A Letter to America

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Maybe it’s time for a little reminder, America before you march cross the 49th parallel. I’ll say one thing for trump, he’s brought this country together like never before. Even the Quebecois are championing Canada.  Do you know how hard that is? We’ve  been trying to get the French onboard for 157 years. Here’s a a little reminder from Margaret Atwood, a Canadian treasure.

Dear America: This is a difficult letter to write, because I’m no longer sure who you are. Some of you may be having the same trouble. I thought I knew you: We’d become well acquainted over the past 55 years. You were the Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck comic books I read in the late 1940s. You were the radio shows — Jack Benny, Our Miss Brooks.You were the music I sang and danced to: the Andrews Sisters, Ella Fitzgerald, the Platters, Elvis. You were a ton of fun.

You wrote some of my favourite books. You created Huckleberry Finn, and Hawkeye, and Beth and Jo in Little Women, courageous in their different ways. Later, you were my beloved Thoreau, father of environmentalism, witness to individual conscience; and Walt Whitman, singer of the great Republic; and Emily Dickinson, keeper of the private soul. You were Hammett and Chandler, heroic walkers of mean streets; even later, you were the amazing trio, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Faulkner, who traced the dark labyrinths of your hidden heart. You were Sinclair Lewis and Arthur Miller, who, with their own American idealism, went after the sham in you, because they thought you could do better. You were Marlon Brando in On The Waterfront, you were Humphrey Bogart in Key Largo, you were Lillian Gish in Night of the Hunter. You stood up for freedom, honesty and justice; you protected the innocent. I believed most of that. I think you did, too. It seemed true at the time.

You put God on the money, though, even then. You had a way of thinking that the things of Caesar were the same as the things of God: that gave you self-confidence. You have always wanted to be a city upon a hill, a light to all nations, and for a while you were. Give me your tired, your poor, you sang, and for a while you meant it. We’ve always been close, you and us. History, that old entangler, has twisted us together since the early 17th century. Some of us used to be you; some of us want to be you; some of you used to be us. You are not only our neighbours: In many cases — mine, for instance — you are also our blood relations, our colleagues, and our personal friends. But although we’ve had a ringside seat, we’ve never understood you completely, up here north of the 49th parallel.

We’re like Romanized Gauls — look like Romans, dress like Romans, but aren’t Romans —  peering over the wall at the real Romans. What are they doing? Why? What are they doing now? Why is the haruspex eyeballing the sheep’s liver? Why is the soothsayer wholesaling the Bewares?

Perhaps that’s been my difficulty in writing you this letter: I’m not sure I know what’s really going on. Anyway, you have a huge posse of experienced entrail-sifters who do nothing but analyze your every vein and lobe. What can I tell you about yourself that you don’t already know?

This might be the reason for my hesitation: embarrassment, brought on by a becoming modesty. But it is more likely to be embarrassment of another sort. When my grandmother — from a New England background — was confronted with an unsavoury topic, she would change the subject and gaze out the window. And that is my own inclination: Mind your own business.

But I’ll take the plunge, because your business is no longer merely your business. To paraphrase Marley’s Ghost, who figured it out too late, mankind is your business. And vice versa: When the Jolly Green Giant goes on the rampage, many lesser plants and animals get trampled underfoot. As for us, you’re our biggest trading partner: We know perfectly well that if you go down the plug-hole, we’re going with you. We have every reason to wish you well.

You’re gutting the Constitution. Already your home can be entered without your knowledge or permission, you can be snatched away and incarcerated without cause, your mail can be spied on, your private records searched. Why isn’t this a recipe for widespread business theft, political intimidation, and fraud? I know you’ve been told all this is for your own safety and protection, but think about it for a minute. Anyway, when did you get so scared? You didn’t used to be easily frightened.

You’re running up a record level of debt. Keep spending at this rate and pretty soon you won’t be able to afford any big military adventures. Either that or you’ll go the way of the USSR: lots of tanks, but no air conditioning. That will make folks very cross. They’ll be even crosser when they can’t take a shower because your short-sighted bulldozing of environmental protections has dirtied most of the water and dried up the rest. Then things will get hot and dirty indeed.

