Random walk in the Web

I came across Simon Brooks` website by chance this morning (which as all storytellers know is the best way to find good stuff).  Simon is a professional storyteller.  I really liked his `Links` page.  Check it out.
http://www.diamondscree.com/links.htm

Quote of the day

"I shall try to tell the truth, but the result will be fiction."  
 -  Katherine Anne Porter  -  (May 15, 1890 – September 18, 1980) was a Pulitzer Prize-winning American journalist, essayist, short story writer,novelist, and political activist. Her 1962 novel Ship of Fools was the best-selling novel in America that year, but her short stories received much more critical acclaim. She is known for her penetrating insight; her work deals with dark themes such as betrayal, death and the origin of human evil. (Brief bio from Wikipedia)

Air Raid Siren

I was 8 years old in Stote during the Cuban missile crisis.  The air raid siren sat high on top of a humungous telephone pole at the end of our street.  That pole marked the spot where the street next to ours ended, and a narrow, dirt footpath curved down into the abandoned sandpit.  This was my route to school each day.   

In those days in Stote, it seemed incredibly safe to be young.  I walked a mile to school each morning, a mile back for lunch, then back to school and then home the same mile at four o`clock.  Well not always the same route.  I was bullied a lot, so I varied my path depending on who was after me that week. So maybe it wasn`t all that safe.  But it was soft bullying compared to now.  I mean, Stote bullies just wanted to see you cry.  It wasn`t like now when a bully might kick your head to a bloody pulp, or spring a knife. 

 About the only danger to children, other than bullies, in Stote were the rabid foxes in the springtime.  I never saw one.  But they lurked just inside the treeline along Sheldon`s fields.  Sometimes I saw a fox-like shadow disappear into the junipers at the far end of the sandpit.  Once I even saw strange footprints that might have been from space aliens. Though Mom came to look and said that it was just from a big dog.  I never heard of pedophiles or serial killers, or mad women stealing other people`s children until I came to Toronto.      

I did hear about the bombs though, in bits and pieces from the TV.  I didn`t understand much, just that the Russians might bomb us and that a brave man called John Kennedy was trying to stop them.  The newsmen said the word ``detente`` from time to time, which sounded a lot  like ``dentist`` or ``taunt.`  I lived in mortal terror of our dentist did not believe in freezing children`s teeth.  And ``taunt`` was a word in the Oxford English Dictionary which I liked to read sometimes.  Maybe that`s why I wasn`t too popular at school.  Anyway, `taunt`was  something that bullies did.  So `detente` didn`t sound like a good thing to me, even though I heard Dad say that it was the only thing holding the Russians back.

If a bomb was dropped on Toronto, our skin and eyebrows would fall off in Stote.  That`s what Blaine, one of the boys in our little neighbourhood gang said.  Blaine knew stuff.

Sometimes the siren went off for testing.  At the sound, my chest would tighten and I`d feel naked somehow.  Like the walls of the house were suddenly thin like flakes of ash.

Once I asked Mom,

``If you found out on the news that we were going to be bombed tomorrow would you tell me?``

``Well, I don`t think so,`` she said.  You`d just be up all night worrying``

And that was that!   So I went to bed every night and worried away.   Many nights I`d crawl into bed with my parents and curl there against Mom until Dad got up for work.   Mornings at that time dawned cold and gritty..  There was a little black stone pushing through my chest.  It was hardest in the mornings and only melted up around 3 in the afternoon in English class.  It came back at bedtime.

So for years, even after people stopped talking about nuclear war so much,  I listened obsessively to the news just in case I missed the part about the bombs.  I knew that my parents would not be much help.

``If that siren goes off, how soon would the bombs come?,  I asked my friend Aaron`s father one day as he was shoveling snow.  Aaron was my best friend. he lived right across the street from our house.

``About fifteen minutes,` said Aaron`s Dad.

Aaron`s family were were the only Jewish people in Stote. Dad said that Jews were really intelligent.   Aaron`s dad tossed a big shovel full of fluffy snow onto a snow bank.  It was dusk and the snow sparkled the way it always did.  Sparkles, sparkles I would sing to myself when the snow fell and everything felt tucked in and safe.  Only now the magic was gone.  Aaron`s dad grinned at me.  He had seen fighting in Israel.   I guess he thought that bombs were kind of normal - like mosquitos and measles.

