http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/ The Secret Log of Captain Forehead en-us Nucleus CMS v3.31 © Weblog http://backend.userland.com/rss http://www.captainforehead.com/journal//nucleus/nucleus2.gif http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/ http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=115
The pain in my body is nearly unbearable. Every muscle hurts to move; all joints feel swollen, bruised. The only thing clear is the masterful mind hauling this beaten body, though beaten by choice. Training the body sharpens the mind, and the most important weapon in life is a well sharpened, practiced mind. Still, in the state this body is in after yesterday's training, followed by a session of volleying play in an abandoned house's pool, the mind is anchored by suffering, debilitating weight. But life goes on.

No work. Could not even find a shift of coffee crushing or floor sweeping to pick up to put the mind elsewhere. Unlike my roommate, I am not interested in spending the day altered in front of the television. We all have purpose, and that is not amongst mine — we have enough place holders. Perhaps a walk downtown, where the citizenry can be observed and good can witness where justice is lacking — within, I know who I am, who I was, who I can be nothing other than, who I must be, so it is appropriate to wander the sites of the citizenry.

The wonderful thing about the human body is that it will exert as much effort as there is will. The body wishes to please the mind, its master, and do all that is asked, so though every step ached and pain whispered sweet dreams of disintegrating purpose and coach potatoness, the request that the preparing body move forward was executed. The day was a successful venture in observational recalibration.

After grabbing a burrito, I began to return to my place of wickedly wrangled rest, thinking the day was done, but there was a wrench in the monkey juice, and a few of us find it impossible to simply observe injustice.

Walking down the street, a gigantic man came out of an overpriced steakhouse, followed by a frail, sickly looking man. As they walked down the street, a man of uncommitted residence, who appeared to be taking a respite on the ground, put his hand up and out, requesting charity. Sickly scoffed at him. Uncommitted grabbed at the man's pants. Sickly kicked the wanting hands away. Deciding this rejection was not enough, Sickly stopped, walked over and kicked Uncommitted, shouting, “Get a fuckun job!”, then walked away. Unfortunately, this action was something not sanctioned as appropriate by the shadowy, fickle hand of fate.

As they approached, there was no clear plan of actions. Gigantic passed — he was bigger up close. Sickly passed, and without hesitation, like a rambunctious, playful schoolboy, the foot of justice's friend swiftly kicked his frail, nonexistent gluteus minisculus.

“What the...!?” Sickly shouted, stopping.

Gigantic stopped, turned and immediately came to Sickly's side.

“You are giiiiiant,” the jocular justicer observed aloud to the compatriot of cretinism.

“You,” I offered, pointing at Sickly, “don't get to go around kicking citizenry, even when they are grimy and grippy.”

Sickly laughed. “You apparently don't know me, mate. I'll do whatever I fuckun please,” he replied unequivocally in his arrogant accent.

“No,” was the counter adeptly conjured and offered with minimal hesitation.

Turning to Gigantic, Sickly gave an order. “Slap him like...how do you say...like a little bitch.”

“Yes, sir,” Gigantic pea brain responded obediently, with one of the deepest voices ever to capture the ears of goodness.

Stepping up to thee, Gigantic said, “You should not have bothered Sir. I have to slap you now.”

“God, you're huge. Did that physical attribute cause your foray into this line of work?”

“Slap him,” Sickly ordered.

“It's okay,” I whispered in confidence to Gigantic. “You can do it once. I'll let you, just know I am going to slap you back, and would rather it not escalate from there. You are HUGE.”

“Fair enough.”

Slap.

His hand was as big as my head.

“There, there,” Sickly gleefully chuckled.

Slap.

“Give that to the pecker with the accent, since you are delivering messages.”

“He hit you! You can't let him do that to you! Do something, you fool!”

There was conflict in the eyes of Gigantic.

“I know, you have the job because you are scary huge, but you and I both know that does not mean you are a fighter.”

“I would destroy you,” Gigantic promised, our voices both low enough to keep Sickly out of the conversation.

“Yes, I am sure that is what you want me to believe, but I should tell you a small, dark secret: pain brings me to life, and conflict is the tortilla that makes the burrito. I am more willing to die vanquishing evil and its pawns, you, than you are to look good in front of that piece of evil dungness. And truth be told, I'll cheat to beat your big ass into the ground, if you were under the illusion there were rules in this type of dance.”

“What are you two talking about!?” Sickly shouted, angrily. “Just take care of him!”

Gigantic smiled. “Just run like a little bitch,” he whispered, pulling aside his coat to show me his weapon.

Not sure what he thought a foe would do, but as it was presented with convenient access, I grabbed the gun before the expression on his face could reveal what happened.

“Why did you want to give me this?”

“You big, stupid moron! You let him take your gun? You're fired, you damn, bloody fool!”

“That really was stupid. Why did you open your coat like that with the gun just waiting for me to take? This was your plan?”

“You need to stop waving that at me and give me my gun back.”

“Yeah, that's not going to happen. Well, maybe if you go slap him...”

Gigantic turned slowly and looked at Sickly, then looked at me, shaking his head from side-to-side, declining my suggestion.

“You bloody, fuckun wanker!” Sickly shouted and began to gimp away.

“I need that gun back,” Gigantic stated calmly, suggesting in his deep voice that there was no choice in the matter.

“You didn't slap him.”

“He's my boss.”

“He fired you.”

“He does that all the time.”

“This is the problem with people these days. You are more afraid of the man with the money than you are of the gun. You are a huge, scary looking man, encasing a timid 12 year old boy. I really thought this was going to be a major conflict of good and evil, but you are so timid I have to ask to which side I have been assigned. No, you are willingly employed by evil and carry out evil's tasks, so I am good.”

“Man, just give me my gun.”

“Shoot him!” Uncommitted shouted, having witnessed the entire scene.

“Hey,” Gigantic argued against.

“Shoot him!”

“Shut up,” I requested. “This is not about you, it is about the way the sickly man treated a fellow citizen. Because he is an ass makes him an ass, it does not elevate you. My concern is not for you, my concern is evil be stopped. Because he is evil does not make you good.”

“Come on, man, just give me my gun so we can all get on with it.”

Gigantic had a look in his eyes. He was going to do something, which could become very unfortunate.

“Don't do it,” I warned.

“Just give me my gun, man.”

“Shoot him.”

“Listen, tough guy, why don't you go and catch up with the gimp that kicked you and kick him back. At least give him a piece of your mind, tell him it was wrong and ask him to apologize.”