You’re torching the American economy. How soon before the answer to that will be, not to produce anything yourselves, but to grab stuff other people produce, at gunboat-diplomacy prices? Is the world going to consist of a few megarich King Midases, with the rest being serfs, both inside and outside your country? Will the biggest business sector in the United States be the prison system? Let’s hope not.

If you proceed much further down the slippery slope, people around the world will stop admiring the good things about you. They’ll decide that your city upon the hill is a slum and your democracy is a sham, and therefore you have no business trying to impose your sullied vision on them. They’ll think you’ve abandoned the rule of law. They’ll think you’ve fouled your own nest.

The British used to have a myth about King Arthur. He wasn’t dead, but sleeping in a cave, it was said; in the country’s hour of greatest peril, he would return. You, too, have great spirits of the past you may call upon: men and women of courage, of conscience, of prescience. Summon them now, to stand with you, to inspire you, to defend the best in you. You need them.

The letter was posted in The Globe and Mail on, 28 March 2003.  The letter was penned while  George W Bush as president. Man he looks good now, eh? I removed the paragraph about the Iraqi war, but we’re in another war, n’est-ce pas?

Canmore Walk and Eat

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Ok, so we left early afternoon and walked into town with happy hour feet. First, Murietta’s, our one-time favourite spot.  However – rejection. The happy hour beer was flat and dull with an equal nastiness for the three-dip appetizer we ordered.  The intention was pita bread, but it was nothing more than a limp mass of dough. Our pleasant server brought a glass of Rose, but how long was it sitting on the shelf?  Roman times? They did bring another glass of wine not on the happy hour menu and only charged the happy hour price. And the view? Our whole intention of going to the place. Clean the streaking, dirty windows please. I was afraid of this. Ruined. The place has gone downhill. However, we will always have the first time we went there (cost 24 bucks).

After major disappointment, we went to The Wood at the end of Main Street. While it doesn’t have Murietta’s gorgeous view, it still offers great mountain scenery. We had a Sheep Dog IPA (local and very tasty) and a Riesling. We also shared the enjoyable Tuna Stack – avocado, mango, tuna, sprouts, cilantro, and deep-fried wonton for spreading (cost 46 bucks).

Then we walked down to the Malcom Hotel and went for a drink at the Stirling (nice digs – lots of wood and very shiny new). Half price wine Wednesday. Ok, me likey this. We ordered a Chablis off the featured wine list (only half price from here), but they ran out. The accommodating manager said, order anything we’ll do half price. Ok, another bottle of yummy Chablis. I should’ve tasted the food, but I wasn’t all that hungry after the earlier beer and food. We will come back for the Wednesday wine (cost-54 bucks).

The night before we went out for dinner to a place literally across the street from our condo – Bridgette bar. I had a couple of “Blindman” porters (and a local charming cider – Marty McDry). Not too shabby for a beer near Deadmonton (Lacombe). We shared some eggplant fries (very good) and the salami pizza. I loved the crust – firewood oven baked with an amazing  drizzle of honey. The meat not so – a bit greasy (but I gotta say I’m not one for meat on my pizza).  I also had the Roasted Octopus salad. Not what I expected – the mollusk swimming (literally) in a very vinegary laden dressing with thinly sliced cucumber on top. I wouldn’t order again. I would, however, love to try the elk carpaccio. And the place was hopping for a Tuesday night. Good libations and I’d love to go back and try other items off a very interesting menu (cost – 97 bucks).

All in all, the total cost of an excellent night out, just walking around and doing happy hours – 125 bucks.  Another hundred bucks the night before. Not too shabby for two nights out. Another motive for our stay was – can I park my car and just walk? The answer an emphatic yes. The car didn’t move for two days. We got up and went for some very nice walks around town with the Three Sisters forever in our sight. A new haunt, for sure.

