real hands, wearing my gloves. The snow stuffed inside them had turned to ice by now, but I could still see the shape of his fingers, the curve of his thumb and the fleshy pouch that was shaped like a chicken leg. They were my hands, inside those gloves, forever waving. I pressed my face against the window and stayed there until I heard the creak of the sixth step and my mother’s voice, calling for me to brush my teeth.

When I came back, the snow man was gone. No face stared up at me, no arms, no hands waving. Just a muddy mound in the darkening garden, footprints across it like the afternoon playground. My eyes felt spicy with tears. I wanted vengeance, I wanted justice, but mostly, I wanted my snow man. I wanted to see him waving up at me, just long enough to wave back a goodbye.
It was here that I first knew loss, at seven years old, standing in my Rainbow Brite pyjamas with a trembling lip and red eyes. It was this moment that separated the world for me into creation and destruction. Every day afterwards, I would see the people around me fall into one sphere or the other. I would mourn again, and continue to feel loss throughout the years of my life. But I would always remember that hands could create hands in the snow.

That night, I chose not to lay out my welcome mat to death. Instead, I vowed to fight it, to plot against it, to sneak into the darkness and defy its awful grin with a grin of my own.

Read More...

Pre-Screening Prep Boosts Watchmen Experience

Originally posted on Neon Tommy.com

With a line sweeping around the building into the depths of an unusually cold Los Angeles evening, the Vista Theater on Sunset Boulevard was one of many across the nation experiencing Friday-night frenzy for "Watchmen". After all, when was the last time bona fide geeks were nourished by a decent superhero movie? Not since "The Dark Knight" in July 2008. It has been a long winter for followers of the comic book kingdom. Hence, opening weekend for "Watchmen" racked up a cool $55 million in nerd money. Although the figure was lower than projections, wire reports said that sales of the comic book are bolstering profits. More than a million copies have sold since the debut of the "Watchmen" movie trailer, and sales are said to have spiked since opening night.

The movie's evangelical abilities prove that there are two types of people who watched "Watchmen": the nerds and the others. The former, having studied the graphic novel and understood its worth in the canon, are more likely to have consumed the movie with scholarly interest. The latter, only able to watch it superficially, are bringing home bad reviews. Out of the loop, clouded by confusion, many of these movie-goers, who expected another 300, are seeking to bridge entry into this world by picking up "Watchmen" at their local bookstore.

And their studying will pay off. There is nothing better than watching a book-based movie as a scholar among scholars. You will know this if you have ever been to a midnight screening of a Harry Potter movie and watched the school-uniformed masses discussing the imperious curse in the aisles.

At the Vista on opening night of "Watchmen," novel character Rorschach himself was standing at the door ripping tickets, with his trademark ink-splotch mask and dirty fedora hat. The theater was full to the brim and more, but wanting to accommodate all the die-hard enthusiasts who waited in line smoking weed and chomping hot dogs, Vista officials unpacked folding chairs and lined them in the aisles for straddlers.

I studied "Watchmen," one of Time magazine's 100 best novels (yes, novels) with a level of fascination I hadn't felt since the Harry Potter phenomenon or Frank Herbert's "Dune" series. Watchmen, which many, including myself, mistakenly refer to as a comic book, is a graphic novel set in an alternate 1985.

According to WiseGeek.com, "theme in graphic novels, which are usually about 60-120 pages in length, tends to be more mature than in many comic books." "Watchmen" is no exception. Richard Nixon is in his third term as president, and the world stands on the brink of nuclear war. The story follows a group of retired superheroes who were once active vigilantes before they were forced out of commission by "The Keene Act," a national law passed in 1977 that outlawed "costumed adventuring."

Unlike the primary-colored superheroes of traditional lore, these characters are neurotic and grimy. Morally ambiguous, sexually deviant, emotionally and mentally plagued by subconscious terrors, each "superhero" is more human, and more messed-up, than the usual suspects. Superman may have isolation issues, Batman may be teetering on the edge of amorality, but Rorschach, one of the few watchmen who retained his vigilante ways despite the Keene Act, is completely psychotic.

The Comedian, played to perfection by Jeffrey Dean Morgan, who was widely seen in "P.S. I Love You," is downright blood-thirsty and full of aggression and apathy toward the human race. Despite being the nuisances of the "hoods" (aka superheroes) in the graphic novel, both Rorschach and The Comedian shine in the movie, lifting energetic applause from the audience at the Vista.

Rorschach's defining line comes after a violent clash with another inmate during his prison stay. "You people don't understand," he announces to the convict congregation, many of whom he, himself, had landed there, "I'm not locked in here with you, you're locked in here with me!" The Vista erupted with applause and laughter at this point and a renewed respect for Rorschach's character swept the theater.

I was impressed by how closely the movie adhered to the dialogue of its original form. The neatness of the narrative flow was also admirable, especially considering the disjointedness of the graphic novel. The action scenes, deemed "un-Watchmen-like" by many critics because of their tendency toward the supernatural rather than the realistic, were as dynamic and beautiful as a Quentin Tarantino production.

Some of the casting choices, however, weren't as vibrant as I had hoped. Malin Akerman as Laurie Jupiter (aka Miss Jupiter or Silk Spectre II) was disappointing. Akerman lacked the personality required to pull off Jupiter's energy and strength, rendering her character more annoying than feisty. The sexual chemistry between Jupiter and her love interest, Nite Owl II (played by Patrick Wilson), was also non-existent. The sex scene was extremely graphic, void of electricity, and long and awkward, like that of a bad porno movie.

Matthew Goode was a poor choice for the character of Adrian Veidt (aka Mr. Metropolis). He seemed too puny and mean to achieve a believable incarnation of the novel's most traditional-seeming superhero. I always imagined Mr. Metropolis a balanced character, whose likeability was just as high as his tendency to irritate. But Goode's version was unlikable from the outset; his character's many redeeming qualities completely disappeared. Instead, what appeared on screen was a cliché, British-accented nemesis--minus the moustache.