“Give me my gun.”

“Damn, you've got a deep voice. You should be in the entertainment industry, voice-over work or something.”

Uncommitted ran down the street toward Sickly. Gigantic had that look in his eye, the one that made it clear he was about to do something escalating, which is stupid when it is so obviously written on one's face and posture.

As a precautionary measure of obvious intentions, the kindness kind stepped back a couple of feet, for safety, and placed the gun into the rear waistband of my ill fitting pants.

“No. And what do people usually do when you open your coat like that and show them your shiny gun?”

“They get smart and run away.”

“Yeah, but it was right there, closer to my hand than yours? You want to threaten my life by placing the gun in my hands? You really should find another line of work. And my head is ringing from your slap. I bet you didn't even feel mine?”

Gigantic chuckled. I took another step back. We looked into each other's eyes, gauging. Perhaps we were not that different?

“I need my gun.”

“You lost it, sorry.”

“I need it.”

“Yeah, sorry, but I hope we can do this again, perhaps without guns.”

“You take my gun and I'm gonna find you and kill you.”

“If I believed you, I would have to kill you now.”

“Better do it then,” Gigantic declared, taking a step forward.

“God, you have a great voice. 'Better do it',” I repeat in my best base voice. “I'm going to leave, with your gun. If you want to find me, it's not hard. If you want to kill me, be prepared. If you what to enjoy life, find something more in line with your nature, not your size.”

As I backed away, Uncommitted came running up, full of excitement.

“Look! Look! Look what I got! I got his watch, his wallet, his pen. He just gave it all to me.”

Gigantic slapped it from Uncommitted's displaying hands.

“Hey!” Uncommitted whined.

“Like I said, this is not about you, it's about what that evil skeleton of a man did to you. I don't care about you as an individual,” I reminded out of necessity.

Uncommitted stared at Gigantic, wondering what would happen if he tried to pick up his treasure.

“He's huge. I'd listen to what he has to say,” was the suggestion for Uncommitted.

“But...but...”

“Don't touch it. Go!”

With the order to “go”, Uncommitted ran away. I made my final eye contact with Gigantic, offering a respectful nod. He nodded respectfully in reply. It was agreed, we were done. I turned and quickly walked away as Gigantic picked up his bosses belongings.

Sometimes the most evil are the least capable, but able to get some of the legions of those who wander aimlessly through life to do their bidding. Perhaps everyone is capable of evil at a price, but where are you in life when you are the low bidder to paint evil's ugly picture?

It would appear the meek are easily confused; because good defends you, demanding the stronger treat you with the same humanity they treat other basic citizens, there is no elevation of your status. You still have less to offer. You are not elevated, hoisted upon our shoulders as heroes, geniuses, you are still the meek, at the bottom of mass pyramid. If you wish to rise up and claim your power, you must. It is upon you to find the strength. And if you succeed, how do you think you will treat those beneath you, the new meek? I suggest you treat them as you wished to be treated.

I have a small, dark wish: If you treat them any less than you would want to be treated, I wish that those of us dedicating a modicum to the mold of good are there to right the course.]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=115 Sun, 29 Aug 2010 13:13:06 -0700 http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=114
Heshe enjoys working the register because he enjoys the bantering interaction with customers — most of whom are pleasant, kind citizens of a nature not designed for meditating observation, more background figurish...few people are truly attractive, but that does not mean they are not beautiful. (Candy comes in all flavors and designs for a reason.) Heshe enjoys being one with the whole, which is why the altercation he was having was out of character. Sure, he could be a bit witless witty, but he was not threatening, he was fragile Heshe.

“I want some sugar packets!” the oval, perhaps female, of massive cirularity shouted at Heshe.

“Honey, you don't need no more sugar, and I already told you we don't have sugar packets. There is sugar on the counter over there,” he exasperatingly whined, pointing.

“Listen! I know you got sugar packets. Everyone got sugar packets. I seen you guys give 'em out before!” she growled.

“Sweetie, we have not had them since I've been here, and I've been here for a long time. And I have never seen you. I would remember you.”

“You better watch your mouth, ya little faggot ass!”

“Ouch! Honey, I'll take my little faggot ass over your giant fat ass any day of the week. And we're done. You can move aside.”

Heshe looked at me and rolled his eyes. Where most people would be angry, he was having fun.

“Give me my sugar packets!” oval shouted.

“I said we're done. Next!”

The oval snapped. She rifled through her luggage sized purse, desperately searching for something. I paused the process of much important coffee pressing, as my once refined senses began to hint something might be amiss.

“Next customer?”

“I'll show you next!” she shouted, handing her bag to her friend so she could go through her friends' bag, where she eventually found what was sought.

“Keeeeek. Keeek. Keeeek.”

The sound was unmistakeable, it was a bright pink electric shock weapon, possibly a Taser, but more likely a cheap knock-off.

“Come here, little faggot bitch!” oval shouted, turning toward Heshe as she tested the button on her device of incapacitation.

“Oh fuck!” he shouted in his high-pitched, squealing she voice.

“Uh uh, no,” oval's friend said aloud, exiting the store as oval ran and rolled her rotundness behind the counter.

Running for his life, Heshe screamed, afraid.

“Keek. Keeek. Keek.”

Oval kept pushing the button, making the noise to frighten the much smaller, quicker creature. “Come here, you little faggot bitch!” she shouted every time she came close to getting him.

It seemed a bit surreal, especially when they ran past me a couple of times. Eventually, I had to accept that she was not going to let up till she caused Heshe harm, or killed him — who knows what that thing was set to. Of course, she never did get her sugar, as the hand of fate knew where to place its presence.

I wanted to tell oval to stop, but between her shouting threats and Heshe's shrill screams, nothing would have been heard. The solution was simple: I had to stop oval's assault.

While dancing about between customers, I motioned for him to come to me. Without hesitation, he scampered across the room and stood behind he who will be, thee.

“I ain't got nothin' wichew, but if you ain't gonna get the fuckin' outta my way I'm gonna zap your skinny ass too!”

Skinny? Is she coming on to me in the throes of this tense situation? Seems a bit inappropriate, but the allure of a viral man, who is skinny, which is most any man when you are built like a pear with the bottom girth of a love sofa.

Unfortunately, thinking about unwanted advances and skinny was too long a hesitation. With all the might of right, the good of just swung at the jaw protected behind her fleshy excess. Before I could feel the impact, I felt a jolt of electricity go through my body and send me limp to the ground. Fortunately, even though I did not feel it, I had connected.