Government Man

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Free Images : aircraft, army, vehicle, aviation, fire, explosion, war, dramatic, chopper ...Not much happening today, but last night I was at home lounging, when I heard a very loud noise above me.  My foundations started rocking like crêpe paper in a hurricane. The world is ending right now. The windows rattled and popped as if a tornado were ripping through town. The sound thunderous as a large machine dropped into my space.  I ran to the boom and inspected my front yard. The view easy because our picture window gone. A petrol breeze flew through the portal.  I put my hand to mouth and gasped for air.

A large military helicopter crashed into our once manicured green space. The cadet grey blades were still moving, digging a large ditch into the earth metres from what was moments ago, my front window. The rotors stopped. I had no front yard – my planted daisies and roses now mulch.  The front of my house was nothing more than a giant gap in the universe. All that was left was space.  I was thankful for my crêpe soled shoes because shattered glass littered the living room carpet like tiny diamonds scattered on a jeweller’s felt.

I was still in shock when a man jumped through the open window. He wore a dark pin-striped suit with sock inserted sandals. He gripped a metallic clipboard in his hands as though swaddling a baby. He plucked his lanyard from under the suit and flipped it in my face. I saw a golden government logo. No name. No department. Just a smiling government man with a fake tan. He could’ve been from the ministry of pills and elixirs for all I knew. The flash brief. He put the credentials back with such quick movement I thought his side hustle was a card shark or fake billionaire. Don’t worry sir, the government is in control. We’ve got you covered. I rolled my eyes. Trust was not coming.

Two other men quickly darted from behind the government man and within two minutes they removed the entire front of my house. Studs and debris removed. A clean cut. Clipboard man made notes and then jumped through the open gap and examined the broken whirly bird. He didn’t take long. He jumped up into my living room with a metal chunk in his grip. It looked like the lock mechanism for a door – where the bolt slides into. He thrust it in my face.  I squinted. Here’s the problem, said the official. Not standard issue. He jumped through the broken window, giggling like a teenager who knows they got away with murder.

He spoke reassuring words a month ago. Compensation in hand. I wait. I sit in my living room in a lawn chair waving to the awe-struck people who walk by. I lounge here twenty-four seven for security reasons, wrapped in a mummy style sleeping bag, zipped to the hilt. I am my own reward.

Thursday Murder Club – A Book Review

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Yes, I’ve started a new book. The mystery never ends.  The novel is the first in a very successful mystery series by Richard Osman (four at last count).  The stories revolve around a group of  grey-haired sleuths  who live in a retirement home in Kent, England.  I mean what else do you do when you retire? Screw knitting, right?

In this novel, a dude is murdered in his home, smacked over the head with a blunt object. Beside the dead body is a picture of two other dudes with a ton of cash surrounding them.  How did the picture get there? And who took it?

A  group of seniors are on the prowl, lead by Elizabeth with her suspicious police and government connections.  She also clandestinely worked outside the Isles in her past. Holy MI-5 or 6  Batman (we are not totally sure which agency  – as any good spy would nurture).  Next is Joyce, a kindly old chatter box. She worked as a nurse, previously. We have journal entries from her, exposing  information about the murders but also her very humorous naivety in contemporary issues;  for example the surprise when she finds out you can send photos on your phone.  We also have Ibrahim, the psychologist and Ron, an ex-union thug to round out the club. A very interesting and diverse group.

On the cop side we have Donna, who left the London Met due to a romantic spurn  and Chris the overweight, junk-food addict who can’t seem to get his physical being on the right track. Donna is starting at the bottom of the police pecking order in Kent; she was higher up in London, so the reboot is difficult. There is a love / hate relationship with the two groups, but the amount of information Elizabeth gleans assists the police enormously. Both coppers see (however grudgingly) the  benefits an ex MI-6 or 5  agent brings to the table.

Then we have another murder, Ian Ventham, a pure asshole who only cares about financial gains. He’s murdered during a protest at the Cooper’s Chase retirement home.  He leads a group of bulldozers and diggers early one morning with the intent of ripping up a century old graveyard. The senior’s protest sends a strong screw you corporate vibe.  Suspicion hangs in the air.

