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=126
Arriving at the location of my simple rented room, a squad car from the local cleaning authority was parked halfway in the street and the driveway with flashing lights spraying away. Standing back to survey the disconcerting scene, I noticed that my roommates were packing their belongings into their vehicles and their friends’ vehicles. It did not appear to be a crime scene. It seemed the most direct answer would come from addressing the source of the instructed chaos.

Approaching the officer, who was leaning casually against the car chatting with the pert perfectly physiqued and pocked faced Patrice, a simple question was presented: “What’s going on here?”

“Do you live here?” he demanded, his demeanor turning from hopefully flirtatious to badass behind a badge.

Based upon the tone, a chuckle was in order as answer.

“Well?” he immediately demanded, placing his palms on a couple of the shooting weapons attached to his waist.

Another chuckle was the answer, which was presumed to be a less escalating response than, “What, you’re going to shoot me?”

“He’s fine. Leave him alone, he just rents a room,” she giggled to Officer Quickdraw, who saw his magnanimous gesture of civility as a moment closer to Patrice’s crotch — he did not know Patrice.

“If she says you’re good. But you better get your stuff out of there, the house will be sealed in about an hour.”

“Eviction?”

“The bank says you’re trespassing, squatting.”

“Jimmy has a lease,” Patrice interrupted.

“Either way, you guys are out.”

There was little doubt Jimmy had papers, but there was also little doubt that the papers were bogus. Jimmy was squatting and collecting rent from the rest of us. Profitable gig. We suspected this was coming, the rumors having been in the air for some time.

“I’ll be out in 15,” the doer of decency informed Officer Quickdraw

“Can I use your phone?” I asked Patrice.

“Sure.”

Having made a call and returned the phone to Patrice, I considered telling the officer that he smelled so perfectly like an officer, but advised the voice inside the menacing mind to move along. We needed to move out.

Standing about the simple room referred to as home, I wondered where all of life’s clutter had come from. I came with one small bag consisting of a work apron and a change of clothes...and some reading material. Now there is a room full of stuff. Pillows, sheets, mattresses, piles of reading material, clothes for every occasion, pencils, pens, cups, souvenirs and a whole lot of nothing. And this stuff is necessary why?

The sum of who one is exists within, absent the accoutrements we use to help the world define our presentation. The comforts of a fine mattress and superior sheets are enjoyable, but unnecessary to be present and purposeful in any moment. Accepting an upgrade from the plastic bag used to move into the room to a superior quality canvas bag, I stuffed everything figured important into the bag; picked up a couple of the better printed materials; grabbed the cash stash and a favorite pen and turned to head out the door, knowing that if I looked or scanned the room again I would find something that could not be left behind.

As she drove me to her house, some things had to be straightened out. A bed and room were not a necessity.

“I appreciate the kind generosity of your offering to allow me to reside next you and your moist chewy goodness.”

“What did you... I don’t mind, you’ve already been here.”

“No, I am not moving in with you.”

“But...”

“If that is a problem, let me out here. I will be staying with you for a short period. If the opportunity presents itself, we will engage in things that shame us and shape our memory with incredible ecstasy, but I am not moving in, I am staying with you for a short period of time.”

“How long?”

“I could leave at any moment.”

“Whatever.”

“So you’re okay with this?”

“Does it make a difference?”

There was nothing left to say. I was semitransparent again, wondering if being a transient was not a better way to go. Of course, the chewy, sticky, moistness of this soft treat could not be fully enjoyed when being a transient, and enjoying tasty treats makes life’s bitterness worth enduring.

The urges are growing. What to do to savor this treat...to extract all of the tastiness...
]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=126 Thu, 12 Jan 2012 12:01:13 -0800 http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=125
“Gross,” a woman of known character shouts from behind her oversized sunglasses.

A true statement it was, and being once a gentleman who considered himself of noblized character, I felt it was appropriate to return her conversation starter with uplifting support: “Your perkiness gives that tube top a structure of peachy firmness that brings a heretofore unknown refinement of ample curve integrity to elasticized cotton construction.”

“Ewwwwww, gross,” she replied, hurrying away, clearly offended by the unforgettable oversized green mass moving in the street's gutter.

It really was a disgusting example of the assault taking place against my personage. There is great expectation that this assault will be survived, but not without receiving a serious pummeling by the translucent form of a venal viral nature. Alas, there can be no doubt these virulent creatures hiding in plain sight due to their microsity have set their purpose on thriving at my expense — in other words, killing me. And by what standing do they make such a judgement on my livelihood?!

A lump in my throat tells me another ball of stifling, choking phlegm is growing aggressively and needs to be purged. Loud guttural sounds set things moving. Aaaaaack! Aaaaaack! Aaaaaack! Psssstoooo!!! A green alien flies from my mouth and hits the curb. Sweat is running down my skin, which is strange because the flesh seems dry, cold, clammy. Fatigue is taking me down. I need rest.

To my left, reflecting the sun's rays was a bench for public transit. Around the corner to my right sat a similar bench, shaded by a building. Rest was needed, and it is difficult to rest while under assault from the sun's relentless rays. I manage to place my achy carrion bone bag on the shaded bench. Much to my surprise, my mind quit and sleep enveloped. The conscious mind is not necessary for the battle within to take place — conscious is an insignificant burden. I was out.

Do not know how long I was recovering on the bench, but the sun had begun its descent shortly before my respite and was near completing its journey as I returned to the shared world. I felt much better. To my surprise, I was no longer sitting on the bench but slumped over on my side in a fecal position. Apparently my body has a mind of its own, a parallel ownership of which my conscious is a minority owner.

Slowly, I right my resting body to a sitting position and listen to the loud, infringing noises of the street. How poor must my shape be that I sleep so solidly in these conditions. Yet I am tired enough still that I consider leaning to my side and returning to sleep.

“You okay?” a youthful man asks, looking at me with concern.

“Just a little down.”

“You sure? That gash looks pretty bad. You're still bleeding pretty bad...and...uh...and you're...uh...you're not that clean so that might get infected.”