Anyway, I was a pretty nervous kid and every time I walked under that air raid siren, the pole seemed to loom and lean as if it was about to fall on top of me.  Especially, if it was windy and the clouds were scudding fast along the sky above the pole, I was sure the thing was going to fall and crush me to death even if `detentè`  held the bombs in dentention just like those big kids itching to get out and wreck havoc with us smaller ones.

Well, one morning day, Aaron and I were walking under the siren on the way to school.   It was one of those grey, windy winter days that reminded me of the black white pictures we saw in school about WWI and II. It was always overcast and raining during those times I believed.

Anyway, Aaron and me both heard the wind creaking overhead in the power cables.  We looked up and.... shock!.  There hanging in the cables was huge black cat – dead!  He was draped over the wires in a kind of U shape one wire under his armpits and the other wire under his belly just in front of his limp dangling hind legs.  The wires moved this way and that with the wind, so looked like the cat was moving in a way unnatural for cats.  One green eye was half open staring down at me.  His red tongue lolled out of his mouth.  He was a scruffy, giant of a dead cat - big as a racoon.  I wondered if the Russians had put him there - you know - like  psychological warfare. 

Aaron was bigger than me and he really was smart, just like my Dad said.  He was the leader of our gang.  So when he wasn`t scared I tried to look brave too.   

``C`mon, just a dead cat, he said.  ``In Israel, cats are just like rats.  Nobody keeps them as pets you know.``  Aaron, had this different point of view on stuff.

Just then I see this big kid Derek just ahead of us down the dirt path.  I forget the cat cause I`m really scared of Derek.  Once he caught me in the sand pit and pushed my face into the snow till the cold hurt. He sat on me so I couldn`t get up and then I cried and he let me go. But he was laughing. I didn`t tell anybody.

``Aaron, c`mon I whispered, pulling at his parka.  ``We can take the long way round.`` 

But Aaron, as usual wouldn`t listen cause he was a boy,  I guess.   Mom told me that girls are supposed to be quiet and sweet and let everybody look after them.  Mom didn`t walk to school through the sandpit though.

So I`m tugging on Aaron and Derek is just  walking steady towards us.  I don`t want to run, because I know he can run faster.  He`s bigger than Aaron too, no matter what Aaron thinks about being a boy and all.  Also, if I ran away it would break our code – Aaron and me.  We were friends and friends don`t leave friends. 

Derek comes up to Aaron.  I see he`s got an ice ball in his hand.  Probably been working on it for a long time so it`s nice and round and shiny in his dirty mit.  Derek is kind of fat, but he`s fast too.  He has this ugly, fat pasty face –like a melton mulberry pie. 

``Ooo Aaron`s got a girlfriend,``  he sing songs.  `Cmon Aaron, Jew boy, show her how tough you are.``

So Aaron goes all red in the face. 

``Lay off Derek!,`` he says. 

I see he`s going to try to talk Derek out of being a bully.  Aaron is a talker for sure.  But Derek isn`t – a talker- that is.  He just keeps coming and smashes that ice ball right in Aaron`s face.  Aaron falls down right there in the path holding his mits over his nose.  There`s red on the snow from his nose.  But he`s not crying, just kind of trying to catch his breath.  But Derek is already coming towards me – only slow.  Like he`s enjoying watching how scared I am.  And I just keep backing up and up till I`m back out on the street under the air raid siren.

By this time, I can see Aaron`s on his hands and knees.

``Run Deb,` he gasps.  `Just run!``   

But Derek`s already grabbed my shoulders and is trying to throw me on the ground like he did last time.  I`m braced for it now and for a moment, I think I can kick him or something.    He`s strong though and suddenly I`m spinning through the air and then bang on the ground so hard that I roll on the pavement.  Too bad for me that the plough went through this morning.

Derek comes to stand over me.  I`m lying on my back on the road.  I can see his jeans are dirty at the

knees and he`s wearing a blue sweater under his brown parka.  He`s grinning like a rabid fox now.  I start to put my hands up to protect my face. Above Derek`s pie face, I see that cat straight above still dangling from the wire, like he`s watching us.