Excellent read – not too heavy and not too bland. I never thought a group of seniors in a retirement home for detectives, but it works well. We also have some strong social comments – loneliness and grief among our seniors. And  how shitty it is when your kids don’t visit (I’m going to call my parents right now). We are NEVER too busy, right? And memory loss, another aging issue. I learnt a very neat trick from Elizabeth who jots down a question two weeks ahead in her journal – what’s the license plate number of the car seen outside the retirement home ? In two weeks she must answer the question correctly (not sure if it’s a spook trick or senior aid). It’s a great memory test and I’m considering employment, if I remember

Early Out – The New Year Exercise Plan

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I missed summer. I spent the entire season in my basement treadmill running. The paved paths get so busy with the nice weather, and death is close under the wheels of an elderly dude on an e-bike. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against e-bikes. Many people would not get out if not for this novel invention. But the traffic increase is noticeable. 

However,  winter is here. Although I have a winter bike, I can’t ride it consistently – bikes on ice, nope. So I’m back to running and walking outside on slippery, quiet paths with a few considerations.   First, winter is about time not speed (longer / slower pace) and my outside activities  are weather dependent – nothing colder than -20 and no blizzard running and even then, wait until the paths are cleared in a couple of days (snow removal is amazing here). Too much snow hinders my ability to see hidden ice –  the evil black glaciers are so dangerous, just ask anyone who’s fallen, broken an ankle and are laid up for weeks. 

The new plan is get up, drink some lemon water, stretch and bolt out the door – before nine and within an hour of waking. During winter, the sun doesn’t even rise before eight-thirty, and I am not walking or running in the dark. Getting outside in the early morning has so many benefits from mental health to gut health. It also triggers the correct timing of cortisol and melatonin rhythm (for all the wonderful benefits – just google benefits of getting outside early morning. Or listen to this  Huberman podcast.

Perhaps the greatest benefit of early morning activities is the life around you. My oh my, hitting the panoramic ridge near my house, and watching the sun come up over the majestic Rocky Mountains is breath taking (literally). A few mornings ago, I stood in splendour,  watching two eagles wrestling in the sky. On another day, I felt a Chinook breezing into the city – warm pockets of air gently stroking my face like a warm sock out of the dryer. The best way to start your day. Forget the cortisol,  beauty is the greatest reward.  

Anyway  here’s the new plan:

Monday

55-60 min run (slow pace – winter is about time not speed and the outside runs are weather dependent – nothing colder than -20 and no blizzard running and even then wait until the paths are cleared after a couple of days – say hello to treadmill and Icelandic videos.

Tuesday

40 min, early morning walk (apparently, you only need 30 min for the health benefits) 

Afternoon 45 min stationary bike with HIIT intervals ( 15 min ride / 3x HIIT / 10 min 3 x HIIT / 10 min 3xHIIT / 10 min warm down / stretch).

Wednesday

55-60 min run outside before nine  (again conditions apply)

Thursday

40 min, early morning walk – rest day (or possible mountain hike day)

Friday

40 min, early morning walk / afternoon 45 min stationary bike with HIIT intervals.

Saturday 

55-60 min  run outside (again conditions apply)

Sunday

30  min, early morning walk – afternoon 30 min  treadmill run and weight training

I’ve missed running outside so much – the air, the trees, the water, the people – an outside morning gallop sends happiness through my bones. It’s like you lose part of your soul on a treadmill. Even the YouTube videos can’t replace the loss. Flexibility is the key – check the conditions.  It is winter and I don’t need a broken ankle and weeks of recovery.  As Vivaldi says: 

Walking on the ice with hesitant steps,
By being careful, lest you fall … 

Lost Brother

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Two nights ago, I lost my brother. He  vanished into darkness.  I must find him.  Anxiety raging inside me  like a  bowie knife slash.  I check his email, but I can’t read anything. Symbols in awkward positions – upside down, left when right, nothing in a regular pattern. I listen to his voice messages and realize  he’s a character in a play.  Where is the stage?  I just arrived –  new town soul. I need direction. I don’t know any streets or landmarks. The town only names and numbers. 