Bleeding? Gash? Not clean? I recall my eyes throbbing, but that was from the congestion, that was what I felt earlier. Suddenly there is awareness of another throbbing, more pronounced, in the center of a shining example of a forehead. Then there was awareness that liquid was running down the face and dripping off the tip of the nose. I look down and see blood. After wiping the tip of the nose, my hand is streaked with fresh blood. I am bleeding, and from what the kind stranger has imparted it is from a gash in the middle of a magical throbbing head.

“What happened?” I asked curiously of the considerate youthful one.

“I...I don't know. Don't you know?”

“No. I had a dream some people were yelling at me, shouting insolent socioeconomic invectives and calling me a disease ridden bum while chasing me down the street, throwing things at me, but it was just a dream. I have been on this bench for hours.”

“You need to get that taken care of.”

The young man helps me up. I cough, send him a viral foe as thanks for his help, and in that instant I remember, I know who gave me this foe, indifferent to I as good or evil. A young woman of exceptional skin quality coughed on me when she asked me for directions — a query I could not satisfy. This bug expanded from assaulting me to this kind, youthful man. This thing does not care if the nature of the human assaulted is good or evil, simply that it is a living human it can try and ravage. From the thoughtless viruses point of view, we are all evil and worthy of being struck down without judgement or consideration of any kind. The assault is fate's roll of the dice.

“I'm going to take you to the urgent care center.”

“No, but thank you. I know this is a lot to ask, but if I buy some glue will you glue my wound closed? I'll buy some gloves so you don't have to touch my special blood.”

“Special? Well...” the man began, clearly uncomfortable.

“Please? I am a man, just like you, who needs 5 minutes of intimate help to patch a wound received upon the battlefield of life.”

“The battlefield of life? How can I say no to that? Yes,” he acceded.

Once the gentleman agreed to help this simple wounded soul, though still fatigued by the assault within, I knew I would be better. I would get better because it is not yet my time, because I am needed by others, even if it is to make them heroes by my apparent need for them. I am not alone; no matter how much it may feel that way at times; no matter how much I may wish it were that way at times. I am never alone. None of us are. And that is the way it must be.

Updated: Imagine the surprise when sometime later I read a half dozen souls in the neighborhood succumbed to these fatiguing symptoms. The hand of fate is at times fickle and feckless, yet always divining.]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=125 Tue, 4 Oct 2011 08:18:21 -0700 http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=124
It is better to be prepared for battle and not have to fight than to head toward battle hoping for peace while unwilling to surrender. Tell yourself the truth: I am going to battle. I will battle. Good will stand against evil. I want the battle.]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=124 Wed, 28 Sep 2011 08:13:57 -0700 http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=123
Entering the establishment encased in glass to entice consumer's weak impulses, I spot the smartly dressed man behind the counter and offer a proper greeting. “Hi,” I grunt, nodding.

“Good day,” the gentleman countered courteously in a thickly accented voice, clearly groomed in a far off land where his thick, kempt beard is probably quite the rage. He offered no smile, his serious glare watching the store inside and out.

Along the back wall I find an overabundance of beverages from which to select. Water is the proper choice, but since some of the other beverages — many of the other beverages — are less expensive and nothing more than water enhanced or damaged, the decision was made to buy something different, something that allows for manufactured, unnatural sweet false satisfaction to pour out of a bottle.

Let's see...caffeine...no...mocha...frosty...punch...soda...no, carbonation kills...lemonade...blends...juice...juiced...no...no...no...beer...no, thank you...malt...disgusting...wine cooler...why...water is simple, but too expensive...water with vitamins is cheaper than plain water...no...water with spirit?...what is this stuff... After a mere 23 minutes of hearing the ring of the bell as customers came and went, I made a decision: I take the bottle of banana colada flavored, vitamin enhanced liquid (water?) to the counter.

“You are quite the decisive one, I see. It is good you made up your mind, or I would have to start assessing you rent,” the clerk circle smirked as he rung up my purchase. Before he could push the total button, he froze and watched a troop of young adults enter his establishment.

“Uhhhmmmmmm...,” I exhorted loudly, trying to guide his attention to the finishing of our financial transaction.

“Shhh. Wait. Don't move. Don't say anything. This happened to my uncle. It will be over in a minute. There are too many to try and stop.”

Turning for a quick glance at his view, I stared, dumbfounded. The young legally not-children were scurrying about the store, grabbing merchandise in quick, desperate snatches. It must be the rush of the day. “Don't you want to finish ringing me up so you can get to them?”

The man behind the beard smiled, chuckled, and finished our transaction.

“Thank you, come again.”

“You're...” I began, stopping as one of the legally not-children grabbed the juice and headed for the door. Justice began to course my veins, calling for action...but acting against mass stupidity seems so...stupid.

“Let him go,” the cashier ordered quietly. “You can have another when they leave. They're almost done and I don't want a fight in my store. It will only worsen the situation.”

Done? Done what, choosing their candy bar, beer and bag of chips? Then, as if in sync, without a single non-child queuing up behind me, they left the store as quickly as they entered.

“What the...?” I purged aloud, mesmerized by the absurdity of the large scale petty crime perpetrated by pathetics. (An admission of failure to act must be accepted. Done. But what would acting against such a wave of ugliness look like? If one man battles against ignorance en masse, is that not...ignorant?) Mesmerizing; such a petty display of profound and penetrating ignorance.

“Those ingrates! This is what that Evers boy died for? You would flounder in your avocation of finding a sesquipedalian amongst such an aggregation of addlebrains.”

“I only speak English,” the voice inside spoke too proudly.

“Perhaps in a destitute manner,” the foreigner replied in whisper. “Do those individuals realize they were all recorded on camera?” he shouted, wagging his extended finger at what was. “There is an image on the door requiring no ability to read to comprehend. Where are the police?! There are cameras on the exterior of the building! Or are they simply adroit criminals having no fear of the consequences of your lamentable system of redress?”