I can imagine that seeing "Watchmen" as an "other," without having first experienced its original form, would be a disappointing experience. After all, this superhero movie isn't even a superhero movie. It isn't an action movie either. It's not a love story or a redemption drama. Its "explosive ending" isn't really explosive at all, at least not in the way that stories about good versus evil tend to climax. But this isn't a story about good versus evil. The lines are less definitive, and the world is grey. Whatever you see in "Watchmen" depends on what you seek to see, how you interpret the words and what you image on its pages. This movie is just one vision, one interpretation. That's all it can be as a movie. If you don't like it, read the book, and see something different.

Read More...

From Neontommy.com: Hard Times Demand the Soft Touch of Social Workers

Originally posted here.

It's ironic that in a world where instant teleportation is made possible through the virtual realm, human beings are becoming more isolated from one another. The idea of "social support" seems almost archaic. Independence is a more valuable trait than mutual responsibility.

Social work as a profession is crumbling across the Western world, even in countries where it has long been a foundational principle. In England, social services are evaporating. In America, the landscape is almost barren. But in hard times, when families worldwide are vulnerable, professional social workers are needed more than ever.

When I was a kid, growing up in the rural suburbs of Buckinghamshire, England, a woman named Brenda Romney would knock on our door every week. Her appearance through the living room window usually provoked animated gesturing from my mother, signalling my sister and me to be on our best behaviour. We would sit straight-backed on the couch and fold our hands like ladies, while our social worker asked my mother how she was doing for money, how we were doing in school and what she could do to help.

If our washing machine, vacuum cleaner or oven broke (as they frequently did) Brenda Romney would find a donor to provide us with a working replacement. When my mother had a stroke, Brenda Romney arranged for a care-worker to help clean, cook and do the grocery shopping. When my sister or I missed school, Brenda Romney would make a surprise appearance.

Once, she appeared just as my fist was smashing through a glass panel in the front door. My sister had locked me out of the house, and my frustrated banging weakened the glass. It popped and shattered at the perfect moment, just as our social worker was walking up the garden path.

Without her, and the many other social workers my single-parent family experienced, we would have been alone and, at times, lost. They provided guidance and support, sometimes by pointing us in the right direction for help and sometimes by lending an ear. I think my mother was relieved just to know that someone was aware of what we were going through.

She wasn't used to being helpless, but after two heart-attacks, a cardiac arrest and multiple minor strokes, one-third of her heart was dead. She had trouble breathing and was tired all the time. Blood clotted in her legs and soon, she could no longer walk up the stairs. We lived hand to mouth, but, for the most part, we were happy. Brenda Romney's frequent visits helped to keep us that way.

On Jan.26, Ervin and Ana Lupoe, from Wilmington, Los Angeles, killed themselves and their five children because their hardships had become too overwhelming to bear. This tragedy proves that America is facing the worst of its recession. In times like these, support beyond the realms of tax benefits and stimulus plans is essential. Families need emotional and mental reinforcement. When that infrastructure is failing, or missing, the effect is shockingly clear.

Almost two decades have passed since Brenda Romney was knocking on my front door, and things have changed in England. British families no longer have the same level of access to social workers. Fewer people are entering the profession. Existing social workers are overwhelmed with cases and restricted by increased paperwork.

The system is overloaded and the cracks are beginning to show. A slew of firings and resignations recently followed the death of "Baby P," an 18-month-old boy who died from abuse and neglect despite 60 visits from authorities in an eight-month period. The child had been neglected by his mother and tortured for almost his entire life by her sadistic boyfriend, who would pluck out his nails with pliers and beat him. The saddest part of the tale is that "Baby P" was five months away from being adopted. His abusive mother and step-father, who cannot be named due to legal reasons, are now the most hated people in Britain.

The story has caused a media firestorm and increased pressure on the social work industry.
The British government has instigated monthly social work reviews, which critics are calling a "social worker witch hunt."

One of the social workers responsible for the "Baby P" case claimed that her bosses were too busy to respond to the warning signs in her reports. Even before the office lost the employees who were fired in the aftermath, they were understaffed and overworked. The county council responsible for the case (Haringey, London) has sent out an urgent plea for the government to assign social workers from other counties to help tackle its staffing crisis.

Ian Johnston, chief executive of the British Association of Social Workers, recently wrote a letter to the government saying that "the lack of political support for social workers in their extremely difficult protection work is having serious ramifications for the morale, staffing, recruitment and retention of the profession."

Johnston added, "We would welcome some public acknowledgement of the real achievements of our profession in protecting children and young people."

A vicious cycle is underway in the U.K.: Less government funding means meagre pay and a decrease in the number of social workers entering the profession. The workload for those that remain increases, resulting in dramatic oversights, negative media attention, low morale in the industry and further decreases in the number of social workers. With an economic crisis underway, the social work industry in the U.K. could not be capsizing at a worse time.

According to UNISON, Europe's biggest public sector union, social workers in the U.K. spend about 80 percent of their time on paperwork. Under-qualified workers are being forced to tackle heavy-duty child-protection cases and the industry is suffering a 20 to 30 percent job vacancy rate.

I have a handful of friends and family in the profession and each one says that their time with patients is being compromised. They complain of minimal resources, a lot of stress, and a mountain of paperwork. If nothing changes, the pressures on the social work industry in the U.K. are sure to harm British families who are suffering financial hardship and emotional turmoil. The U.K. officially entered a recession this month, and families are starting to buckle under the weight. It is only a matter of time before tragedy strikes again.

Across the Atlantic, the situation seems even more dire. Are the deaths of the Lupoes symptomatic of an irreparably inadequate social work industry stateside? If only 3 in 10 social workers in the U.S. are employed by the government, and the rest belong to the health care industry, how much support do low-income families and the 47 million Americans without health insurance receive? With only one social worker for every 510 people in America, it can't be much. Take away access to social workers through doctors and hospitals, who aren't available to the uninsured, and the ratio is 1 to 1,702.