I go into his bedroom. The sheets crisp, never slept. Along the wall under a dark window  is an ornate desk, lion carvings on the corners,  a green banker lamp on top. The light points to a drawer. I pull it, but it’s stuck. I try harder. It opens, but I nearly send  the contents flying across the room. Inside I find torn map pieces.  A jigsaw puzzle. I put the map into coherent order, but I can’t read the symbols.   I finally decipher the theatre’s location. A red circle around two intersecting lines. A northern cross. 

I get in my car and drive. The radio blasts, “I am just a rat in a cage.” I desperately need to find my brother. Something is wrong. I don’t understand what. The knife cuts deeper with every lost second. I drive but the weather conditions are horrible. Snow and ice slashing through the air.  I can’t see the road in front of me. The car slides down a hill. I’ve lost control. I crank the wheel hard.  The vehicle glides into a linear course. It stops,  facing an ornate door with lion carvings. A cross facing north.

I go inside the theatre, but it’s empty. Rows of cold mahogany seats. I yell, Where is my brother? My fear echoes around the silence like a phantom twister. A tap on my shoulder,  a man with no face. He tells me in a whisper, the theatre is closed because the weather is so awful. Where’s my brother? I ask. I imagine the blank stare on his features. Everyone left for the Yukon. Where? I ask. I dunno, the voice shakes,  go north. 

I must go. I fear the repercussions. I leave the unknown town and drive with the blizzard. The signs on the road draw a blank. More unknown direction. Undecipherable language.  I keep driving. My compass says north. I’m getting tired. I turn up the radio, “What is lost can never be saved.” I pull over. The snow is pounding the car. I can’t see. White out. I close my eyes.

When I wake the sun is beaming. The car is warm, cozy. The road ahead is clear. A Kodiak points the way. I find the theatre. Where is my brother, I shout. A voice comes over the speaker, “What is lost can never be found.”

 

Two Novels, a post

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Right now, I am reading two novels. The first is “Yellowface” by Rebecca Kuang. Holy shit. My first reaction is I will never publish a book on the traditional road. What a nasty, horrible process. How does one keep their sanity? As a theme in the book, it’s not always possible. If I were ever to publish, it will be self-published. I will be my own team.  I never want to go through all that shit. What a horror story.

And social media, my goodness, the novel makes we want to delete  all my socials (again).   Professional online people are packs of blood thirsty  animals dedicated to destroying the lives of others. Who  would want to deal with that crap?  How do these predators wake up and look in the mirror every morning.

Ethnic quotas?   Only one Asian story a year, please. And do not criticize the white  authors, so says the right wing cancel culture groups. Holy limiting Batman. So much for writing about whomever and whatever.  However,  I find it ironic that an Asian girl is writing about a white girl who stole a book from an Asian girl. But that’s the point,  right? It gets across very well. 

I know the book is a satire,  but at one point we find out for many authors themain reason for writing is immortality? Are you serious?  The need to live forever through your art.  A lasting impression should be through the people you love not through some nasty assholes on the internet. Is this where we are as a society? 

A great eye-opener. A shocking read. However,  whenever I feel the need to publish,  I’m going to pull out this book – motivation indeed. Thank goodness Faulkner or Woolf or any early twentieth century writer were never around to experience this mess. Or maybe they were, but we never heard about it.

And if the publishing industry wasn’t horrible enough, the other book on  my night table is “The Road” by Cormac McCarthy. I’ve read many of his works and if one idea threads through his work, it’s the belief humans are horrible, blood thirsty creatures (see above article).  If destructive social media isn’t bad enough, how about storing people in a basement so you can eat them later. Or is there a relationship here? Isn’t this what the internet is all about – eating people alive.