It did not take long for me to regain control of my rebounding physique of physicality, and after slowly erecting, I found myself standing over the limp body of oval, her face bloodied as she lay unconscious.

“What happened?” I asked.

“You knocked her fat ass out!”

“Oh,” I brilliantly replied as the cleanup crew entered the establishment.

After taking witness statement, and watching the security recording a few times — she may have been knocked out, but the laughter was at me going limp and collapsing like a rag doll — they took oval away in handcuffs, having to put multiple cuffs together to get them behind her massively padded back. Her attitude was undeterred.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! I'm gonna fuckin' kill your fuckin' ass!” she shouted. “Ain't no one cold cocks me, mother fucker!

“Get your goddamned hands offa me! I ain't did nothin' wrong! Arrest that mother fucker who cold cocked me. Let me go! You pieces of shit should be 'restin' those fuckers there!”

“Calm down, miss.”

“Don't miss me, mother fucker! Think you're all that 'cause you gotta badge and gun an' shit. Fuck you! Give me a badge and gun and see how tough you are then, mother fucker! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! You're hurting me!”

“Stop struggling, ma'am. Calm down, or we are going to have to subdue you.”

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! You're hurting me! You're hurting MEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

After a while, things were back to normal, whatever that may be.

Heshe came over to thank me. I accepted, as a gentleman should.

“Sugar packets?” I ask.

“Who knows.”

“I don't know where you people come from, but this is definitely your world and not mine.”

“What are you talking about? If you were not here, people like her and I would have destroyed this world long ago. Honey, this is so your world, we're just here for your entertainment and to test which ones of you have the balls to do the right thing.”

I smiled at his answer, which give him cause to smile mischievously, forcing the non-sexually interested in his interest to become a bit uncomfortable.

“I have a surprise for you.”

Not sure I want this.

“Close your eyes.”

This could be dangerous.

“Put out your hand.”

I'm sure I will be able wash off whatever is going to be placed on my sweaty flesh.

I feel a small drop hit the palm of my hand.

“Okay, open.”

Opening the eyes too almost any possibility, I spot in the middle of my palm a big front tooth.

“Surprise!”

“What?”

“You knocked it out, mister man. I picked it up and put it in my pocket so the cops didn't take it as evidence. I don't even think the whore knows it's missing.”

“Uh, thank you?”

“No, thank you,” Heshe replied, giving me a kiss on the cheek.

No, this does not look like my world. I do not know where you people come from, but I would not really want to imagine a world without you.

Yes, I must admit it: I belong...as does Heshe...as does Mooshe...as do we all...

Oh well, it's all an adventure.]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=114 Mon, 23 Aug 2010 13:49:02 -0700 http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=113
There is a plan for the evening. The body needs to rest, which is an opportunity to sharpen the mind. Someone left a copy of Hagakure in the shop, a worthwhile read. There was also a copy of a glossy swimsuit catalog, which should be pursued to remain current on the trends of fashionable and fresh female citizenry. Research, research, research...

Did it.

Done.

A day of nothing, but that happens — we never really know what a day will hold.

Behind me, I felt eyes attached. Turning around, I saw a friendly female coworker who has spent a good portion of her chewy life as a sweet tasty treat. She motioned for me to come to her. As good is a gentleman, I went.

“You've been so quiet today. Everything's okay?”

“Yeah, it's just a day.”

I found myself politely analyzing the perfect overflowing curves of her glorious, sticky ampleness.

“You looking at these?” she asked, placing her hands under her breasts and pressing them high, bulging about her low-cut top.

“Oh... I... Spectacular. Naturally spectacular. They really are.”

“Thank you,” she answered proudly. “Here, take a better look.”

To the delight and glee of gifts unforeseen, there was nothing to do except be polite and admire the perfect, smooth, fresh young skin encasing plump, fatty, full breasts. It was not the place of I to ask why.

“Here,” she insisted, taking my hand and placing it under her shirt and over a hanging, mounding example of nature's fat storing perfection.

Understanding the fragility of women, I had concern for the trauma that could be inflicted if she were to feel as if her generous offer of pleasantries were rejected, so I massaged, gently caressing the beautiful supple skin in my kind and unworthy hand.

“You can stop now,” was her suggestion after a few memorable minutes.

“Okay.” There was nothing else to say.

This was not planned.

Today did not see this coming.

But in every imaginable way, I must thank the universe for letting me play.

Why, I do not know, but there is no doubt the hand of fate is greater than the hand of cause. In fact, the rudder steering hand of fate employs the hand of cause.

Bottom line: Whatever causes the hand of fate to place so unexpectedly the the hand of good feeling around the plump, ample perfection of one of God's greatest toys, is bigger and more generous and whimsical than any of us can ever understand or demand.

Life, it is a gift.

Ample.

Soft.

Smooth.

Round.

Plump.

Perfect.

Who knew today would be sooooooo perfect...

Oh, the recollection and desire for another handful of fat brings firm standing pleasure to the senses.]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=113 Thu, 12 Aug 2010 15:35:45 -0700 http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=112
“Super extra plus, Tom.”

Only 6 more hours of this and I can go and train. Perhaps a 4 hour session with a heavy bag will drain me of dread.

She stares, waiting. I begrudgingly capitulate in the throes of cappuccino boredom.

“Hello. How are you?”

The soft, saggy candy lights up, smiling like she has heard from an old friend. We have been friendly, when I have served her coffee previously. Nothing deep. Nothing real. I usually nod and imagine how attractive she was 10 years ago, before her large chestiness started heading down to compete with the lumps popping out in the mid of her physique. Clearly, there was an age when she was quite a sweet and succulent package of tasty delightness.

“It's been a tough weekend.”

Nooooooooooo! I don't care! It's your life, do whatever the hell you want with it. Please, just keep me out of your world. Please! Please. Please? But those are words not spoken. The kindness that is true and discouraging was all that escaped. “I am sorry to hear that.”

“Short, fat vanilla for Loud Linda.”

Oops. Linda was her name, Loud Linda was our nickname for her. She took her coffee, pouting.

“My husband was arrested. Did you see it on the news?”

“What are you waiting for?” God, let's move her drink to the front of the line.

“Don't worry, I'm in no hurry.”

I smile, becoming anxious like a trapped animal preparing to gnaw off a limb. I might have to kill to escape.