We can talk of stimulus plans and tax breaks all we want, but this economic crisis will not go down in history as a series of graphs showing a declining stock market. It will be remembered for having uprooted families from their homes and transformed the comforting blanket of social security, which took lifetimes to weave, into a tattered cardboard box. Even figures as high as $800 billion are meaningless when there is no gas in the tank, no food on the table and no way out.

As the Lupoes discovered, in a culture of self-reliance, the only option is to go it alone. Pictures of their children's smiling faces will define the millennial economic slide for generations to come.

Read More...

From the LA Weekly: Morgan vs. Foretich Twenty Years Later

Originally posted here.

At home, things are as normal as can be. Dr. Elizabeth Morgan brings in a tray carrying a single cup of coffee, a sugar bowl and her favorite creamer. The creamer is shaped like a cow, with a looped tail forming a handle. It doesn’t work that well, she explains as milk slops out, but she loves it.

Her daughter, now called Elena, laughs as she finishes snacking on a cracker, checking her teeth for crumbs in a mirror. She’s wearing tight jeans and a baby-blue tube top, is ebullient and bouncy, and seems younger than 26, closer to the teen pop-music audience she’s wooing.

But Elena has her mother’s eyes and the same burning moral outrage that propelled them both into the global spotlight in the 1980s. It’s been so long that Elena and Elizabeth have begun entirely new lives, landing in the town that has turned epochal personal remakes into a local industry.

“When you’re an only child raised by a single parent, you have a special bond with them,” says Elena — an assumed name she began using after returning to the U.S. from New Zealand, where she went by the assumed name Ellen. “My mother and I get along very easily.”

The term “special bond” would be an understatement. In the late ’80s, Elena, whose given name is Hilary Foretich, rocketed along with her mother, into the Los Angeles Times, Washington Post and New York Times and made news regularly on ABC, CBS and NBC, fighting an ugly custody battle against Hilary’s father, Dr. Eric Foretich.

Dr. Morgan alleged that Foretich, whom she had divorced before their daughter was born, had sexually abused their little girl, and today estimates that she spent $1 million to prove it and to protect Hilary. When D.C. Superior Court Judge Herbert B. Dixon Jr. dismissed the civil case against Hilary’s father, oral surgeon Foretich, in 1987, Morgan defied his court orders giving Foretich visitation rights.

She spent two years at the D.C. City Jail for illegally whisking 5-year-old Hilary out of Foretich’s — and the court’s — reach.

Hilary Foretich lived secretly in New Zealand with her grandparents, who plunged her into obscurity by renaming her Ellen Morgan. In jail, Elizabeth Morgan refused to divulge her daughter’s location, but the defiant mom was freed in 1989 — by an act of Congress, no less. Then in 1996, Congress passed yet another custom law for the duo, the Elizabeth Morgan Act, which allowed them both to return home to Washington, D.C.

About a decade ago, Hilary Foretich/Ellen Morgan changed her name again, to Elena Mitrano — a nod to her grandfather’s Italian heritage.

Today, mother and daughter live in Los Angeles, the city of ultimate do-overs. In their second year here, they share an apartment that overlooks the posh Four Seasons Hotel adjacent to Beverly Hills. Because of the location, they get a Beverly Hills view, explains Mitrano, now a beautiful young woman, but with an L.A. rent.

Mitrano recently reached No. 26 in the New York music charts with the title song from her debut album, Rescue Me, produced by L.A.-based company the Heavyweights.

Upbeat and catchy, her pop vocals are popular in New York’s club scene, while ballads like the autobiographical “Voiceless” add weight to her fan base. Whenever she’s at a loss for lyrics or rhythms, Mitrano says, she looks to her idol and asks, “What would Cher do?”

Inevitably here in Tinsel Town, a record deal is in the works. “In a lot of ways, I have been very, very fortunate,” Mitrano says. “My family on my mother’s side loved me and supported me and gave me a tremendous childhood. But there are so many children who aren’t as lucky as I had been, and I wanted to do something for them.”

She got a degree in journalism at American University in Washington, D.C., but found that her voice was more powerful as a creative force, and with her mother’s help she began producing music. “I think it’s high time pop music addressed people’s need to just smile,” Mitrano says.

Her brainy mother, now 61, is getting a master’s in public health at UCLA — adding to her biology degree from Harvard, M.D. from Yale and psychology degree from the University of Canterbury in New Zealand.

Mitrano has performed at the Roxy, Molly Malone’s and Tangier — and is preparing for a tour. With dates yet to be set, she hopes to visit 10 U.S. cities as part of the Rock Your Fashion Tour with Sledge Clothing Co. When Mitrano moved to L.A. to further her singing career, within months, and at Mitrano’s behest, her mother followed.

“Anything for Elena,” Morgan says. In fact, Morgan was an icon to U.S. mothers two decades ago because she would do anything for the then-named Hilary. But Morgan was also accused of being a fraud and a psychopath who would do anything for her daughter.

Some family psychologists and other experts, like law professor Susan B. Apel, have repeatedly suggested that Mitrano suffers from “false memory” syndrome, and that no abuse actually took place.

Foretich, who rebuilt his life, which was ruined for years by their allegations, and who is a successful oral surgeon now living in Virginia, claimed that Morgan was a “pathological liar” who fabricated details in order to retain sole custody of the little girl. Some critics have even suggested that it was Morgan, not Foretich, who was the perpetrator.

Mitrano’s jaw stiffens at such suggestions today. She sits upright and places her hands in her lap.

“My mother was made out to be a liar,” she says. “She was made out to be crazy and vindictive and a woman who was just trying to spear her ex-husband and make him look bad and steal his daughter from him. ... My mother was trying to save my life.”

It all seems incredibly distant from 1987, and it is. Morgan has term papers to write. Mitrano has glitzy Hollywood events to attend. But they always make time to play gin rummy together each weekend.

Their apartment is made homey by a plush purple chaise, welcoming furnishings and fully stocked bookshelves. But there are no photographs from Mitrano’s early childhood.

“Life is good now,” says Morgan with a red-lipped smile, nodding and interlocking her fingers. “But looking back can be kind of a downer.”