Looking down and accepting the disheveled attire as mine without need for change, I ask simply, “Redress? Why?”

“Those are all criminals! Did you not observe?They each secreted a few items, appropriating them without compensation! You are a witness to this despicable insult, this criminal enterprise, this assault upon civilized society!”

Witness? That's a problem. “Listen, I need to leave. I am going to take another bottle of the juice I paid for and go?”

Scoffing, he replied, “If there is one left, go ahead, I have everything recorded. The police should be here already. Go! Take it and go, if there is even one left.”

The drink of my desire having not been close to the alcohol meant that all of the bottles were left. I picked up a fresh bottle and headed for the exit. “Sorry for the trouble, and thank you for your generosity.”

“Go! Go! And tell those people to stay out of my store. I don't want any trouble. YOU need to fix your country! You can't let people think that is okay. Even in my poor country people are more civilized than your lazy underclass. Lazy, all of you!”

It was I who knew it was time to expedite my exit as he seemed to be becoming angry at moi for a troop of trolling nincompoops. Alas, they are fellow citizenry and he is a foreigner here to better his life. But how do you explain the idea that in this land we will give people a better life than they would ever consider working for, as effort is not required or expected any longer in this once dreaming of greatness land. How do you explain that as a country we have stolen ambition from so many by giving them so little...and allowing them to take a tiny bit. How do you explain that his robbery is an inconvenient truth we ignore? How can you explain this to a man with such a simple understanding of the English language?

I walk away. The police drive past me toward the store as I meander down the street. I am sure I walk past a group of the trolling troop. “That was stupid,” I suggest. They reply, but if it was English...no, it could not have been English, I did not understand a word...and I thought the bearded clerk's English was bad. Am I a foreigner? Am I in a foreign land? Am I...this banana colada stuff is flavorfail, but the body needs hydration. Next time I am going to buy water, or maybe I should carry one of those backpack bladders, or maybe I can return to my homeland where one can find potable water from a drinking fountain and people speak English.

I do not know where I am, but as I look around I realize it does not matter. Where I am is a place we all pretend does not exist, so how could I be here...
]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=123 Sun, 28 Aug 2011 08:56:10 -0700 http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=122
'War Can Be Over!', the bumper sticker dramatically proclaimed in bold, bright yellow lettering, but there was small print underneath. A caveat, to be sure, so judgment of truth would have to wait.

'IF YOU WANT IT TO BE', the small print spelled out, not readily readable as we nearly collided with the small wanna-SUV. Quick judgment caused a rash condemnation to be spewed upon other motored minions — even the just get tired and cranky, but it was a stupid statement, just as inappropriately made in black and white as the small text on the bumper sticker.

After entertaining and belittling banter, I offered to fellow passengers a more thoughtful perspective: “Technically, the cowardly man's bumper sticker is correct. War is over when you decide to surrender, and for many that is not only a decision, it is a way of life. So, yes, war is over if you want it to be, you just have to be willing to surrender. What a non-existence. What a victim's paradise.”

There should be a disclaimer for many who profess their belief in the end of war. When others fight war and you reap the securing benefits of the warriors as you stand behind their strength means you support war. If you are truly against war, stand on the side that is to be slaughtered, stand on the side of evil and profess your stance on war — yes, we know, you'll have an epiphany, and your great cowardice will surprise no one except yourself and others of moronic ilk.

When man speaks, his words only have meaning if they reflect his actions. Too often, men speak to disguise their actions. The truth of one is in his actions...always.]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=122 Fri, 24 Jun 2011 09:34:52 -0700 http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=121
Still in tight underwear of cradling comfort in the house of playacting manners, I wandered to the kitchen to make a sandwich of significance — turkey, cheese, spicy sprouts, wasabi mayo, stacked on a nut bread. Fresh awesomeness filling a hungry gut. After taking the first bite, mild mannered Marcus entered the kitchen filled with bipolar excitement. His excitement was not of my doing, so I took another bite of the stacked spicy feast.

“Are you comin'?” Marcus asked.

“Coming?” I replied, taking another teeth tear of deliciousness.

“We're playing volleyball at Jake's boss' house. The same place we played a couple of weeks ago. You had fun. You should come. This time we have to follow the rules of the IWVA, though.”

“Huh?” I enquired.

“I think it's the International Water Volleyball Association or something. I don't know, just come.”

Another bite, giving the satisfied mind time to consider. It was fun, and a good workout, but there were some real tools there...and the dynamics. Jake's boss was the worst player there, but he corrected and criticized everyone else's play — no one had a single unkind word, correction or critique to pass his way because it was his house and he was the boss man...and, lest we forget, they were polite young men. A couple of his friends, an albino named Jiminy and a redneck named Tucker, also had critique to offer, always bitter and nasty. Marcus and his peers took the abuse with a smile on their faces, just glad to be invited...they had a great time. It was fun.

I nodded my head in acceptance, swallowing spicy dancing goodness.

“Great! It's gonna be a blast.”

“Are the tools going to be there?”

The assumption was that Marcus would reply by saying, “Who?”, but instead he answered, “It's their thing, they're always there. But it'll still be fun!”

Yeah, a good time by all with a few dull tools to make the effort slightly more dangerous.

Wearing a pair of tattered board shorts I found on the side of the road one night, I rode over with Marcus and a few of his buddies to Boss' house. I will admit to a dash of envy, as he had enough of a layout to have a volleyball court, though not quite a compound of Captainesque proportions, while I lived in a rented room of what I was beginning to believe was a stolen house. There is a reason envy is a cardinal sin, and not in any lifetime would I wish to be the man to whom all of this belongs — sin dismissed, resolve accepted.

Trying to find the fulcrum of a universe of older never-athletes past their prime and younger athletes having fun, I tuned out most everything and played. It was a blast! A dive here; a dive there; a great save; an ugly miss. A great save my by “get out of your wheelchair” and an ugly miss met with “If you'd just line up in the right place” commentary by the guys of decay who have never tasted the bitter pain of hard fought narrow victory and the sour savor of defeat. In contrast, the youngsters, all athletes, had nothing but “Oh yeah!”, “GO!”, “Dive!”, “Damn...”, “Almost” and “Nap time is over.” They were having fun, as they, like most in a pick-up game without consequence, were there for the fun of sport.