“He lost his job last year. Then he became addicted to the painkillers he was taking for his back. And then yesterday he threatened to kill himself. In front of the kids, can you believe that?”

It's got to be one of these.

“Tall, non-fat caramel, extra whip, double. Susan.”

This has to be hers. Come on...Yes!

“Thank you.”

She picks up her cup and steps closer to the counter to continue our insipid conversation.

“Noooooooooooooooooo!” my mind shouts, while I simply smile.

“Chai latte. Barry.”

Another friendly pick-up.

“I don't really know what to do. He's a good dad, he just seems to be having problems now. Pretty much ever since he lost his job he has been having problems. Then about a month ago he went crazy when he found out I was chatting with an old friend, an old boyfriend. He's just losing it.”

What?! The ears were focused. She wants sympathy? Just a couple of details to flesh out.

“What sent him over the edge yesterday?” I asked, trying to sound matter-of-factly calm.

“I don't know. Even though we are living together, I have been telling him it's over, but when I didn't come home one night, he went crazy.”

What?! She didn't come home? Just a few more details...

“Must be tough for the children. How old?”

“7 and 9. The boys adore him, but its not going to work.”

“So he knew you when you were in your prime?”

She blushed. “We met right after high school. I've only had one other boyfriend, that was my high school sweetheart.”

“The one you have been 'chatting' with?”

“Yeah.”

Evil. It is everywhere. When its form is physical in manifestation and presentation, battle is sweet and pure, but all too often evil is clothed in kindness, innocence and naivete. Apparently, this evil wanted absolution from the coffee guy...unfortunately for her, she encountered the wrong coffee guy.

“This is all soooo horrible,” I dripped with thick sarcasm. “Were you very good at math in school?”

“No, why?”

“Well, we've got a 1+1=2 problem here that is clearly beyond the rudimentary skills you acquired early on, so I am wondering how to approach my response.”

A glaze washed her aging face.

“It is interesting how both of these men knew you when you were in your prime. You know, us men being visual creatures, we love beauty we once captured, seeing it as it was forever, in our dreams and fantasies.”

She started to say, “Thank you,” but brought the cup to her mouth, not sure if she was being complimented. She needed to be disarmed.

“Would you like to hear a similar story about a cousin?”

“Yes,” she said too excitedly about the subject change.

“Soy, sugar-free, cocoa. Fred.”

“Well, the cousin had a rather large inheritance. She was married when she was rich, young and beautiful. She had a couple of kids; a bout of severe postpartum depression; gained weight; and, was swindled out of her inheritence by her mother.”

“That's horrible.”

“While she was going through all of that, her husband decided to take up with another woman, who was young, beautiful and well-off.”

“How horrible.”

“Really? You think so?” I was unable to stop myself from asking.

“Absolutely. Her husband didn't need to do that when she was going through all that.”

“Really?” I had to say again, shocked at evil's ignorance.

“Well, it gets worse. Her husband left her and took the kids. She loved those kids more than anything, the only thing. It surprised no one when she ODed and died.”

“How sad.”

“Yes. But it is going to get worse.”

“How, she's dead?”

“I am going to see that he pays the price for his deeds, that he suffers.” This was not a response she anticipated, and became appropriately uncomfortable.

“Your husband is down on his luck, struggling with his worth as a man with his job and his worth as a human with his pained body. He is down. And a woman he sees as beautiful and the world sees as long past—unlike that woman over there who has 10 years on you and somehow has the perfect figure of a 27 year old—has decided to kick him aside and find the only other man who remembers her as a young beauty, and who has not had to put up with the day-to-day living with a retard.”

Finally, she is willing to leave, silently taking a step back. But the honorable words of helpful wisdom were not complete.

“If you would like my help, if you truly care about your husband in any way, send him my way for advice. I will guide his choice and let him know of the beauty that exists, of the loving women who are beautiful inside and out and that he does not have to destroy himself because you want to play games and have men fight over an archaic vision of yourself. He has seen the ugly, now I can teach him he and your children deserve more than a needy whore. Of course, only if you are interested in helping him.”

She turned, quietly walking away with her head down.

“You really are just like my cousin's husband, so I don't understand why you felt bad for her, though I could understand why you would say you feel bad for her.”

But she was out the door.

“Dude, that was rude, calling her a whore.”

“Did you hear the whole story?” I asked before deciding whether or not to jump over the counter and vent my frustration with evil by pummeling this carrier of a timid voice with paper cups and swizzle sticks.

“No, but...”

“Then shut-the-f...heck-up,” I whispered forcefully, in less than fashionable goodness. The ignorance of a citizenry so unwilling to see their reflection was soiling the good side of my darkening soul. “Shut-the-fuck-up,” I whispered to myself.

Taking my pain, the agony of dreams destroyed, a gentle voice of generous candy whispered in the kindest way, “Take a break.”

I turned and looked into her soft, fresh young face. “You are good. Thanks.”

She smiled, warmly, generously. “Sometimes, love breaks my heart.”

“There is no other kind,” I replied.

We looked at each other, absorbed in the moment, leaving the rest of the world as an audience to our connection.

“You don't belong here.”

“I know. But for now, apparently, this is where I am supposed to be.”

She wrapped her arms around me, calming my with her sweet, chewy goodness.

“Hey, isn't this a coffee shop? Where is my damn coffee?”

The calm disappeared.

I took off my apron as she prepared Mr. Impatient's coffee, and headed toward the exit for a break, but I could not let it go.

“Be patient, it's a virtue.”

“Fuck off!”

I closed my eyes, forcing myself to calm.

“Back off!” he shouted, shoving me.

His shove made me feel better.

“Thank you. I'll be outside and I can tell you about the perfect girl for you...and we can discuss things, like your shove...and beauty...and feeling alive, and doing the right thing, or the wrong thing. It is going to be a beautiful conversation.”

Mouthing something from behind the counter, she of kind calmness caused me to focus on her luscious moving lips.

“Let it go,” she mouthed respectfully, calmly, releasing the claims of the world.

She was right. I do not care about Mr. Impatient. I would rather save that ignorantly evil woman's husband from letting himself be destroyed by her, and there is one way of doing that: I have to let him know that sometimes life is really, really hard and it feels like you are drowning in the urine and feces filled bowels of an outhouse, but tomorrow is not yet written. Survive today, giving life the best of what you have, even if it taunts you to find the worst in yourself and become that which are were never meant to be. Choose to smile at the absurdity of the wounds inflicted by a stupid old whore, even though you bleed. Choose to feel the pain, and survive, because then you are open to the joy. Choose to be better than your circumstance, no matter what it may be.