The dystopian novel takes place after some horrible catastrophe. A boy and his father are travelling across a landscape filled with ash and destruction. All life destroyed except for a few dogs and travelling bands of nasty people who are ready to kill, steal or eat you. The pair are attempting to make their way to the coast where it’s warm and hope possibly lives.

The dad is dying and the boy was born into this decaying world. He knows about birds, but he’s never seen one. The journey leaves you  feeling cold and damp.  They camp, eat food from tins when they can, pull a shopping card filled with their few life possessions (I love the mirror on the cart – not a bad idea for all shopping malls). Not a happy novel,  but one that makes harsh comments on the nature of society and where we are heading.

Even though hope runs through the novel – the boy is hope. The major question is, who wants to live in a world where we are afraid to help people and human creatures are ready to devour us?  Why are we so horrible to one another?

 Ok, I gotta go and plant a tree or hang a decoration on one. 

Oh strange food

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Food, Food, Fooood, wonderful food, wonderful food. Food. Food. Food. I love food. Making food. Ordering food. Going out for food. I don’t care how it comes. I’ve even had dreams about food like the time I was chased by a giant purple lobster. As a result, I am not afraid of food. I’ve had many strange experiences with food. But I’ve never spat out anything – how rude.

A while back, I was working for the Cosmo-Demonic-Telecommunication company when they sent me on a trip to Thailand. When you travel to Asian countries on business, the company hires a guide to show you around town. The first night we went out and had traditional Thai food. I can’t remember everything we ate, but I do remember rice cooked in pineapple and giant lobsters without claws. I also learnt that Thais do not use chopsticks.  I’m not sure why, but the next time you order Pad Thai … 

However, the next night, the guide asked if we wanted to try some more dangerous food. I was travelling in a group with five or six other dudes. When we got to the restaurant, the first thing I saw was a giant snake dangling from a hook. An employee was running a knife down its belly, guts slopping on the floor. But not to waste, he gathered the innards and threw them in a pail. Ok, this looks promising (not).

Inside, we gathered around a table. Menus, of course were useless. I’m not sure if they were written in Thai or Chinese. The restaurant was the latter, I think. The guide ordered for the table. We had ant eggs – giant white pill looking objects. Then we had snake (not sure if it was hanging buddy downstairs).  Not too bad – tasted like dry pork ribs. However, the weird thing was the wine glass of blood brought to the table. The guide got angry when the waiter brought the drink, but we said don’t worry. Down the hatch. Warm and thick like a metallic milk shake. Apparently good for men. I felt my bicep increase. The food wasn’t too bad, but I don’t think I’d eat it daily and I don’t think the locals did. 

My next interesting delicacy was in New Zealand. We were invited on to the Marae (a meeting place for social and religious celebrations), a great privilege. Every day, behind the meeting house, We had a wonderful “happy” hour. We were talking and drinking excellent wine when this dude brings out these spiny looking creatures, cuts one open and the guts fall in his hand. He threw it down his gullet as though he were kicking off a jandle at the front door.  Sea urchin or Tuhinga o mua in Māori.  He looked at me, you want some, brother? I sure do. It tasted like swallowing a giant hoark left over from a bad cold. But I’d defiantly do it again. Yep, I’d eat just about anything. Once. Scorpion pizza. Sheep eye-ball soup. However, my only rule is it can’t be moving. Dipping my spoon into a bowl of crawling baby snakes, just isn’t my cup of tea. 

Ok, I gotta run upstairs and cook some grub. I’m thinking pineapple pork ribs, rice and cucumber.

Handy Man – haha

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I was asked, are you handy? I just laughed. Oh my, no. I am the most “unhandy” person in the world. When I look around my house I think, man I should’ve hired a professional. When we bought our house, it was a fixer upper. The basement became a swimming pool every June, our rainy month. The carpet in the living room smelt like a cat litter box. The hot water tank was hours away from an explosion. Our entire backyard was exposed because the fence collapsed like a broken teenager on tic-tok. I said, no problem, we can fix it.