Time flew as most of us enjoyed stretching our muscles and mouths while sharing beer, snacks and stories of...nothing, except for those guys who took the whole thing so damn seriously. Even while we were sitting around talking and drinking during a piss rest, they were talking about how bad this person was and that person was. For the most part, it was an immature child-man named Tucker, who Boss and Jiminy followed for fear his bitter tongue would be turned on them, much like the cowardly kids who befriend a bully on the schoolyard because they were too afraid to stand on their own. But this was all about the game, and most of us were having a really good time...until...well...

Innocently, I turned to one of the young guys and asked, “Where's the tall guy with the long hair who was here last time?”

The young man shrugged his shoulders to answer that he did not know, but his eyes deceived him as he looked toward Boss and Tucker with fear in his non-wandering eye. It was at that moment that the wall of peace gave way. For my own enjoyment, I had dismissed evil as nothing more than an immature pseudo-man we could all ignore, but truth slapped me hard with a wet sting. I went to sit next to Boss, Jiminy and Tucker.

Jiminy and Tucker left to urinate, so I took the opportunity to ask Boss about the missing young man.

“He sucked. Did you see how tall he was? He should have been better. He wasn't any fun, couldn't take a kidding, and he sucked!”

“And you're soooooo good?” I asked instinctively, to my surprise and his.

“Well...”

“It must take a lot of fun out of the game for you, since no one 'teases' you guys.”

He gave me a startled, blank stare, as if he had believed no one commented on his game because of his olympian abilities.

“I guess I need to fix that for you so you have more fun,” I offered, standing to leave. “I'm your huckleberry.”

Walking off to the side to be alone and take in the scenery, I think about how much fun I have playing, and the banter of the young athletes, and I know I will probably never be back to play after I do what I must. I then spot the rock where I last remember seeing the tall young man whose spirit they broke, sitting alone. I now know he was just out of college and moved here from across the country. He had only been here for a month and this was one of his first outings. Some of the guys he worked with enjoyed the game and thought he would have a good time. I remember him sitting on the rock, quiet, thinking, and now know he was in pain from the hyper-critique of Boss, Tucker and Jiminy, but predominantly Tucker. I saw it. I ignored it. I hold myself accountable. It is better to be alone than to excuse the company evil.

Play resumes. I am on the team of Tucker and Boss. For obvious reasons, I am acutely aware of what is transpiring. Tucker senses something is threatening, the change in energy forms, but Boss' critique is on par — the kind of on par measured by the same trio when they beat a small, dimpled ball with a stick. Boss makes a couple of mistakes. I look to Tucker and ask for any critique. Nothing. Boss misses again.

“Tucker, anything?”

He looks at me, expressionless, the blank testing the depths of his thought process.

“I feel bad for you. There is no one to critique your mistakes which really cheats you out of all the fun,” I tell Boss.

After the third round of similar conversations, Boss sees the point. “I get what you're saying,” he reluctantly states. His critique is ended.

Tucker, the true purveyor of evil, is trying to use the mirror I have offered in kindness, but he cannot squelch his true nature for long.

After a loss, he tells us, his teammates, “I have an idea, but I'm afraid you guys are too stupid to get it.”

A couple of us smirk. We know we have to do his stupid plan, for our enjoyment of his ignorance.

One behind another, we line up five in a row down the middle of the court. Tucker is on one side of the line and Boss is on the other. To the surprise of no one except Tucker, we begin getting crushed immediately, and laugh our arses off.

“Whose idea was this?”

“Brilliant. Brilllliant.”

“Tucker, you just want to squeeze into this line and have one of us rub up against you, huh?”

“This is stupid. What do you do for a living?”

The comments were relentless, merciless, all having fun at the fool's idea. I quietly smiled at Tucker, needing to say nothing, his bitter character fermented. Everyone agreed to spread out to a traditional lineup and get back in the game. Of course Tucker could not refrain from saying how his idiocy did not work because of the ignorance of his teammates.

Unable to come back and win, we walked off the court laughing at a hard fought game that started out as a display of foolishness, but all-in-all it was fun had by most with the surreptitiously shared benefit of crowding out evil.

“That was fun,” I said to Tucker as we walked.

“I never knew anyone could be dumber than my wife, but watching you play. I knew you guys were too stupid to do it.”

“Never seen anything dumber?”

“Nope.”

“Tucker, I can't believe you don't have any mirrors in your house,” I chuckled.

What is amazing is how people who spend their time being mean, nasty and hyper-critical are least able to suffer the same treatment. He paused, fully wrapping his mind around the simple retort and paled.

“I guess not,” he answered meekly and shied away.

We played for a couple more hours. Boss and Tucker were very quiet, somewhat limp and lifeless, being unable to target others unmolested. Jiminy picked up on the new tone and adapted, as did Boss, eventually, for the most part. It was Tucker, the little bully who put on a dour face while broken within.

He may have been able to hide it from the others, but the man of tiny character was crying inside, blubbering tears of fear, for he did not know how to be anyone other than the mean mouthed pseudo-man pretending to be big. He could hide it from others, but I could taste Tucker's tears.

Undoubtedly, I will not be invited back, it is the only way they can regain their dynamics, because I cannot let the nastiness slide. What they fail to understand is that good, like evil, is contagious. Those who have put up with the three infected see there is another way, know decency is an option.

I would rather be alone than in the company of evil, especially when evil is pretending it is otherwise. And to battle such impotent evil is such a wasted effort...but if called to play again, in the name of what is right...

Most are decent, generous and quiet, wishing to avoid evil and battle no one. Most people just want to get through the day. A few people are evil's nasty minions because they found it helps them hide the worthlessness from which they are constructed and harbor within. A few people are doers of good, those who would like to enjoy the day but are unwilling, no, unable to ignore the bitter rain spewed by evil. The battle between good and evil will never end, and though it is easier for one to turn evil, by nature, the strong of man is good.