Life is hard.

Life is beautiful.

Life is.

You are.

I am.

Life is hard.

Oh well, how boring it would be if it were easy, and boring is truly for the dullards.

Life is.

Why expect more?

Live.

To hell with circumstance.

Live.

I can taste tomorrow. There is a tinge of bitterness, but there is more...a flavor I long for...yes...something more...]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=112 Thu, 29 Jul 2010 13:25:50 -0700 http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=111
I can't do this.

Pretending is so fake...no, insane.

I do not fit as a bit actor in this polite play.

What is the point?

This is life?

This is not life.

“Large mocha, extra shot, Irene.”

Such purpose.

Rude people.

Nasty people.

Nice people.

Damaged people.

Honest people.

True people.

Evil people.

All people pretending to be just like the fake posture of one another. Everyone wanting to be the same in their insincerity.

“Non-fat vanilla latte for Theresa.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

Sincere. Sweet. Beautiful. A look into her vibrant eyes and there is a passion, controlled to fit in and be like the rest, but she's clearly something more.

“Black. Jim.”

The brown stain on a 6 day old pair of tighty-whitey underwear, but I am polite, pretending he is just another guy like all of the rest.

I am going to snap.

What's the point?

I know it's my fault. If I were to sit on the sofa and eat chips and drink beer like a good little fat, ignorant consuming machine, I could more easily play my bit part in life's boring drama. When I return to my home and spend hours training myself for unpromised physical combat and spend the down time preparing my mind for competition that is nature, I am refining the tools gifted by nature, and nature yearns that they be used to test and improve skills. If I were to spend my time watching uberhomoerotic musicals while eating ice cream sandwiched between rich, chocolate, fudgy brownies, I could be happy spectating...but “ifs” are such a waste of time. We cannot be other than who we are.

“Fat double. Oshi.”

Pretend.

I must pretend.

Pretend!

Stop asking why.

Just play your part.

The lines are simple.

They're all the same.

We're all the same.

You can be one of them.

Pretend.

Just pretend!

“Don't be an idiot, just order!” the edgy guy at the counter told the pretty young woman looking at the board detailing the coffees that are supposed to have exotic stories about their journeys from warm, moist parts of the globe and their various roasts — marketing for the masses...if they only knew, but who wants the curtain pulled back.

“I don't know what to get,” she answered innocently, meekly.

“You're so fuckin' stupid! I'll order.”

“K.”

“Did you want tea of coffee?” I said loudly to the sweet candy from my distant side of the bar, catching a glare of disapproval from my effeminate co-worker transacting the order at the register.

The man and woman both looked my way, him scowling, she smiling.

“I got it,” he said firmly, paying for their order.

“Tea, actually,” she sang.

“Well...” I began before being so rudely interrupted.

“I said I got it,” he told her sternly, cutting me a mad dog, back off look.

“Excuse me, sir, but I was speaking to the nice woman.”

She began to glow.

“I feel like tea, actually. I do. Do you have any suggestions?”

“We have a blueberry tea I enjoy.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“You have to really like blueberries?”

“I do.” She turned toward her friend, looking him in the eyes.

“Change that. She'll have the tea Mr. Friendly over there is talking about.”

“Mr. Friendly,” heshe chuckled.

The man thought heshe was laughing at him and that he was the butt of an inside joke. You could see him tense up and his eyes begin to twitch.

As they finished the transaction at the register, the sweet candy made her way to my processing station, where her tea had been bumped to the top of the list.

“Thank you for your suggestion,” she whispered, trying to conceal she was talking to me from her partner.

“What are you two talking about?” he asked, scurrying up behind her.

She did not reply, but looked at me with a personalized smile.

“And for you,” I passed the tea over the counter to her waiting, frail hands.

“Thank you.”

I waited for her to taste the blueberry tea.

“That's wonderful. Thank you.”

“Anytime. If you ever have any other questions, please feel free to ask.”

“Come on, dude, back off. Where's my drink?”

“It's coming.”

I went about taking up the queue.

“Mona, skinny latte.”

“Thank you.”

Nice smile. Sincerely friendly.

The toilet paper coloring crayon was getting angry.

“Christine. Tea and a black.”

“Dude!? Where's my coffee?” he snapped.

“Don't be an idiot,” I quickly replied, smirking at him.

“What did you say?” he challenged.

“Just repeating what you said to her a few minutes ago.”

“Dude, mind your own fucking business and get me my coffee, and if she has any questions about your coffee, she'll ask the coffee man.” His voice dripped with condescension.

“Um, dude, she can ask me anything she wants, I know something more than the grounded desires of coffee.”

“Right. Just give me my drink so I can get out of this place before I kick your ass.”

“Are you promising that if I don't give you your coffee you are going to kick my ass?”

“Dude, just give me my fuckin' coffee!!!”

“Here you go, sir,” the generous and kind voice of a young female co-worker politely offered.

“Thank you. You need to do something about this dick.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Though she was friendly to thee, her expression made it clear she was exasperated by my clearly appropriate actions. “Take a break,” she ordered.

A break? Yes. A bit player in a drama where the lead actors are overtly impressed with their pompous ignorance.

“Thank you, again,” the sweet candy purred.

“Come on! Stop talking to that idiot!”

I shook my head in disapproval, while making myself a coffee from beans voluntarily ending their lives before boarding first class flight halfway around the world. After removing my apron, I took my coffee and went outside to vacuum up the fresh air and clear my anguished mind. I refrained from saying anything to either of the perfect couple as I walked past them.

Standing in front of the store, I had to make a decision. I could position myself to antagonize him as he left the shop or I could stop wasting energy on the Stus of the universe. I chose the illusion of peace and went off to the side and purposefully placed the chiseled mass of the back of good shouldering to the door.

Sipping the coffee, I cringed at the bitterness. “Appropriate,” I thought, laughing to myself.

“Asshole,” I heard a voice whisper behind me in a whine.

“Come on, let's go,” sweet candy told her mate.

I wanted to turn around, but why. I do not want to get fired...not yet, at least. I hate my life, but I tell myself I am working toward something, toward stability. I don't know, but physical confrontation with such a fool is a waste of time and goodness...and a good time. Yet, I cannot stop myself from saying something, from stirring the stew a couple rounds. “Have a great day!” I said aloud, raising my cup to the voices behind.

