This Old House

I knew there had been a few previous owners, as this is an older home. I liked it for its character; something that those before us had blended and infused into its very structure. But I did not expect to find that it had a famous owner. It is clear to me now that this was once the home of Alfred Hitchcock.
The undeniable evidence appeared in the bathroom. Underneath the vent was an area where mold insisted to grow. It became a struggle, man versus mold, and it had to be wiped away daily.
Then, coming back from a week long vacation, I found what the mold was trying to convey. There on the wall was the unmistakable silhouette of Alfred Hitchcock. Just like the image that began his television show, you could plainly make out his rounded head and torso. His spirit was telling us, Alfred had been here.
There had been other signs before this , but I had not put the pieces together. First, there are a lot of birds around here. More than what you would expect to find. They congregate in the trees and on the playground set in the backyard. There are several turkey vultures and ravens mixed in with the gulls, sparrows and egrets. I did not think too much about it as the property butts up to a bird sanctuary. And the two large feeders probably attract them. Yet, the sight and sound does conjure up the images he so deftly captured on film. This would be a great inspiration for the movie. I mean, how else could he have come up with the idea?
The next sign was not as obvious. I did not realize what I was seeing until after finding the other signs. In this small area are several beautiful blondes living here. Really, an inordinate amount. There are three families of blonde women who have lived here for generations. And not just blonde and beautiful, but smart, strong in character, and still demure. Alfred would have had no choice but to base his female leads on these ladies. You write what you know.
There is also the well known fact that Brit's love Florida, especially Central Florida. There are several realtors here that specialize in finding houses for Brit's. And there are several pubs and restaurants here that serve British fare. This definitely would have been an attractive area for Mr. Hitchcock.
While I cannot prove in a court of law that this was once his residence, I do know that one previous owner was Frederick Bates. A pseudonym if ever I heard one. And the old man a few houses down does remember an Englishman living here. He recalls he would be gone for long periods of time "on holiday". Probably when he went off to direct a movie.
If you wanted to come to a safe haven to get away from the Hollywood crowd, this is certainly the place. Even Walt Disney saw the value of Central Florida.
So now the mold has become a welcome sight. I do not so flippantly wipe it away as I did before. I sometimes wonder what other signs would show up if we did not clean so often. My wife, the skeptic, does not agree with this. She just thinks I am lazy and wanting to get out of taking care of the house. Silly, silly woman.
But now I must be off. I must go mow the lawn and trim the hedges. I keep all that equipment in my shed out back. It was once owned by Vincent Price. How do I know? Oh, I know.

Avenging My Brother

It was already dark when I arrived in Casper, Wyoming. I burst into the Flaming Mongol restaurant, pushed the Maitre D' against the wall, and snorted, "Where is he?" Stunned, he acted like he didn't know what I was talking about. That's when I raised him off the floor and pressed my elbow into his Adam's apple. He pointed a shaky finger towards the back of the restaurant to the door marked "Private."
I kicked the door in and surprised the three Asian men. They were gathered around a desk covered with drugs, guns and money. The two younger men went for the guns. But before either could pull a trigger, I emptied my clip into their torsos. Stepping over their bleeding bodies, I walked towards the older man. He cowered behind the desk. I changed the clip in my pistol as I stared menacingly at him. I reached over and pulled the old man up by his shirt until we were eye to eye.
"You remember this man?", I asked. I shoved a picture of my brother in his face. Trembling, he muttered, "No."
"Take a closer look. Last night. He ate here." That's when I saw the look of recognition come over his face. I punched him in the nose. The blow knocked him into the wall and he slid down. Fearfully, he held his nose, blood covering his hands and shirt. I caressed my pistol and stared down at him. I turned and started walking out.
"The next time he asks for duck sauce and you give him sweet and sour instead, I won't be so nice."

Word as Art

Starting with the 20th Century, visual arts moved away from representational depiction to abstraction. Images were reduced to show action, movement, feeling, or to reflect inner qualities instead of appearance. Both two and three dimensional arts moved from a direct form of communication to more thoughtful expression of the subject. (See, I do get to my BFA every once in a while!)
But this leads me to literary arts. For the most part the same form of storytelling has been used for centuries. Very simply stories are broken into 5 parts; exposition, conflict, climax, resolution, and denouement.
I think it is time to change that. After looking at all the various movements in the visual arts, I am spearheading the surrealist movement. When history looks back, and you know they will, you can say that you witnessed the beginnings. With that I give you this:

Apple wings touching purple. Seven penguins eat the stain-glass hamburgers. The pale wind searches for the vapid trees for cinnamon. Remember the brick insects, traipsing along the glistening few.

Of course, as with all new movements, the first attempts are simpler, often carrying one theme. Here I was hungry as I wrote that. I think the image of the diner called Camellia Grill in New Orleans probably comes across a little too obvious. The sacrifices we make for art.

Edit: Okay, some might say that poetry has already embraced this genre. Some might also say that hunger got the best of me. I say some people talk too much.

It was a dark and stormy night.