Good will always win because good is simply embracing the righteousness of truth...and because evil is ugly...Tucker ugly.]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=121 Wed, 9 Feb 2011 12:13:31 -0800 http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=120
Physical preparation is done on a daily basis just by challenging life. The preparation of one's only significant and true weapon, the mind, is done when it is focused on the struggle and the lessons necessary to vanquish — which includes acceptance — the struggle. (At times, the biggest part of that battle is identifying the true nature of the struggle.) Like bodies, minds are not created equal, and only the sharpest can be trained and used as a superior weapon; most do not have the mind necessary to train themselves to use the bodies as more than a blunt object. To rule beyond the peak physical prowess years, the mind must be honed and unmistaken when age sets in and bends and beats the brutish body. A well trained mind is the blow one strikes into his eighties, causing virile flows of youth to submit to his dreams; dreams shaped with a focused and trained mind...all of this to say I am again reading Sun Tzu's The Art of War.

Every interaction is a battle; every advance or retreat should strengthen your position; your position is where you find yourself, where you have placed yourself. I read the sparse and focused words of Sun Tzu and it reminds that the mind is the greatest weapon, the only real weapon. Having withdrawn from who I am for so long, I fear the battle within. The struggle is the fear, the knowing, my body cannot battle as it once had, especially with so many have a pure mass 3x their optimal structure, but when the mind is used and the physi...

The voice outside, it is too loud. I cannot train my mind and my body is not interested. I wait for the noise to subside. It does for about a minute, then begins again.

“Pleeeease!” I pray aloud.

The noise stops again, then promptly returns.

One must know how to train the mind; the when; the where; the how. One must know when the mind cannot be trained, and for the me in thee it is when outside noise is visiting uninvited. This is a problem that must be addressed.

Is it wiser to change your location or rearrange the world around you? As long as you know the wise answer, you are on the right path, but knowing the answer does not necessarily mean you will make the wisest decision, as many a great lesson can come from conflict, and rearranging the world around you will undoubtedly create conflict.

In only underwear, I go to the backdoor and shout at the guys training outside — where I would usually be with them — to keep it down. I am not sure what happened, but they did not appear to hear a word I barked. They continued their training unabated.

“Break!” I shouted. They stopped and looked at me inquisitively. “You should take a break,” I added once their full attention was secured.

“Why?” one of them, politely asked, tilting his head.

“'cause I'm reading.”

I heard some chuckles. They returned to their training. Fighting them to win the battle would be an appropriate response, if my mind was a billy club, but Sun Tzu would suggest another action...and this battle is unnecessary, as my object of the moment is to train my mind.

“You guys keep training. Wait, whose phone is that?”

“Mine. Why?”

“I'll fight you to use it,” I offered.

“Just use the fuckin' phone, idiota.”

I did not mean to frighten him, I just thought I could help him train in exchange for the use of the phone. Greatness of presence must have been emanating.

“Thank you.”

I called the soft sweet candy in the tiny cottage.

“Hello?” she answered, hesitantly.

“Hi. You need to pick me up,” I suggested.

“Wha...? This issssss...? Pick you up? I'm sorry, I have company."

“Well, you need to make a decision. You enjoyed my last visit and who knows when this opportunity will present itself again. I need quiet. Would you like to pick me up and take me to your humble cottage, but the final decision is the one you will have to make?”

“Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't... A friend is here right now...”

“Sorry to bother...”

“No! No. Just a minute. Where are you?”

“My place.”

“I'll be there in a few.”

The connection went dead. I returned to my room, dressed and went to wait on the curb with my reading material. She arrived in short order and whisked me back to her cottage where peace and quiet would allow me to sharpen the mind's pointedness.

After entering the cottage, the nose of excellent odiferous analysis was swamped by the sweet scent of alluring candy freshness and without hesitation the chemical interactions integrated in such a way that we found ourselves in her boudoir, which meant the mental sharpness will be sharpened upon completion...uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhuuuuuuuuh...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...

The most powerful of weapons...so innocently subdued...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...

Having spent a few days with the sweet soft candy of chewy coworkerness, she felt comfortable enough to approach the presence to comfort her mind.

“Are you moving in?” she asked, triggering an instant, automatic response.

“No, this is my last night. I'll be going home in the morning.”

Sensing she had pushed the presence, she tried to comfort. Climbing upon the flesh of fun and fight, she said, “You don't have to go. You can stay, or you can go, or you can stay and come and go, or just come and go as you want. Do whatever, I don't care. Whatever you want.”

“Thank you, but I have a complete inability to study and train in your presence. You are far too edible to consider caring about the ugliness in the world around us, and I find I see more beauty when immersing myself in the ugly.”

“You're such an ass.”

“Thank you, I have been working out.”

“I want to punch you.”

“If it will bring you pleasure, strike away.”

She of a chewy nature was not prepared for permission to release her pent up passion, rage.

“Go ahead,” I encouraged, selfishly wanting to feel more than the simple bliss of pleasure. “It's okay, hit me.”

A look of confusion drew across her fresh face as she realized the offer and permission were sincere.

“I will,” she threatened, pulling her arm back slightly, asking for confirmation of permission.

“Well, go ahead.”

Her full naked body sitting upon me, she pulled her arm back further with a clenched fist.

“Really?”

“Sure, but you have your fingers over your thumb. Your thumb goes outside, over your fingers, when you punch.”

Pulling her thumb from under her boney fingers and placing it above the waiting knuckles, she said, “Thanks, I'm gonna do it.”

“So you've said.”

Unclenching her fist and opening her hand, she gently swung and slapped the face, and though there was a flash of pain, attention could not be diverted from the beauty of her perfect flesh and plump breasts moving in a moment of violent release. A smile was necessary.

“You're smiling? You liked that? I bet you want to hit me now?”