The voices began to bicker in a hushed tone. There would be no confrontation, but always be prepared. I placed my cup on the table, closed my eyes and listened for footsteps or some other sign of an assault headed my way. Nothing.

It began to quiet. I noticed a bird singing. I picked up my cap and enjoyed the bitterness. Just like life, it may be bitter but it's mine and can still be enjoyed.

I cannot help but ponder what has happened in the life of the sweet and tasty that made her think that such a “man”, a toilet tool, was the appropriate companion. It is not my desire to rescue ones from themselves, but the candy looked so tasty sweet...but it would have undoubtedly been sour once completely unwrapped.

Damn, this coffee is bitter crap...cream and sugar will give it a whole different experience, and that is the choice.]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=111 Mon, 19 Jul 2010 13:18:01 -0700 http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=110
As fate of manipulation would have it, a few minutes before closing the gentleman Fred had so rudely disrespected and defiled publicly appeared in the coffee cafe with Fred and myself. While Fred stood askew, mouth open, aghast, I turned off the security system and locked the front door.

Fred's mouth began spewing insult upon insult at Gentleman, but the target was unflatteringly unfazed. Gentleman walked up to Fred and slapped him across the face.

“Bitch,” he said calmly, taunting in a near whisper.

Fred was startled, then went insane, and though he was wearing another one of his t-shirts proclaiming his tough, bad-ass affiliation, Gentleman beat the rudeness out of him. He beat him so badly, Fred was crying. He was pummeled in such a way — beaten about the kidneys, ribs, stomach — that there was little outward physical evidence, aside from the inevitable bloody urine.

“Stop!” I shouted. Fred, in his eternal confusion, thought I was looking out for him, but it was actually a code word worked out with Gentleman previously.

Upon hearing the code word, Gentleman rolled over and pulled Fred on top of him. Excited at his sudden dominance, Fred began swinging away at his foe, completely unaware that his co-worker was recording a video of his pummeling of a customer for more than posterity's sake.

Having a sufficiently damaging video record, recording was stopped and another code was shouted. “Come on!”

Again, Gentleman heard the cue. He effortlessly tossed Fred aside and began beating him until he was crying again, then began begging Gentleman to stop. (Actually, there was a dash of recording of this exchange for purely private consumption.)

It is amazing how fast a video goes viral when a manager at a coffee shop is seen beating a customer. As much as Fred tried to tell corporate otherwise, in the name of just rightedness I had to confirm Gentleman's story that he came in for a cup of coffee and was assaulted, completely innocent, and in actuality, when one strings the events together, there was plenty of evidence of Fred's abusive behavior toward a loyal and kind customer, of whom it was said was an innocent gentleman. Fred is now without a job, which does not explain why he had one for so long, but that is something for which the uppers will have to suffer the consequences. Gentleman is receiving a large cash settlement, of which he has promised the nurturing hand of justice a chunk. (Enough to buy the a compound?)

Good will find a way and if you employ evil, you are evil, and the price for your collaboration will be paid. Justice is busy, as the sheet is long, but patience...evil is always visited...eventually.

For whatever the reason, sleep is much better...the suffering of evil in the balancing of scales is truly quite relaxing.]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=110 Sun, 4 Jul 2010 14:35:39 -0700 http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=109
In this universe of roasted beanness, there is ample opportunity to see people as they are and as they wish themselves to appear. Sitting in a comfortable chair reading and drinking a protein, non-coffee health drink that tasted like banana flavored chalk, I watched truth rear its perfectly ugly head.

A couple old enough to want less drama in their lives came in for their usual. A few times a week they came in for some coffee and pastries and the wife would flirt with the female interested men behind the counter. The husband, a hulking, gentle man, kept his head down and ignored her call for attention. Today, the routine was disturbed, thanks to Fred.

An area manager who liked working behind the counter, Fred was a greasy fat man with a big mouth who could get away with speaking to customers like no other because of his senior rank. Simply put: he was wanted as much as used toilet paper in a third world country. Fred knew little about the couple and saw the wife's flirt as a sincere invitation, an opportunity he was too fugly to forgo.

By the time the two were done ordering, Gentleman was about 6 feet from his wife, waiting to pay. Fred had already insulted his intelligence, his appearance and his manhood. The young men behind the counter with their boss laughed, uncomfortably, but it was clear Gentleman saw a gang of rude sports challenging him, eyeing his wife, his prize. He was using all of his self-restraint to not react, especially when his wife began to laugh, fueled by their desirous energy.

“How much?”

“Are you going to let us get away with this?” Fred taunted.

“How much?”

“Maybe you leave me that beautiful woman. We call it even.”

“What!?”

“She deserves some men that aren't, you know...” Fred answered, making a “V” shape with his fingers and holding it over his crotch.

Gentleman prepared to snap. He knew it. His wife knew it. I knew it. Fred was clueless, emboldened by the mentality of mob rule protection.

Laughing hard, Fred and his men went and sat on a well padded bench in the corner. A man in a suit went up to her and whispered in the woman's ear. She laughed as her husband began to glow, his blood boiling.

“Come. Come sit with us,” Fred invited the wife, patting a 3” wide space between him and another worker.

The wife looked at her husband, gave an immature, little girl giggle and went and sat in the small space. She could not fit, so she slipped her body behind the two men who gave one another a high-five hand slap.

“Well, I guess she wants to be with us...unless you want to do something about that?”

Gentleman was ready to kill, rightfully so, but he did not need to ruin his life over her, even if they were man and wife (the worst will come when you promise yourself for “better or worse”).

Standing and moving quickly to head him off as he made a beeline toward Fred and the rude crew, I put my hand on his massive shoulder and said, “Excuse me, but...”

He turned, looking me in the eyes, prepared to engage in battle for the indiscretion of my ill timed touch of temerity. Before I could explain, the strange man in the suit came close to interrupt.

“Go, be a man. She wants you to claim her, to fight for her. Go, be a man.”

“Shouldn't you be wearing a bowler?” I asked the suit.

Gentleman now had too many targets and was too enraged to speak — a scrawny, effeminate man in a suit just told him to be a man.

“He's right. She wants you to fight, to claim her. She wants you to fight a group of men. She wants you to risk yourself not for justice, not for righteousness, not for good, but for her pleasurable, for the reassurance of her venal vanity. Are you prepared to lose it all for someone who cares so little about you?”

I felt his shoulders drop, relaxing. The rage was dissipating. He knew the words being offered were sincere, truthful. “No,” he answered in a heavy sigh of relief.