In the summer of 1987, temperatures in Washington, D.C., soared above 100 as a crime wave gripped the city. The D.C. jail was full of murderers, carjackers and rapists jammed in a pink-toned building. The Washington Post described it as “plagued by chronic sanitary conditions.” Rats scuttled along the corridors. Flies buzzed around puddles of who-knows-what.

On a Friday that August, an unusual guest checked in, a Harvard graduate and plastic surgeon with more than 20 years of schooling. “I think that’s the most I’ve ever seen,” a guard told the media of Morgan’s education as he checked her paperwork. She had refused — once again — to tell Judge Dixon where her daughter was.

“Either you tell me where your daughter is, or you go to jail,” a weary Dixon had told her.

Morgan replied, “That’s not a problem. I’ll go to jail.” She was escorted from Dixon’s courtroom, strip-searched, hosed down and given a jump suit. “It wasn’t so bad,” she now tells L.A. Weekly. “At least I got to read a lot of books.”

The Morgan vs. Foretich case was a white-hot news story. She remembers being harangued in her cell by a journalist from the Washington Post, who, Morgan claims, suggested that her jail venture was a stunt to aid her plastic-surgery business.

“Isn’t it true that they’re letting you out to see patients?” the journalist asked.

“If you think that’s true,” Morgan replied, “why don’t you ask my guard?” As Morgan tells it now, the guard looked at the Post reporter in disgust.

Quietly whisked to New Zealand, Mitrano remembers growing up afraid of being found by her father or New Zealand officials. Says Mitrano, “I felt that looming feeling as if someone was always standing behind me.”

Someone was. When Interpol discovered the little girl’s location, the police in Christchurch, New Zealand, began accompanying her to swim meets and sometimes tracked her schoolmates — purportedly in case her father showed up and nabbed the wrong girl.

Mitrano’s grandparents tried to protect her from TV images of her jailed mother. With her pale skin and long brown hair, Dr. Morgan was a photogenic inmate and international media sensation. The press loved to have her pose with her delicate hands wrapped around prison bars. But on day 759, she was freed by Congress — thanks to its District of Columbia Civil Contempt Imprisonment Limitation Act, limiting contempt-of-court terms to one year. She had served almost two.

Time has padded the sharp edges of the past with protective cushioning. Eric Foretich is more than 2,500 miles away practicing dentistry in Virginia, his office confirms. He is living in an alternate dimension as far as the mother and daughter are concerned.

Under law, Mitrano had until age 21 to file criminal charges against her father, but she decided to leave the past alone. In 1987, when the threat of having to visit her father was highest, the little girl was suicidal, according to Mary L. Froning, her therapist at the time, who testified in court in 1989.

Since she arrived in Los Angeles, and began climbing steadily up through the competitive, creative music scene here, her demons started to grow quiet. “I remember a lot,” Mitrano says. “And I still get sad sometimes.” Her brown eyes glisten as she sits in the sunlit living room with her mother.

But for 20 years, some journalists, psychologists, researchers and lawyers have been skeptical. Eric Foretich passed three lie-detector tests in court — two administered by police. He has consistently filed lawsuits against media outlets, including ABC for portraying him as a pedophile in the 1992 TV movie The Elizabeth Morgan Story. ABC paid him a settlement, but Foretich has nearly gone bankrupt fighting the media, according to his attorney, Jonathan Turley.

He also tried many times to contact his daughter, and after a detective traced her and her mother to New Zealand, Foretich flew there and appealed to the courts. “He tried to plead his case as the ‘good father,’” Mitrano says with a sarcastic tilt of the head. “They sent him back with his tail between his legs.”

Foretich also tried to see his daughter during a court hearing in Washington, D.C., when she turned 18. It didn’t go well. Mitrano was furious and demanded that Foretich leave the courtroom. She recalls, “I remember screaming and telling him to get away from me.”

“She got a chance to give him a piece of her mind,” Morgan says. “He left immediately.”

The two women have been as consistent as Foretich in telling their version of what unfolded. Says Morgan today, “Before the visits began, she was a really happy baby. And then once the visits began, she was really unhappy. It was not subtle, I mean, something bad was happening.”

She would throw fits when her father came to pick her up for a visit and came home acting “like a zombie,” Morgan recalls. On the one occasion that Morgan asked her daughter to “act out” what was going on during the visits, the child, she says, began inserting objects into her genital area.

Mitrano says she remembers feeling unsafe, and trying to fight being taken to her father’s house. “There’s a certain kind of screaming that kids make — a certain type of scream— that I remember in my own head,” she says, and pauses to hold back tears. “It’s bone-chilling. It really is. It’s not a normal cry. It’s a child in mortal danger. And kids will tell you.”

Why, then, did the judge side with Foretich, ordering a two-week unsupervised visit to make up for his lost time with his child? There is no clear answer. According to Morgan, because it was a civil case and not a criminal one, the burden of proof lay with her.

A lot of men, among them similarly accused spouses, think otherwise. Jake Morphonios, the North Carolina coordinator for the fathers’ rights organization Fathers-4-Justice, writes in his Web column, the Liberty Tree, that in civil-court battles between parents, “constitutional safeguards are abandoned. The burden of proof falls upon the accused to prove a negative, or to conclusively show that an alleged event never occurred.”

According to Judge Dixon in the District of Columbia, the evidence offered against Foretich was “in equipoise’’ — an even split between evidence suggesting guilt and that which suggests innocence.

Foretich was contacted by L.A. Weekly, but declined to comment. According to online reviews, his small McLean, Virginia, dental-surgery practice is respected by patients and locals. His last official contact regarding the case was on December 16, 2003, when the U.S. Court of Appeals overturned the Elizabeth Morgan Act, declaring it unconstitutional because it singled out Foretich and inherently accused him of the crime.

His attorney, Turley, a professor at George Washington University in D.C., at the time called it “a wonderful day of vindication.”

Courts now are frequently faced with allegations like those in Morgan vs. Foretich, hard to prove and even harder to dispel. The fathers’-rights movement now makes a point of warning fathers to prepare for abuse allegations.