I look over and see Aaron leaning against the pole now, kind of sagging, like he`s dizzy or something and then he starts throwing up.  I`m too scared at this point to worry about him. 

`:Hey Aaron, Jew, come and save your little Jew loving girlfriend eh!`   Derek has grabbed one of my legs now.  I`m kicking and screaming.  It`s so awful because I wore my plaid tunic today with the ugly green tights underneath because Mom said that my cordurouys were in the wash.  Derek jerks my leg and me with it around and around. 

`Gonna cry, baby. Cry baby, cry baby, cry baby.``  He`s really into it now.

Anyway I don`t really hear it but the wind has picked up and snow is falling on my face covering my glasses (which are still miraculously on my nose).  They`re no help now because they`re covered in snow.  There`s a big gust of wind.  And then suddenly I hear this shrieking.  It`s like nothing else I`ve ever heard.  Blood curdling screams, shreaks, sobs.    Derek has let go my leg now.  I struggle up on my feet and pull off my glasses to see.

``Get it off!, Get it off!  Aaaaaaaaaaaaahhh.  Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!

There`s Derek tearing away at something on the back of his neck. He`s whirling round and round and screaming.    And then Aaron is beside me, still bleeding from the nose but laughing his head off.  In fact he`s doubled over with laughing he`s so tickled.

I squint through the thick snow that`s blowing about us. And then I see it.  The dead cat has tipped off the wires and landed square around Derek`s neck. The back part is trapped in Derek`s parka hood .  It`s in the shape of a U with the the front and back paws on either side of his neck and the front claws hooked into the fur on the parka hood at the front.  Boy that cat is stiff!  I remember the word `rigor mortus` from the Oxford English Dictionary.  That cat`s got rigor mortus for sure and it`s not letting Derek go.

``Get it awwwwwwfffff!`` he howls.  I can see his face is kind of crumpled up now, like pie when the crust caves in.  I almost feel sorry for him.  But Aaron`s laughter is getting me too.  I start giggling and then snorting and howling with laughter. 

But Aaron is in charge again. 

``Now let`s run!` he says. 

And we leave Derek still flailing and screaming.   As we pass under the air raid pole.  I look up a minute.  It is still swaying, ominous as ever. 

 ``Détente`` I whisper.

  You just never know.

Apache Legends: Songs of the Wind Dancer by Lou Cuevas, c1991.

``If one is old enough to seek wisdom, one is old enough to follow it.``  - Apache saying.

World`s Collide

On the subway, 9 at night. I'm going home after working the late shift. Some twenty somethings are talking loudly and comparing cell phones. But most people are plugged into their i-pods, checking blackberries, or simply staring into space.

Suddenly this Chinese woman starts haranguing the older, WASP couple who are sitting right next to me. They seem like nice people - well dressed, well meaning faces in the way people of the boomer generation often have nice faces. Graying hair. Nice clothes. Liberal faces.

The Chinese woman wants them to read the crumpled letter she clutches in her hand. She looks to be in her early forties, desperate expression in her black, tired eyes, disheveled, a little shabby.

"Not a street person," I think. "But probably crazy."

Two lower front teeth are missing. When she talks I see the wet, pink gums surrounded by crumbling, brown teeth.

"No ask money, " she barks. "My son, what did to him not right! Not just! You read letter!"

The couple ignore her in the best WASP fashion. I'm familiar with the body language, because it is my own. The man and woman manage to look both oblivious and uncomfortable at the same time, like well bred people ignoring a fart.

But the letter lady either doesn't get this form of social communication, or she doesn' t care. I vote for the latter.

"Just read letter!" "All I ask" she blurts again. "I have money!"

Finally, the man realizes that something must be done. I can almost see the thought forming in his brain. "I'm the man here." "It's up to me." But I see that he's a little frightened nonetheless. He thinks this woman is crazy too.

"We don`t want to read the letter." he says firmly though still polite. "Please go away" he says, in the stilted way people of his/my culture cope with confrontations. Manners are everything. They're a kind of garment, without which, we feel somehow naked. His wife and I look off into space.

Letter lady gets the message and rounds on me.

"Lady, you read letter! My son! They do bad thing to him. Please. Look at my teeth, what they me too." She gestures vehemently at her mouth and shoves the grubby letter towards me. Now it' s my turn to handle this.