She laughed. Fred and the rude crew laughed. Their laughs were forced, not comfortable.

“You could kill them all, beat them to pulps, and tomorrow you will have been flagged by the government toadies for storage in a concrete building. Is that what she wants? You could fight them and slip, or one of them could get in a lucky punch and hurt you. Is that what she wants? You can't win.”

“I know.”

Gentleman had an epiphany. The rage was leaving, as was her ability to ruin him. When she saw him recognize the truth of who she was, a look of panic paled her smile. He noticed, looked me in the eyes and nodded an appreciation.

As he passed the suited man missing a bowler, he paused to glare at him dangerously, promising to remember. The last thing he did before exiting the bean squeeze was turn to look at his wife and whisper, “Whore,” ashamedly.

She was broken, but giggled in the hope her new friends would only notice her fun flirtiness and continue their pandering pursuit.

I wanted to follow the man out and help him excuse his pain, but he seemed like a capable man. I returned to my seat and watched the absurdity of life crashing in a coffee shop while I threw calories of sustenance into my wanting mouth of masticating madness.

I finished my shift without any real interaction with Fred or the members of the rude crew, but eventually Fred and I were the only ones left, and my mouth had nothing to chew.

“When do you think it's going to happen?”

“What?”

“The hussy's husband. He's gonna thrash you.”

“That fuckin' pussy? He's about as scary as you. He ain't gonna do shit.”

“Yeah, I'm pretty sure you're going to pay for that.”

“Fuck you! He's not gonna do shit. Guys like that never do.”

“If I hadn't stopped him, you'd have been dead hours ago.”

“Right. Sure, you saved the day.”

“Thank you for noticing, but I am suggesting you still watch out. We pay the price for the truth of our deeds. You'd better watch out.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“You're my boss.”

“Is that why you saved me?”

“Actually, in the name of full factual disclosure, I saved him.”

“See, even you know I'd make him my bitch.”

“No, he would have killed you. I was saving him from ruining his life over...you.”

“You're pussies. I'll fuck you all up!”

“What is it about wearing those mixed martial arts t-shirts that make guys like you think they can fight because they wear them?”

“Fuuuuck you.”

“Just askin'.”

“You're lucky we're at work and the security cameras are on.”

“Yeah, that's why they call me Captain Luckyhead. But, being a gentleman myself, if you would ever like to meet someplace quaint, more neutral, just let me know. It would be my honor. I'm sure you train somewhere.”

“What the... I haven't had time, lately. Come on, finish cleaning so we can get the fuck outta this dump.”

“Yeah. Still, be careful out there.”

“Just clean.”

And the conversation ended. We cleaned, randomly looking and glaring at one another in preparation for combat. He was sure it would never come. I just wanted to refrain until I was ready to leave my career as a bean presser behind. Still, justice must be served, and it is best served fresh.

I left the shop when done and headed on the path I knew Fred to take, preparing to lurk in the darkness. I followed, keeping in the shadows so he could not see my face or figure clearly. The man was afraid, and I was alive, excited at the possibility of justice.

I followed.

Opportunity did not arise.

But justice in the shadows of darkness again began to lurk.

Evil is everywhere, we must at least make it uncomfortable, shaming it whenever possible.

If you wait, you will be thrust upon by the good character of men who wish to make a difference, no matter how dashing you look with or without a bowler.

Feel alive, do the right thing.

Feel alive. do.]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=109 Sat, 19 Jun 2010 17:05:33 -0700 http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=108
Here I am, standing behind the counter in a coffee shop. I am too old for this shit. I have nothing to my name except a name I will not yet claim. The faces of customers blur together, morphing into this soft shadowy, pasty figure with bark breath and a forced smile. I am polite; that's my job. I am a machine, a robot, an automaton. Free will? Right, this is where I'd be, behind the counter taking coffee orders — less accurately than the alternative system the younger customers prefer interacting with, but with a polite voice and smiling face to help extract revenues from customers. Clearly, this is where free will has taken me.

“What can I get for you today?” I don't need to look up. I've already take 200 orders in less than 90 minutes.

Damn! The SOB is going to make me look at him. Some customers are such control freaks, not giving you their order till you look them in the eyes and acknowledge them, as if they are somehow different than the last insignificant customers.

“What can I get for you today?” I try again, even less interested in the answer. Still no response. I have to look up, make the eye contact.

“What can I ge...” I begin, then see the customer. It's a doppelganger...or is it? Nothing else exists, my vision becoming myopic staring at the man across the counter. He is looking through me as if I did not exist in any way without his knowledge.

“Hi,” he said, knowing full well how I was.

Here I am in a filthy apron and across the counter is a man who could be mistaken for me, though by the looks of his attire and accessories, I would rather be mistaken for him. But the charade must continue. He is on his side of the counter and I am on mine. Free will? Then this is where I want to be, so I might as well get about my being.

“What can I get for you today?”

“Small coffee.”

“Would you like a pastry or something to eat?”

“No, thank you.”

“A small coffee. That will be $27.14,” I absurdly toss, taunting.

“Ouch. Must be really good.”

“If by 'really' you mean 'sorta' and by 'good' you mean 'average', it is.”

“Oh well, here's fifteen cents and twenty-seven dollars.”

“Okay. That will be one cent change.”

“They'll stop making those soon enough. That'll make your job easier.”

“Yeah, but let's hope I am out of here long before that.”

He smiles with a contemptuous smirk. No more smalltalk, no banter, just a “you're here forever, loser” smirk.

“Have we met? Do I know you?” I had to ask Mister Lifeisgood before he walks away.

Still smugly smirking, he answers, “I know you better than you know yourself.”

Normally, a statement such as that would be a call to action, but the way he said it, with such assurance, I must uncomfortably recognize my lack of doubt in the veracity of his statement.

“Then answer me this: You look like a comfortable man with few worries, how do I change places with you?”

“You don't change places with me, you become me, you become whomever you want to be, whomever you need to be. It's up to you.”

“Free will? Right. You were probably born with a silver spoon up it.”

“Don't be crude, my friend, it's not necessary.”

“Right. Crude. Thank you. Have a great day,” I dismiss.

“You can write your own ticket. You don't have to be here any longer than you want.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a slender, pointy object and tossed it toward me. Fearing this man in no way, I treated the object flying toward me as harmless and caught it in one hand. An old fashioned pen, a fountain pen.