“The mere accusation is sufficient to strip the father of all his custody rights and launch a criminal investigation,” Morphonios says.

Accusing Foretich of a crime would have been a big step for Judge Dixon, who saw the evidence as a draw. Morgan says of Dixon, “Since I was the squeaky wheel, he thought that all he had to do was get rid of me and the problem would disappear.”

And the problem did disappear, eventually.

“I visited my dad for the last time when I was 5,” Mitrano says. She takes a deep breath. “It’s a long time between 0 and 5. I think the biggest question that I had was, ‘Why wasn’t I safe sooner?’”

It’s a warm Friday night at the Blessed Sacrament Catholic Church in Hollywood, and Mitrano stands under the glow of stage lights with a microphone in hand. She is surrounded by the buzzing, glittering life of a church carnival. Children with painted faces and parents pushing buggies stop in front of the stage and sit down.

Mitrano closes her purple-shaded eyes and sings: “For unheard anguish and for uneased pain — this is for the voiceless.”

In the audience, her mother sways to the soft ballad. Her diamond earrings sparkle. She sings along — fumbling the first few words but remembering the rest. “For senseless sorrow, for their stories never told — this is for the voiceless: You’re not alone.”

Read More...

The Interpretation of Search Trends: How SEO experts are tapping into the human psyche and revealing its darkest secrets

Posted on Pop+Politics.com
Leaning over his keyboard, author Andrew Keen typed the word “Why?” into the search bar. Keen, who believes that the internet is “cannibalizing culture,” is also fascinated by the secrets of our online universe. He plays with a keyword research tool – a website feature that ranks the frequency of billions of questions inputted into search engines – and the results of his one-word query are sorted into a tidy graph.

“Oh my,” says Keen as he reads down the list. “This is interesting.”

At the top of the graph, with almost 4,000 searches per day: “Sigmund Freud: Why do we dream?” For Keen, this is an uncanny result. Only moments before, he was comparing Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams to what he sees as its modern equivalent: the interpretation of search trends. Freud delved into the human psyche through the analysis of dreams, but the internet is providing a window to the subconscious on a massive scale.

“Freud had to come up with a whole theory of guessing what people were thinking through dreams,” said Keen. “Marx had his theory of thoughts being driven by the reality of economics. Religious people of course have their theory. But in a sense, the people of Google know more than anyone.”

In the U.S. alone, 250 million internet users seek answers from search engines every day.

Keen has been actively raging against what he believes to be the culturally destructive force of the internet since his 2007 book, The Cult of the Amateur. This self-labelled polemic accuses internet users of feeding themselves wilfully into Google and creating a monster. The search engine, Keen says, is the “Big Brother” of the modern world. “We pour our innermost secrets into the all-powerful search engine through the tens of millions of questions we enter daily,” Keen writes. “Search engines like Google know more about our habits, our interests, our desires than our friends, our loved ones and our shrink combined.”

Our ignorance is Google’s power, according to Keen, as all our freely given information is manipulated for massive commercial gain. Websites competing for traffic use search engine optimization – the art of catering to search engine rules in order to grab a top spot in their page rankings – and try to interpret search trends so that they can create pages depending on recurring terms or hot topics. The relationship between search engines and websites is financially interdependent. The more information search engines accumulate from users, the more advertising they can sell. The more traffic websites catch, the more advertising revenue they earn. Everyone is vying for clicks, and that means knowing as much as possible about web users.

“Never before have we given out so much information so publicly,” said Keen. “That’s the thing about search that is so shocking, and that most people don’t know – Google is keeping information. Every time we search we’re adding to the intelligence of Google and not being paid for it.”

And what is it that the “people of Google” know about us? Aside from the numerical data that makes up our governmental and financial identity, search engines know the questions we are seeking to answer through the internet. More than 2.5 million people every year search for “How to talk dirty to my boyfriend”. Almost 1.5 million want to know “What does a hymen look like?” and approximately 800,000 people are asking “Where can I buy guns online?” In one of the most popular search categories – the “How to” query term – more than 2.1 million people annually want to know “How to give head” and 1.6 million people want to know “How to have sex”. It is impossible to gage whether or not these terms are being dictated by bored, uninformed teenagers, but certain results imply something more sinister than curiosity. The 13th most popular term, with 2,500 people a day and 900,000 annually seeking its content, is “How to kill a fetus at home.”

“I think it reveals how pathetic a lot of people are, that they would ask these kinds of questions,” said Keen. “It’s a mystery to me.”

Keen has been widely criticized for his pessimistic view of the internet’s social value, notably by his nemesis Lawrence Lessig, who described The Cult of the Amateur as “shot through with sloppiness, error and ignorance” . He has been called an “elitist” by bloggers who disagree with his view that the internet is killing our long-established cultural gate-keeping system by democratizing information to the level of lowest common denominator. Bloggers are also quick to point out that for someone who thinks blogs are the amateurish evil of the internet, Keen updates his own – a blog called “The Great Seduction” – daily.

Keen believes he is separated from most of the blogosphere by being a “pre-existing professional artist” for whom the internet is an “exciting vehicle” – a medium that works as a supplement to the real world, not as a replacement. The internet, Keen believes, is nothing more than a pool in which to view our own reflection.

“This technology is a mirror,” said Keen. “The theological and deeply philosophical nature of the internet is such that now we can know what people are really thinking. We didn’t know before. We could only guess.”

Just like Freud’s dreamland – where our anti-social thoughts and repressed behaviors come out to play – something about the internet brings out the primitive, desirous and socially forbidden in us. Whether revealed in a list of search trends or through dream psychoanalysis, desires such as sex and aggression are a deep-rooted part of humanity’s instinctual nature. But in Freud’s theories, the dark side of human behavior was usually kept locked up inside the walls of the subconscious. Dreams were the only place it could flail around unleashed, unguarded by Freud’s super-ego, the moral conscience, the ten-commandments, the inner watchdog who cages wrong from right and polite from perverse. Seventy years later, we have a new playground: an entire virtual world that we can live in real time. And there is no Super-ego here to guard us.