Smiling in response, she struck again. She was becoming quite aroused, not alone in the feeling. Grabbing the flesh below her hips tightly, painfully firm, she was positioned for candy mixing, mashing and swirling.

“Is that all you got!?” she challenged, striking again, letting herself go.

The grip on her flesh loosened, then tightened around more — motion controlled.

Aggression was met with aggression, and in short order the scene of seduction became a struggle of controlling, violent passion. Eventually, following leads, her chewiness was on her back with the hand of goodness firmly grasping her neck, both acknowledging the power restrained. It was a pleasant gorging of sweetness before gluttony sated both.

After a night's sleep in the embrace of the soft embracing bosom of serenity, it was time to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“I have to go.”

“But...but last night was...was... Why?”

“Which is why I must return to the small room in the funky freshless home where I reside with mindless men.”

“You can just stay here!”

“I could. It would be a nice, safe existence. My links slowly chained to you and the home and other accumulations. I would be comfortable, secure and become scenery, like most everyone else. I know this, I've been there before, and in the back of my mind I would keep trying to recreate the perfect, unexpected night we had last night, but that will not happen because we will become comfortable with one another and become petty and easily put off, and your strongest weapon becomes disinterest. I know where this is headed and I will not return to the comfort of life less lived.”

“You'd rather stay in that stinky house with those sweaty guys being disgusting than just staying with me for a little while before you leave?”

“Well, the truth is I would rather enjoy your sweet stickiness, but I know it will turn you into stale, ill wrapped candy and me into a lump of soft dough. So the appropriate answer is, 'I prefer the unknown to the known; adventure and suffering to security; life to existence.”

“You're such an ass.”

“Thank you, I've been working out...”

It was time to leave, to find the edge of sweet cravings and the contempt of where I have found myself, knowing it is preferable to the comfort of the sweet, softening IV drip of the sure thing.

When life is too good, we forget what it feels like to be alive.]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=120 Thu, 16 Dec 2010 22:16:03 -0800 http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=119
Head down, crushing the helpless beans of joltiness, a familiar voice from long ago spoke.

“How ya been?”

A voice from the past, a friendly voice, directed my way. Lifting the smooth, light reflecting forehead of forthrightness, I looked out and there before me was one of the most dutiful small men a small doer of good could have at his side.

“Izzy? Is that...Izzy?”

Extending his hand, palm slightly up, presenting for a friendly handshake, Izzy smile a grin from ear-to-ear.

There was nothing to say. The parts of an awkwardly assembled universe seemed to be falling back into their proper orbit. I knew what he drank and made us each a crushed coffee bean treat, sharing his smile.

“I'll be back in a little while,” I told whoever was needing to listen, throwing my apron in the corner.

Handing Izzy his drink, I led the loyal man outside to sit.

It was good to shrink the world. With Izzy here I remember who I am, who I have always been, no matter how much I deny or pretend otherwise. I also learn Izzy bought some time on the compound when I disappeared, but it was eventually taken by the bank. He also said it was on the market, a bit trashed, but available — still don't have the resources and concerned that such a move would be a step backward. He offered to help in any and every way.

There was concern on my part about his ability to locate me, but he reminded me he still worked for various areas of the government and had set traps in the system over the years, so if anything regarding my memes had shown up he would be alerted. He had given me up for dead, so when he was alerted after 4+ years of nothing he had to come and see if there was an imposter — he brought a gun in case there was an imposter to dispose of. He is a good man.

I offered no clear explanation for where I had been and why. He noticed I seemed “a little darker, not as jolly,” to which I explained that there was a darkness within that was disconcerting, that I was trying my best to ignore. The comfort of being able to pick up a conversation nearly a half decade old bonded our Captainesque connection. Then, he made an offer of escape.

“Mariza's in Japan.”

“Why?”

“School, she says.”

“School? Shouldn't she have graduated by now?”

“She did, but couldn't find a job — I should say a job didn't find her — so decided to get a graduate degree,” Izzy spoke sorely of his daughter.

“In Japan?”

“Yeah, Asian studies. I don't know what she thinks she is going to do with that degree.”

“System job studying Asians? Didn't know you could make a living doing that...or that that could be one's passion.”

“She's really into anime and manga, and she says people think she is Japanese.”

“Anime? Manga? Japanese?”

“I don't know, don't ask me. It's Japanese animation and comics or something. I don't know. She is part Asian, maybe that is why she's interested. I really don't know. Don't ask me,” he answered in frustration.

“A tiny part, and not Japanese. And she's from this country, as mutty as the rest of us. Is she doing alright?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Izzy smirked.

“I haven't seen her since she was a little girl.”

“She's not so little anymore. She's short, but she's filled out, busted out, know what I mean? She's...”

“Fat?” I asked, getting quickly to the pointlessness.

“No, not at all. She is tiny, with big...” he began, finishing by holding has hands in front of his chest.

“Oh, I see. Well, she rules the world as she wishes then.”

“I don't know about that. She's mad at me and only talks to her mom to get money for school.”

“What did you do?”

“She said I was never there when she was growing up.”

“But she'll take your money, the money you were making not being there?”

“Oh yeah.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Well, I had an idea.”

“Ideas can be good. What is it?”

“How much do you like this job?”

“It's okay...it keeps me disciplined and helps me stay focused on a path. I managed a big payday when a customer sued; he gave me a nice cut, which I invested in him. And...no, I hate it. I think about returning to the streets every day. I'm dead in there, not sure how much longer I can do it. I think about walking out every day.”

“That's what I figured. You don't belong here.”

“I know, but that's one of the reasons I stay. It is easy to do what we want, but at times we have to do what is necessary.”

“It is nice to see you haven't changed. In fact, you look more fit and younger than you did 10 years ago.”

“You've always been a nice liar...and a crappy liar.”

“Thank you. Well, will you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Go to Japan and visit Mariza?”

“Why don't you? I'll go with you.”

“No, you don't know how angry she is. What I was thinking is you can run into her. She knows I have not seen you in years and have been looking for you, so you can just hang out in her area for a week or two and run into her, casually.”