“I didn't know they made these things anymore. And what do you suppose I do with this?”

“Write your own ticket.”

“Right. Free will.”

“I don't know about 'free will'. If I had to guess, it would appear destination is already set, but the journey, that is yours, write it.”

Maybe I do not have free will, but the ability to determine part of my journey, that suffices.

“Thank you,” I offered with humble sincerity.

“See you around,” he answered, smiling.

“Maybe, maybe not,” I replied, shrugging my shoulders, for who knows when I will decide to forgo this counter.

“Dude, can I order my coffee? And don't give me that $27 bull!”

Back to automaton.

I continue taking orders, holding the pen the man who knows me as I know myself provided. I have to touch it, feel it, caress it, to remind myself that I can write parts of my own journey, even if the destination has already been determined.


Enjoy the journey, my friend, and thank you.]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=108 Tue, 15 Jun 2010 12:01:01 -0700 http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=106
Routine:

Snuck out of stolen house.

Take small pack with all belongings on bus to place of employ.

Work. (Eating available scraps and sharpening dulled skills of observation.)

Read anything available during breaks.

Return to stolen home, house.

Shower.

Sleep on lounge chair.

Repeat.

The journey will take me somewhere. I want my compound back. I want to feel alive. I want to right...and I must admit I accept I will do wrong. I want to bathe in stickiness. I want to be shoved into a wall. I want to feel my elbow across evil’s jaw. I want to be. I want to feel. I don’t want to be alive, I want to live...I want to forget the word I...and that journey requires routine...for now.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

There are times I am afraid nothing will change...and there are times I am afraid of nothing...

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

There is a purpose for this journey, I am sure.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Someone must die. Death is inevitable.

Repeat.

Repeat.

I am going insane.

Repeat.

Repeat.

I must be retarded, there is no way the world is as stupid as I seem to think.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

A good book.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Looking up at the stars, telling myself that the repetition of emptiness leads somewhere, I heard grunts on the other side of the wall surrounding the backyard. It sounds like men fighting, but they seem to be having fun.

Though I hear them most every night, I have not looked over the wall because of the need to keep the house stolen for the purpose of rebuilding a life found. But the incongruity has drawn curiosity and monotony of routine has increased the level of acceptable risk.

Sometimes I’m afraid nothing will change because I’m afraid to change the routine required to change.

The decision to stick my head over the wall made.

Grunt.

Groan.

Crash.

Looking over the wall, it was bright enough to see the traditional backyard was not for this house. Where most would find lawn or a pool or a patio, an outdoor space was covered with mats. On the mats were two well padded men bathing, while a third stood off to the side, watching, occasionally offering single word instruction.

“Tight!”

“Back.”

“Arm.”

“Out!”

The two were going at it, until their coach stopped coaching and stared at me.

“What’s up?”

The tone indicated challenge, the question being irrelevant. What was to be determined was whether I wanted this to be an opportunity or an incident.

“What’s up?” I answered.

“Can we help you with somethin’?”

“Nope. Just checking out what all the commotion was about.”

“Now you’ve seen it?”

“Yeah. Can’t help but watch. Haven’t been on the mat in a long time. Kinda miss it. Not even sure I remember what to do.”

And the door was open.

The young men saw me as a potential training dummy, and within a couple of minutes I was over the wall and rolling around the mat in pants — I had no other gear. They beat me to a pulp, but with every move I felt my instincts slowly return. I began to remember what I should do and my lame muscles slowly responded. The beat me, and I came to life.

Trying to stay focused on the path of rebirth, I said little. Apparently, they knew I had stolen the house I was living in and offered to rent me a room from them for a few bucks and some coffee grounds, and I could train with them. It would be nice to be able to come home through a front door, and the rent was absurdly cheap, so I could continue to save for a replacement compound.

“Sounds good. I’ll take it.”

And with that, I found a room in a legitimate home, where I could feel the pain of my body being pushed through the birth canal of training as a passage to rebirth. And the room is furnished with a TV?!

Routine:

Same + violent, physical training.

Things are improving.

Sore.

Work.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Pain.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Damage.

Repeat.

Muscles burn.

Repeat.

Black eye.

Repeat.

God, it feels so exciting, yet so calming to be alive, to feel.

Repeat...

Repeat.]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=106 Sat, 5 Jun 2010 22:46:13 -0700 http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=104
In the corner, sharing a sofa with a friend, a woman who was referred to as Claudia complained about her missing husband, whom she referred to as Dan. If the Captain had fully returned as the man once captained, it sounded like a perfect role of good purpose. The Captain would become Dan while Dan copulated with women who did not bear him three...four...five children. But that seemed too gentle and sweet a cause for the darkness that visited the man who once was. Nevertheless, listening to Claudia’s story of abandonment by her well educated and successful doctor husband caused smirk behind the espresso machine.

How fortunate man is to have woman. It if were not their desire, their necessity to see more than our true calling, civilization would not exist. Unfortunately, the base needs of the noble male cause much misery amongst those who love those strong with desire — good and evil. To be a gentleman, it would be kind to set this sweet Claudia straight about missing Dan’s most probable desires.

Remembering that she was drinking a triple shot skinny vanilla latte, one was delivered as a means of bringing the voice of truth.

“I’m sorry, but I think I made a mistake. I think the one you are drinking is a double, not the triple you ordered. I made you another.” I lied, offering her the fresh cup.

“Thank you,” she said, surprised.

“You’re welcome,” I replied as we politely exchanged cups. Lowering the voice of reason so only she could hear, wisdom was offered: “Also, I just wanted you to know that Dan is fine. As soon as he is done with his freak festival, he will return.”

“You know Dan?! Where is he?”

“Dan? Your Dan, I don’t know, but really, all men are Dan.”

“What? So you don’t know Dan?”

“Oh, I know Dan, and I know your Dan, I just can’t attest to meeting him personally, if that is your query.”

“What the...,” she began, before being pulled away by her friend.

“Claudia, let’s go,” the friend with child bearing hips so rudely interrupted as the kind words of compassion were comforting her worry.

Looking with an expression of disbelief, Claudia could be nothing but grateful as she left, knowing Dan was well. She can now await his triumphant return in peace.

We think we do not understand why people around us do what they do, but that is only because we lie about who we are, who they are. The truth is they are who they are and not who we want them to be, and we are who we are, not who we want to be seen as. To embrace such simple truth takes one dedicated to...the obvious.]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=104 Fri, 28 May 2010 14:41:36 -0700