The pleasure of anonymity, according to Cyber-psychologist John Suler, encourages people to “deliberately create a specific online personality for themselves.” Suler writes in his online text The Psychology of Cyberspace that the freedom of the internet allows people to “have some conscious control over the same kind of wish fulfillment that fuels dreams.” Like dreams, virtual online space encourages people to act “out of unconscious fantasies and impulses, which may explain some of the sexuality, aggression, and imaginative role playing we see on the internet.”

In chat rooms such as www.4chan.org, users are given unedited freedom to be as sexually explicit and aggressive as they like. Pornographic pictures are posted into the adult chat rooms every second, and all it takes to access the content is one click on the “I agree” button. One anonymous user describes in chronological detail how he meets women in clubs and drugs them before taking them home, raping and torturing them. “I go out in clubs and spike drinks, get ‘em drunk and take ‘em home,” he writes. Another anonymous user offers “human meat” for fellow cannibals. “I'm not a serial killer,” he writes, “but I have a connection to buy human meat. I am a cannibal. Does that work for you?” In the “random” chat room, a user posts pictures “to piss Christians off” – anonymously, of course. The image shows a figure kneeling, with another figure holding a gun to its head. Underneath, the text reads: “The cure for Christianity”. Another anonymous post follows a thread about the best knives for causing bodily harm. “Blade goes in, twist, twist back, remove,” the user describes. “The bleeding most likely won't stop without cauterization within the first few minutes. By then he'll either have been stabbed again or be dead depending on where you got him.”

On average, more than 35,000 users post to 4chan.com every second, with hundreds of posts feeding the site continuously. Although much of the traffic may be driven out of harmless curiosity, sexual and aggressive internet behavior – displayed in public forums or through search trends – can also indicate a more formidable threat. Hans Christian Jasch, who works for the Justice, Freedom and Security department of the European Union – one of the largest and most prominent world organisations tackling global terrorism – believes that the internet has become a breeding ground for extremist ideology and an almost infallible communication device for terrorists. “There is basically no control,” said Jasch. “It is impossible to control the internet.”

Cases of anti-social behaviour encouraged by the internet happen every few seconds. “Because of the nature of the Internet, people are anonymous,” said search engine optimization consultant Michael Gray. “They can go and act like a jerk online and nobody is really going to care – a lot of people do that.”

In the industry, these people are known as “trolls”. Trolls lurk in public forums, waiting for the moment to attack anonymously. Their comments splash individual blogs and respected news outlets alike with vulgar criticisms and personal assaults designed to cause disruption and outrage. “The Internet is so big, so powerful and so pointless that for some people it is a complete substitute for life,” says Andrew Brown, a journalist and blogger for the British newspaper The Guardian.

Of course, the internet isn’t just a breeding ground for uninhibited alter-egos. A major shift has occurred in recent months, as social networking websites have officially become more popular than pornography. Facebook, the master of the social networking universe, more than doubled its user base last year by targeting the global market. In Europe alone, the site’s user base increased from under 9 million members in June 2007 to more than 35 million in June 2008. Globally, the site grew by 153 percent. Approximately 14 percent of all Americans have a Facebook account, and more than 580 million people – making up 7 percent of the world’s population – belong to a social networking site.

But Facebook and similar sites are still dwarfed by search engine use. Google has consistently remained the number one website in the world, with 75 percent of the market share. The exponential growth of the internet has meant a guaranteed increase in search engine use and created the perfect environment for big business.

“Websites and publishers who are able to figure out what people are searching for are going to do a much better job of capturing the traffic,” said Gray.

Figuring out what people want has become a vital skill in the online world. More websites are gearing themselves toward the most popular search terms in the hope of attracting the 250 million daily visitors from search engines like Google, Yahoo or MSN. Every taboo, embarrassing or perverse question – along with many innocent ones – typed into the search bar creates a virtual model of the human mind that SEO experts use as a basis for the mass psychoanalysis of internet users. Google CEO Eric Schmidt describes the search engine as “a giant supercomputer” with dozens of data centers around the world. They keep logs of every website visited and every corresponding IP address – meaning that each word typed into the search bar can be easily traced back to the user. Schmidt says that Google is “reasonably satisfied” with their privacy controls and that the company works hard to ensure that private information cannot be accessed and used for harm. “Although you can never say never,” he added.

Right now, a tool called “Google Trends” allows anyone to view the world’s top search queries down to a specific day and year, country and province. Most websites that offer information – such as news sites and guide pages – regularly check Google trends and create pages specifically to catch search traffic. For example, one of the top “How to” search trends – “How to have sex” – has accumulated 36 million pages in Google. There are more than 28 million pages for the next most popular term – “How to give head”. The question, “Why do we dream?” corresponds to more than 25 million pages. Bringing eyeballs to pages means advertising revenue, so web pages are constantly being created to match consistent search terms – such as “How to have sex.” With topical search terms – such as “Smallville, final episode” or “Sarah Palin SAT scores” – it’s a fast-fleeting competition to catch searchers before their interest in the subject matter wanes.

“It’s sort of an arms race,” said Gray.

Search engines and SEO teams compete to analyse and understand inputted information. For search engines, the more specific model of the human mind they can create, the better targeted advertising can be. For SEO experts, paying close attention to search trends is essential for building websites that will drive traffic. Search engines want to produce the most specific and accurate results they can filter, while SEO experts want to create pages that will rank highly in search engines and get clicks. The relationship is fraught with competition.

“Google is doing everything they possibly can to prevent us from manipulating the search engines,” said Gray. “Because if it’s completely manipulatable, then they’re not in control and we are. That’s a bad spot for them to be in.”

The information that Google accumulates about how and why people search is kept a tight secret. These “algorithms”, which determine how Google ranks pages, are the secret recipe that every internet entrepreneur wishes he could get his hands on. Google is constantly adjusting its methods depending on the terms being typed into search bars every day.

“Google says that every six months, 50 percent of their search terms are new,” said Gray. “But people are always going to searching for the same problems that human beings have been trying to solve forever.”