Ok time to fix – her -up. I tried to put a fence in and I’m so glad it’s in an area that no one can see. Five years later and it’s leaning more than that tower in Italy. At least in Pisa they have the excuse that it’s a natural process. The only thing natural about the fence I built is natural incompetence. Then I tried to tile the floor in our downstairs bathroom (luckily only used by me). It looks like a pitcher’s mound. Then there’s the bedroom door. We took it off to paint, but it wouldn’t go back on correctly. We couldn’t close the door for a year. Then one morning I looked at the door, walked over, replaced the missing screws and voilà the door closes. We now have privacy. So many other dysfunctional projects. I’m surprised the house is still standing. 

However, I am glad I know people who know what they are doing. I have a great neighbour. She’s so good at handy-person things. We are renovating our kitchen, and she’s done a fantastic job patching and painting the kitchen walls. I can only stand by with my jaw dropping and pour more wine. I have another handyman friend. He’s European, so all projects are done with care and precision (me – measure once and cut again and again and again). More than once, he’s come over and repaired my horrible mistakes. He did great job with our bathroom. Now he’s going to help put with our kitchen renovations. We exchange dog-sitting for reno- skills although my Czech pal is on the losing end.

Another section of our privacy was falling down, but this time exposed to the world. Luckily another neighbour came to the rescue. I did very little (thankfully) except call the “Bobcat” dude to come and drill holes for the posts. But only after hours of a manual auger attempt that required a bathtub of Absorbine Junior the next day … and following week. Our privacy intact, I am very grateful for the assistance.

Yes, I have learnt after many years of attempted home improvement to call a professional. One may watch all the tv programs and youtube videos you want, but if the aptitude is not there you are screwed.  I have other qualities, like … well I dunno. I can write poetry, always a useful skill. 

Street Songs

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Last night I was in an unvisited room – white brick walls, very open, but warm with verdant carpets covering a cold floor. A blond dude stood on a small stage, with a guitar and microphone. He was releasing his only album.  I had no idea who he was. An invitation came in the mail. I responded with a presence.

The music was soothing and mellow,  reminding me of a golden California sunrise  –  yellow with so much hope and promise in the skies. I felt the sunrise in the words as they flowed through me like warm bath bubbles. Every song was great.  Folded cardboard sheets  were passed around. I saw them on a golf course. A sign-off was mandatory.  Beside every track was an approval box.  I put a check mark beside every song.  But not all the songs were present.  I heard more than I saw. I had to tell the producer. We need the warmth. Panic. Action.

 I got on my bike and headed down a street lined with dirty grey buildings and greasy round porthole windows, so thick light couldn’t escape. The air was cold as I glided down the unknown pavement. I passed a relic with a dome shaped roof covered in green metal.  So many poor people along the route –  leaning, squatting, and laying down on the cracked sidewalk The citizens starving with their skin peeling and falling off the bone.  Eyes so dark and sunken like buried seeds in winter.  I wanted to help, but I couldn’t stop. The producer calls.

I got to a shopping centre with a tall glass office tower. The windows were  shiny and mirrored. In the reflection were the starving people on the sidewalk,  behind me.  I turned right, but as I did a large dump truck pulled out in front of me. I was struck. I fell down and couldn’t move. More panic.  The music must get out. The road was blocked. I thought about the sidewalk, but it was covered in people. I sat on my bike, wondering what I should do. I shook. Rivers ran down my face.

A bearded man rose from the sidewalk and walked towards me. He held out his hand. I reached into my bag – slung over my shoulder and hanging on my right side – and took out a bundle of  scorecards. I gave it to the man. He took it and smiled. He went back to the sidewalk  and raised the scorecards with a holler. People rose, gained weight, and were covered in the most glorious gold clothing. They danced and sang the warm songs.

I turned my bike around and headed back down the street. The street people were gone. The green roof was now bronze and shining in the morning sun. The buildings were clean and new. A warm gust flew up the alleys and the streets. Lights glowed in windows and people moved inside, busy. The smell of rich and savoury food filled the street. I wasn’t hungry anymore. I sang.