I love reading. I consume books like a beggar invited to a buffet. Non-fiction or fiction, it does not matter. As long as it is something that interests me and makes me want to turn the page. Half-Price Books in Dallas was my favorite spot to play, especially during the long, hot summers. Not having anything like that here, I find myself scouring the libraries of Orlando to satiate my habit.
Now, as I am aspiring to be found on the shelf next to these works, the writer in me always notes the style, structure, language use, etc. One can study how to write, but the best way to learn is by example. And there are plenty of those in this world.
My favorite part of any work of fiction has to be the first sentence. This almost always tells me how much I will enjoy the rest of the story. Admittedly, there are many best-selling authors whose first lines will not grab you. Either it is because they know people will read them anyway. Or they prolong this "hook" for the first paragraph. But all in all, those stories that hook you with the first sentence have become stories I will read again.
These are some of my favorites:
"Somewhere in la Mancha, in a place whose name I do not care to remember, a gentleman lived not long ago, one of those who has a lance and ancient shield on a shelf and keeps a skinny nag and a greyhound for racing." Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes

"It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen." 1984 by George Orwell

"He was born with a gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad." Scaramouche by Raphael Sabatini

"Once upon a time, there was a woman who discovered she had turned into the wrong person." Back When We Were Grownups by Anne Tyler

"Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins." Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov

Did you know, the title of this post is actually from a novel by Edward Bulwer-Lytton called Paul Clifford? He's also the author of the line "The pen is mightier than the sword."

Toe Crackers Anonymous Meeting - Friday, May 4th

Hi. My Name is Scott. I am a Toe Cracker.

Chorus: "Hi, Scott."

This is my first visit. I guess it all started about the same as the rest of you. I started popping my finger knuckles back in my teen years. Could have been earlier. Suffice to say, it's been a good long while. Other kids showed me how. One day, after school, some boys were hanging out by the 7-11. They were older than me. In hushed tones and with a couple of them as lookouts they practiced their habit. One of them called me over, "Have you tried this?" Then he cracked both of his index fingers. Shocked, I turned to go. One of the biggest said, "What's a matter? You afraid?" In my head I could hear my Mom's voice: "You'll get arthritis if you do that!" and "Your knuckles will swell up to the size of golf balls!" They circled me. I had nowhere to go. Another taunted, "I bet you can't even pop one. Go ahead. I dare you!" And with that I succumbed. I succumbed to the pressure of my so-called peers. I raised both hands, put my thumbs on the sides of my index fingers, and pressed with gentle even pressure. Pop! Both rang out! The right one just a fraction of a second behind my left. It was almost like an echo; like they were conversing.
I cannot tell you how good it felt. It was such sweet release. I knew I was hooked. Hooked for life. But it never quite felt as good as it did that first time. Even when I began crack other knuckles, it wasn't the same. I knew I needed more. And bigger pops! Soon it was my neck, then it was my back. But it never measured up.
And of course, I had to do this in private. I almost got caught a couple of times. My Dad would ask, "What was that sound?" I would either pretend I didn't hear anything or shrug in such a way to try and pop my neck. I knew if my Mom ever found out, it would break her heart.

As I grew older, I did find other addicts. We would crack fingers, necks and backs until we got the munchies or hurt too much. The bad part of it was getting my girlfriend hooked. Her thing was letting me pop her neck. Once, her Mom caught us. Aghast, she yelled and screamed at us. Then her father chased me out of the house with a shotgun. I never saw her again. I did hear she got help, though. I'm glad. I wouldn't want that on my conscience.

Then one day in my early twenties, I stumbled onto the hard stuff. All popped and cracked, I sat there staring at my feet. I thought, "Toes are a lot like fingers. Maybe I could pop them. I put my right foot sideways with my big toe on the carpet. With that same gentle constant pressure, I pushed my toe into the carpet. The pop was so loud I thought maybe the people in the next apartment heard it! The release was incredible! It was exactly like that first time cracking my index finger! I turned my left foot to a mirror image of the right and pressed down. POP! I was in ecstasy!
Now I craved more! This time in quantity. I was cracking my toes all the time. I would even make excuses, like going to the restroom, just so I could take off my shoes and start popping. Friends and coworkers thought I might have a prostate problem. Or Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Or maybe colon cancer. I used this to my advantage. Bosses excused me whenever I asked. But truthfully, what I had was more disgusting. Sometimes sitting in the stall, how I wished I had IBS instead.
If I wasn't able to get away I found that I could subdue my craving by popping my ankles. A simple twisting movement would diminish the need, if only for a short time. I could even get away with it in a group setting. Like turning to walk somewhere, and it "accidentally" would happen. Still, I know I would turn red faced.

Now, at middle age, I realize that this cannot continue. I have a child. He'll soon be asking questions about knuckle cracking. How can I tell him it's wrong, but still enjoy my habit. Do I tell him how his knuckles will swell up? Mine haven't. Looking around the room, I don't see any deformed hands and feet. And arthritis? Anyone here suffering? ...No? ...Could... Could my Mom have been wrong? ...Did she lie to me? ...

Is the restroom nearby? I think my IBS is flaring up.