In internet terms, that means sex and communication – pornography and social networking. In Freudian terms, it represents the fundamental struggle between primitive instincts and social behavior. Freud believed that it is “impossible to overlook the extent to which civilization is built on a renunciation of instinct.” According to Freud, the animal in us all lies dormant in the recesses of the subconscious. It might be the case that our dream playground has become virtual reality through the internet and the ravaging animals within us are tearing down the walls of polite society. The unfiltered information we provide to search engines may be posing a threat to personal privacy and national security, as well as building mass corporations with God-like omniscience. Or it might just be the case, as Keen suggests, that the internet is nothing more than a shimmering pool of information allowing us to drown in our own reflection.

Read More...

Short Story: Guitar, Gum, Papers

I was standing on a pitch black area of beach with a pack of Wrigley’s chewing gum in my hand, watching the confrontation between Mark and the toothy Jamaican man and feeling increasingly nervous. The man’s face was inching closer throughout the conversation, his voice getting louder. I glimpsed at his hands in case they concealed a weapon. I looked longingly toward the part of the beach 100 yards ahead, well-lit and sure to have security guards on patrol. I wished we were standing up there.
“If I don’t get money, how am I supposed to feed my children?” The man said. He had told us earlier in the conversation, when things had seemed more friendly, that he had come down from the mountains to sell a random selection of goods on the beach. He couldn’t go home without enough tourist cash to feed his three kids. His boy was 13 he said as he gestured the boy’s height with a hand wavering around his neck line. He had been with his woman for 14 years, unmarried but happy. Mark held the cigar awkwardly. We had asked for none of this stuff, but had them pushed into our hands anyway. It had seemed like a gift.
“I want you to have this,” the man had said, pushing the cigar into Mark’s hand and the chewing gum into mine. “Oh, thank you very much,” we said. What a friendly man. What a nice thing to do, to offer us little gifts for visiting Jamaica.
“Do you need rolling papers?” he said. The terrible mistake had been to tell the guy that yes, we needed rolling papers. Now he had something on us: he was providing a service rather than being a nuisance and a charity case.
Rolling papers (which we later discovered didn’t work – the sticky edge was completely useless), a “Jamaican cigar” and a pack of chewing gum. These weren’t gifts. The man asked for 500 Jamaican dollars (about eight bucks) and Mark had paid him kindly, just to help out, when really this horde would have cost us a quarter of the price anywhere else. Plus, we hadn’t wanted any of it. The man seemed thankful at first. He knew he was getting more money out of us than was necessary or fair. We thought it was the end and continued our walk to find dinner. The plague had been brief and was over.
But on the way back, after ironically realizing that we had – in fact – given away our dinner money and only had 300 Jamaican left, the man approached us again in the dark patch. He squinted at Mark’s face and I thought he would offer a salutation of appreciation, but he was angry.
“How much did I tell you?” he asked.
“You said 500 Jamaican.”
“Do you have to lean in close when people speak?”
We didn’t understand. Mark asked him what he meant. He repeated the question, which we realised was passive-aggressively sarcastic, and then said: “I said THREE 500s. You only gave me one. So I came looking for you.”
Oh shit. This was not good. He was lying, of course, but we were in that dark patch of beach again. No use calling for help with a glance at security or walking away to safety. We wouldn’t get far, and who knows what this guy was on or how far he was willing to go. He was asking for $23 for a cigar, papers and chewing gum. It must have been a dry day.
“I saw you open your wallet with all your money down there,” he said.
Damn! We had been checking to see if there was enough money for dinner. He had obviously spotted an opportunity and thought he’d milk our stupid, tourist asses for all we had.
“We’ve only got 300 J,” Mark said.
“That’s all you got?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you have more money in your hotel room?”
Damn, damn, damn. Now what? But Mark was thinking on his feet.
“We’re going home tomorrow, so no, this is the last of it.” He handed over three 100-dollar bills. I was getting teary with anger, but it was a smart move. The guy took it and left us to walk sullenly back to our room.
I was angry. What a failed evening! We were left hungry and pissed off, while that guy had abused us for responding in a friendly way and wanting to help him out. It was the only moment during the whole week that I wanted to go home, where there were no hustlers and we were safe.

Read More...

Poem: Oh, That I Were a Man

Oh, that I were a man and could be
A thinker of great things, I could see
The universe in existential glory,
History in form of linear story,
Politics in terms of how to vote,
Passion and upon whom I should dote.
I could sit hours away with only Brandy
Thinking of what tool would be handy
To mend a shoe, though worn in appearance,
Allowing my toes much room for clearance.
I would smoke cigars - and enjoy the taste,
I would never think about my waist
When portioning the meat on my plate
Or whether the evening had grown too late.
When taking a stroll around the garden
I could allow my mind some pardon
And place its troubled thoughts to rest
Thinking of nothing - my, that would be best.

If only my mind could see a line
From start to finish with some time
Left over to smoke, drink and eat
Without the reminder of my feet
Itching to finish sewing,
Or aid my rose bed growing,
Or awaiting a tender touch,
To prove I am loved much.

Instead, I cannot help but feel,
And feel I must, for it is how I deal,
With matters ranging from the mundane
To thoughts on the brink of the insane,
All tangled in a web of doubt -
For I cannot pick one out
And place it on the page for solving –
The thought keeps on dissolving.
And while I ponder some new drama
The men have donned their armour
And have set to work the beast,
The reward – a midnight feast.

Read More...

Poem: The Silence of a Morning

There were daffodils in the springtime,
Dewy ground, the smell of real green,
The sun reflected in wet eyes
Of a road seldom used.
Slumbering dark behind windows,
The sleepy whispers of morning,
Rousing dawn from sleep,
To Paint the watercolor of day.
No children’s noises, or
Mechanical sounds, other
Than the door hinge that Mr Brown
Will fix today.
He carries a bucket, wears Wellington
Boots, treads carefully along the stone path
That he laid, brick by brick, last summer.
Now the straight lines are caressed
By a twinkling mass of yellow,
And the sun is enticing the flowers
To dance into the cracks.
Mr Brown kneels, elbow to knee,
And takes his gloved hand to the throat
Of a straggling weed.
There is no hope for the lonely;
No matter how tirelessly he works to keep them straight,
The path was built too late.
They had already decided to wander.
The vine curls around his finger,
And a sad smile rests gently in the mists
And shades of morning.