“Where? In Nippon?”

“Nippon?”

“It is how many Japanese refer to their homeland.”

“Nippon, Japan, whatever you want to call it, yes. She has not told her mother her new address so she thinks we don't know where she is, but I got the information.”

“Of course. She has to know you know.”

“Who knows what she thinks.”

“We don't see each other for 4...5...6 years, whatever it is, and you want me to check in on your daughter?”

“You're the only one I trust.”

“Don't. I told you, there is a darkness within that is haunting me. I don't trust me.”

“That darkness has always been there. I have always known it is there, but there is truth within that you will not allow yourself to escape. I trust you to give me the truth. I know if my daughter is happy, you will tell me; if she is sad, you will tell me; if she is a junkie, you will tell me; if I am the cause, she will confide in you as everyone seems to and you will tell me.”

“Presumptive. I don't know.”

“I bought you a ticket,” he lied.

“You can't do that.”

“Yes, I can. I know you.”

“When do I leave?”

“Next month.”

“Japan?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“What's your number?”

“Don't really keep one.”

“Get a disposable one. How about an address, e-mail, something?”

“I am sure I will be here for another month and I can't guarantee I will check any electronic tethers. You know I don't do tethers well.”

“Darker? No, you're exactly the same, it just beginning to show more as the jolliness thins to truth.”

“You are the same too, my friend, though a tad smoother around the edges.”

“I can still kill.”

“No doubt.”

Izzy looked at his watch. “My flight leaves in a few, I'd better get back to the bird. It was good to see you alive.”

“And you.”

He extended his hand after we stood to share our goodbyes. I would not take the hand, instead giving his small frame a bear hug. I wanted to say, “I love you,” but was afraid of misinterpretation, but there were no other words I could find to express the appreciation of his dedication, his loyalty.

“Thanks for finding me,” is all I could offer.

“You're the one. And try not to get lost again,” he replied, then left.

Is not love the appropriate term to express when your existence grows in the presence of another...but we don't want any homoerotic confusion, especially with my ever growing youthful good looks...

Japan...in a month...and yet I return behind the counter to brutally crush beans. I do not know what a month in the future brings, but I know what is a in this moment...and Izzy still has to buy a ticket...he's an amateur manipulator, needing to close the deal before moving forward.

There is concern that letting people from the past into the present is a step backward, though, as he made clear, he has always been available, at the ready to loyally stand by my side...and it must be acknowledged that Japan is not this coffee house...quit...sabbatical...leave...disappear...difference? Indifference.]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=119 Wed, 17 Nov 2010 09:51:37 -0800 http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=118
“Thank you.”

“You're welcome, and thank you.”

Assembly line food and friendliness.

“Trina, iced latte.”

A gray haired, portly gentleman nods hello, as I assume he is not Trina, not moving to pick up the beverage. An acknowledgment nod is appropriately returned.

“How are you this evening?”

“Good, and you?”

“Excellent.”

“Let's see, what are you waiting for?” The question asked when you have a gazer looking through you uncomfortably.

“Tea.”

Finding a tea order on the board, I answer, “Coming up,” and put his order on rush.

“You like to read?” he politely asked, a stack of reading material under his arm.

“I find it necessary in my line of work,” I kindly reply.

“Making coffee?”

“I do not consider my line of work what I am paid to do. Just because this is where you find me does not mean that is how you should define me. ”

“Good one. Who ordered that?”

“Me. Here's your tea.”

“Thank you. Here,” he said, extending his hand holding a book toward me.

It is a thin book, almost pamphlet like. Philosophy, by one of the many philosophers I have never heard quoted.

“For me?”

“Yeah, I'm done with it. Read it 50 times, and at my age it's time to start unloading the stuff in life.”
“Thank you.”

“He quotes Voltaire on page 10. It is one of my favorites. Take a look. Read it to me one last time.”

Thumbing through the pages, I arrive at page 10. The last line on the page has a quote underlined, attributed to Voltaire, mine to read aloud. I preview it for appropriateness, then read: “We shall leave this world as foolish and as wicked as we found it when we arrived.”

“Isn't that beautiful?” the distinguished gentleman sighed, smiling.

“Sure, but the foolish and the wicked will not get through life uncontested...or unmolested.”

“Nor should they, and you will be contested and molested whether or not you are foolish or wicked.”

“It's all a game, isn't it?”

“Only when you are playing. Take care.”

I smiled, nodding appreciatively at the old man. “Thanks again,” I shouted as he crossed the threshold to exit.

“You're so cute. You and an old man are the only ones who don't do their reading on their phone or tablet or pad or computer or whatever. You still read the printed word...I don't know...printed,” Tina laughed, walking behind me.

“I like to touch what I read and would rather not need to depend on a device. These pages will be here after your device crashes or is upgraded, or whatever. But I read with devices also. My goal is information and knowledge, with a preference for printed format, but the words are what is important.”

“Even that's cute. Who really has time to read anyway?”

I tuck the booklet in my pocket and think of the quote, and must smile. Thanks for the fools, for they give us genius; thanks for the wicked, for they give us heroism; thanks for the chaos, for it makes life an adventure.

Thanks.]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=118 Wed, 13 Oct 2010 11:16:44 -0700 http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=117
On a very wide and busy street — 7 lanes in total; 3 northbound; 3 southbound; a turn lane separating — the fluid dynamics were being disturbed by a blacked out (murdered) SUV in the middle of the southbound lanes. It appeared that in heavy traffic the driver of the murdered SUV noticed the turn they wanted to take, politely past the point of being able to turn. At the point where most decent members of the citizenry admit to themselves the miniscule mistake of missing a turn and go ahead to turn around, this driver stopped cold in the center of the southbound lanes. Traffic was backed up behind them, with vehicles swerving left and right to avoid the backed up cars, cursing the driver of the SUV as the passed. Eventually, the traffic passed the SUV and it was able to move into the turning lane. Fortunately, though there were many near misses, there appeared to be no accidents.