To see me you would not think this, but I am actually a veteran of crazy, aggressive, alcohol sodden subway people. In my 30 years or so of subway travel, I've been accosted by legions of them. I have listened sympathetically to drunks ranting on about politics, lunatics of all genders and ethnicities ranting or weeping, street people caging money, and lecherous businessmen looking for a good time. In a younger, kinder time I would have read her letter. I would have listened with sympathy. I would have wracked my brains for a way to help her.

But now, I'm sorry to say, my do-goodism is frayed. I know from experience that this will lead nowhere. I will read her letter. Her ranting will likely escalate the more attention I give her. I believe totally that she and her son have been badly mistreated, by whom or what I don't know. But I also believe that she is mentally beyond any help I might have to give or she wouldn't be accosting strangers in the subway with a problem that is likely too complex and too long standing to be handled by the average Joe on a train. I no longer have enough hubris to believe that I can solve anybody's problems. My own feel insurmountable.

This is what I tell myself anyway. I say to her, in my firm, awkward WASP way. "I"m sorry but I'm not reading your letter. I can't help you. I see that you need help, but this isn't the way you are going to get it."

"Just read! See!, " she pleads, bringing her rotting teeth closer to my face. I become hardened.

"Go away or I will press the security alarm," I say. "You are disturbing me and all the other people on this train. This is not the way for you to get help!"

(What is the way she will get help? I ask myself. But I don't know. Perhaps if I read the letter, there would be some clue as to where she should go, some loose end where the complicated knot of red tape can be grasped and untangled. But I don't know. And I am too tired to think about it.)

She glares at me with pure hatred. I wonder if she is going to attack me with her nails and disgusting teeth. Maybe she has a knife! Why didn`t I just go sit somewhere else sooner? But it`s too late.

``You stupid white woman!`` she spits. ``Stupid, selfish white woman! ...and then shouting, ``You no care `bout anybody!   So selfish!..

`This is true.`` I think, staying put. 

``Selfish, selfish white woman!` She rants. Though she is not actually shouting these things at me, but out towards the general audience of our fellow riders. I gaze stolidly back at those who are now staring accusingly at the pair of us. She is actually sitting beside me now. Our thighs lightly touch with the swaying of the train.

The i-Pod, Blackberry people return to contemplating their tiny machines. Others are now staring off into space. The least I can do is sit beside her.

Just a Story?

Once upon a time, there was a poor farmer who had a cow..... Once upon a time, in a country far away lived a princess.... Many of us remember bedtime stories that began like this.

But stories are for children aren`t they? Us grown-ups are not interested in stories. We want the `facts`, the hard truth. But if you think about it, our whole world is built on stories.

Has anybody read `A Short History of Progress` by Ronald Wright? His `story` of the history of Easter Island brought home to me just how important, for good or ill, stories can be.

According to Wright the ancient people of Easter Island, came under the spell of a powerful story. The story compelled them to fashion all those magnificent stone heads that still attract tourists in our time. But Easter Island is empty, pretty much. Only the weathered, broken heads remain.

The Easter Islanders believed that these great heads (moai) were necessary to honour their ancestors. Each ``clan`` competed to honour their ancestry with larger and larger images. Of course they needed timber logs to roll the images into place and the images themselves took up arable land. So, in the end, there were no trees left on the island, nothing to hold the soil in place and much of the arable land covered with stone heads.

`By the end there were more than a thousand moai, one for every ten islanders in their heyday. But the god days were gone -- gone with the good earth, which had been carried away on the endless wind and washed by flash floods into the sea. The people had been seduced by a kind of progress that becomes a mania, an ìdeological pathology,`as some anthropologists call it..`

The Easter Islanders had a fatal story. At first it seemed to work for them. And then it became destructive. Did no one question the story? Did no one look out across the island and seeing the devastation say ``Wait a minute!`` these moai in which we have invested the meaning of our culture are killing us! Is this what our ancestor`s wanted?

A Short History of Progress by Ronald Wright, 2004.

Our civilization has its own `meaning stories.` How well are they working for us? I ask myself, what personal stories give my life meaning? Are these creative or destructive for me?

Today`s Story

The Selkie Wife