Read More...

Short Story: Memories, Part II

Where does a story begin? This is something that all authors, writers, dreamers and poets grapple with. Does it begin with birth? Or does it begin with the present? I carried the laundry up the stairs in a big, black sack. I threw it onto the bedroom floor thinking that all the clothes inside will have creased before I take the time to fold them and put them away. I’ve spent the day reading, drinking coffee and trying to push all other worries out of my mind by convincing myself that they can all be dealt with tomorrow. But tomorrow comes so quickly when there are things to do.

A memory: mum used to make us milkshakes by filling a pint glass with ice cream, pouring on milk, and stirring it all together with a fork. The glass would steam with cold, and the milk would squelch as she tried not to spill the concoction over the sides of the glass. They were delicious. Much more ice cream would go into the milk shake than would be served in a bowl, so we often opted for the milk shake. We would always buy Neapolitan ice cream (three stripes of brown, red and white) and the chocolate would always be devoured first, which made me wonder why we didn’t just buy chocolate.

A memory: There was a certain point in the trail through the woods that always smelled really bad, like rotting bitterness. Mum told us that it was probably a dead animal, but it smelled like that for years and we never found any animal.

A memory: One time I bought a pack of “joke” stickers, which included a trail of ants and burn marks, and I put the burn marks on the kitchen counters. I completely forgot about them, but when I remembered and asked mum if she had noticed them, she told me that she had been soaking the burn marks with wet flannels in the hope that they would clean off.

A memory: I don’t remember much from the last house. I only remember darkness, the smell of unclean skin and must. Mum glued one of my paintings on the hallway wall with wallpaper paste and I was angry. I think it was her way of showing me that she approved of my art, despite criticizing it for being too “scary”. Did I ever ask her bout her life?

A memory: I ate a lot of boiled eggs (maybe 12?) at a picnic in High Wycombe with mum, dad and Katy. It’s the only picnic I remember us having. Mum told me that I would get constipated, but I don’t remember if I did or not.

A memory of my dad: I sprayed perfume on his pillow once and he got really angry because he wouldn’t be able to sleep on it. The smell would be too strong and he was allergic to all the chemicals.

A memory of my dad: Dad got really drunk and was going to become “blood brothers” with mum’s friend Don. So Katy, mum and I collaborated and stole his knife. We hid it beside the chest of drawers in our bedroom and found it there years later.

A memory of dad: He came back from America with a big suitcase of presents. He was still half asleep in bed when I asked him if I could start opening them. He said yes, and I opened a long, stick shaped package (I still remember the intrigue) which turned out to be a twirling stick with bubbles and sparkles inside and long, shiny, rainbow ribbons on either end. I loved it.

What does it mean that I remember these things instead of something else? How does my brain choose one memory over another?

Read More...

Short Story: Memories

Inside the car, boarded up by metal and glass, radiator circulating like warm breath in the morning of their tiny bedroom at home, she thought the saddest thought of all. It was the thought that they would never truly be alone. No matter how small and impenetrable the space. She had so much more to fight against than opening doors and cracked windows. There was a space that she could only feel, inside his head, filled with memories that she could never see. He could leave her and go there whenever he wanted, and she would only feel alone without knowing it. This was not a space she could protect herself from, like at seven years old when she would build a fort against the comforting solidity of the bedroom wall and stay there, for hours, feeling safe in the darkness. She could not feel safe like that anymore, even though she tried by sleeping against the wall and bundling the covers up tightly beside her like a trench of cushioning warmth. Still, there he lay, entombed by his memories.

That there had been a before, a long-term love, a routine, was shocking to the very core. The more she thought about it, the more unanswered questions drove her insane. There was no way to take control or understand; she could only speculate for hours, imagining their lips together, their Sunday mornings in bed, laughing. It was the most painful daydream she could muster, and she replayed it over and over until she had to stop and remember to breathe. She recalled reading Sigmund Freud at seventeen, one passage in particular that she used now to explain herself. The baby throws his pacifier out of the crib, and cries. But when the pacifier is returned, the baby throws it out again. And again. The subconscious is teaching itself to endure pain. In order to deal with the prospect of losing something so essential, the mind prepares itself for injury by simulating heartbreak. Like a fire drill. When the real pain comes, the mind is prepared and can follow a routine course of action. Without this simulation, chaos ensues. The body can shutdown, the limbs go numb, the mouth dry; darkness encases the eyes in a faint. This is always what happens when a human being is faced with death. There is no way for the mind to prepare for death, which is why dreams about dying always stop on the brink and never lead into the abyss. The abyss is empty; there is no knowledge because there can be no experience. But for every other eventuality, the mind must prepare by testing scenarios and building a safe place to retreat to.

There is one scenario that she plays over again in her head. She has finished the work day early, and comes home, unlocking the door quietly, slipping inside to see an ajar bedroom door, hearing him moaning, hearing someone else moaning with him. She pushes the door wide and the bed frames the naked bodies, enmeshed, gleaming with sweat. His hair is ruffled, and the covers are splayed on the floor. Skin glows golden, shining, stretched across white sheets. He looks up at her, it registers on his face, wide-eyed and open-mouthed from a kiss, twisted into shock. His bottom lip is red and moist.

Here she stands, in her mind, playing the moment over ten times before she turns and leaves. She walks calmly out of the apartment, into the hallway, out of the front door, onto the steps. He calls her name, she turns and sees his face before she falls down the metal staircase, thumping into a crushing crescendo, into darkness. She stands again, staring from above at her twisted limbs and closed eyes.

Now she cannot breathe, and the space inside the car has shrivelled into a tight grip, hot and suffocating.

Read More...