It just so happened, as happenings happen, that after the murdered SUV turned into the parking lot that was so immediately important that life and limb of periphery citizenry should be risked, I was within 20 feet of where the black SUV with its blacked out windows and rims parked. Perhaps today's good deed would be to simply explain to Mr. Braindead Blackout a bit about driving etiquette and safety of the citizenry, some of whom are decent, kind, sweet, delectable candies.

As I prepared to mind the business of others, a door of darkness rolling opened. Expecting or perhaps preparing for a blockhead with more brawn than brain wearing the trademarks of wannabe badassness that matched the murdered SUV — haircut, clothing, skin accessorization, etc. — I paused my gait while I recalibrating when a tiny woman exited. The duty of suggested civility would cause one to not change address because of the appearance of the shell encompassing a nut.

“Excuse me,” I started, politely trying to get attention. Nothing. “Excuse me!” I shouted, not 5 feet from Dangeress Driver. Still nothing. “Hey, lady!” were the words that caused her to look up.

“Me?” she answered, digging deep into her dictionary.

It was already clear that this was a waste of time, but cause is the reason for the purpose.

“You almost caused a significant accident back there. If it were not for the quick reactions of other drivers, someone could have been killed due to your recklessness. You should be aware of what is going on around you.”

“I know. I can't believe how fast that turn came up. Those people were so rude. Whatever.”

“Yes, but when you realized while traveling with the flow of traffic you would not be able to cross a lane and safely merge into the turn lane, you should probably have driven past the turn and make a U-turn up ahead.”

“Why?” she said with all sincerity in an annoying tiny girl voice.

“Because you quite nearly caused mayhem and death!”

“Huh? Whatever.”

“Whatever? Are you an idiot? A retard? An individual with an intellectual disability?”

“No, I'm hot. So get away before I call the cops.”

“You're hot? Did you really just say that?”

“Get away, old creeper,” the idiot she demanded while sashaying away.

Clarification: Technically, with a tiny figure, full, plump breasts, long hair, pretty face and sheer, revealing attire, she would be considered attractive, except for the fact she had a major flaw which negated all of her eye appealing attributes: she was as dumb as Oreos stored in the anal cavity of a prison inmate, and about as useful.

“Hot? You're a fucking moron,” I disrespectfully blurted, embarrassed I was engaging thickness.

She stopped her 6” heels and turned. “My boyfriend's going to kick your ass, fucker!” she shouted, throwing her keys at me angrily. She then walked away, leaving her keys on the asphalt between the two of us.

“Your keys,” I whispered, walking to pick them up.

I picked up the keys and continued my walk to work.

Passing a trash can, the idea of key disposal seemed fitting, but instincts relayed something better was in the offing.

About an hour into a shift of monotonous coffee crushing, Dumb Dangeress entered the establishment. The heart raced. This could get ugly, and the place of employ is not the best battleground when encountering belittled beauty.

“Hi, I lost my car keys. Did anyone turn them in?” she asked a naturally competitive female behind the counter.

“No,” was the dismissive answer, made without asking others or looking where we keep those types of lost items.

“Okay,” Braindead Beauty replied, moving to another associate (the brainwashing is taking hold; another coworker).

“Hi, I lost my keys. Have you seen them?”

No one seemed to have sympathy for this hollowhead. All gave curt answers. I kept my head down, hoping she would leave without recognizing my powerful presence. Eventually, she came my way. No question about it, this was not going to be pretty.

“Hi. I lost my keys. Have you seen them?”

I kept working, ignoring her.

“Hi. I just lost my keys. Have you seen them?” the mouse voice repeated.

She cannot be this stupid. I stopped and looked her in the eyes. I accepted she would recognize a friendly foe looking to save the citizenry. Nothing.

“Really?” I asked.

“Really, I lost my keys. Have you seen them?”

Perhaps it was my magical apron of transmogrification, I had to consider. The possibility that I had aged so significantly in the last hour that I had become unrecognizable was not an acceptable rationale.

Bravely taking off the magical apron, I stepped from behind the counter to no longer hinder Petite Pointless' view.

“Hi. I lost my keys. Have you seen them? Has someone turned them in?”

At this point, any comment felt like it would be incredibly cruel. She was a living, breathing masturbatory toy, nothing more.

“Your head really is there to hold your pretty hair in place, isn't it?”

“I just got it done. Thanks. Do you think you have seen my keys?”

“Have you considered calling an auto service?”

“My boyfriend hasn't paid the car, so they are trying to repo it. If I call a service, it might be repoed.”

“Aaaaah, but at least your hair looks beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she replied, moving on to another associate...coworker.

Taking a quick break, I managed to find the repo company trying to confiscate her SUV with only a few calls. They would give me a reward if I gave them the location. When I said I might have the keys, they offered a bonus.

Within 15 minutes, the repo company had claimed the keys and given a proper reward to one honking the eviless of self-centered driving off the road. It is not often a good deed is properly rewarded, but the universe must be looking to relocate the mister of justy juicy goodness to a compound.

15 minutes after picking up the keys, sirens could be heard converging in the area of the SUV. Customers who witnessed the scene said a tiny chick went off on a tow-truck driver. He pushed her away and her boyfriend came out of nowhere and tried to beat the guy, but was bloodied by a tire iron. The cops came, tasered the bloodied boyfriend, pepper sprayed the tiny hot chick and arrested the tow-truck operator...well, they are there to clean up, the court can sort out the details...though, would the world not be a better place without these two morons...of course, without masturbatory toys, the chemicals of man would make many a man do monstrous maneuvers to release.

One should be grateful when a dangerous dingbat delivering a SUV of death is detoured, especially when the coffee can is filled with a bit more of the cash necessary to reclaim a compound...yet it is an empty conquest.

We pretend all people are created equal. The saying should simply be: “We are all created.” Yet, as dumb as she is, the purpose she serves has more substance than half of the people entering this bean breaking establishment...and half the people behind these counters...still, that is not saying a whole lot...the herd needs thinning.
]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=117 Wed, 29 Sep 2010 08:46:55 -0700