Saturday, May 16, 2015

Twinkles in the Sea

When I was five, I choked on a lemon drop. It happened in summer on the front porch of our house in Ocean City, New Jersey. I breathed in too hard while running around, and that little yellow cap turned into a death pebble. The front door had latched shut from the inside, and by then my parents were around back on the beach. I banged and rang the bell, but no one heard against the loud wash of the ocean. The drop lodged in, and me locked out. I grew desperately faint and began seeing electric white dots floating around...

At the last minute, the gods intervened. Earlier, our neighbor had accidentally dropped some things outside while taking down wash from the clothesline. Had she not come back to retrieve them, she wouldn’t have seen to administer the Heimlich maneuver, and you wouldn’t be reading this. (If I publish a memoir, it’ll be titled The Socks that Saved Me.)

Seriously shaken, I had my first nightmare that evening. In my dream, I was in the basement of the house. A thin but opaque fog obscured the ground. It seemed like walking on wet sand, though, and I could feel gritty saltwater coursing around my bare, reluctant feet. When I reached the center of the room, an area of fog cleared and a faceless pair of eyes opened in the floor: androgynous, intense, unstable. For a moment they regarded me favorably and relaxed into a smiling, reassuring expression. Then, as starkly as my afternoon play had turned to peril, those grinning eyes turned on me and squinted into a threatening, sinister taunt as if to say, "How'd ya like that candy, Marty pants?"

I awoke like an exclamation point. I’d been sleeping in a bunk on the third floor, so there were two sets of stairs between me and my parents on the ground level. In that state of wired fear, running down each step felt too slow to escape the disturbing afterimage pursuing me, so I jumped down both flights one after the other, my adrenaline covering the pain. Finally, I found Barb and Bob Graff in the living room watching a horror movie about killer ants, a consolation compared to the trailer that had played in my mind.

*          *          *

To this day, the ocean remains a positive, spiritual place for me. The age, size, and grand rhythms of the open water inspire me like no other setting.  Immense and healing.  On multiple coasts and continents, I’ve long stood breathing it in, tuning in to its ancient white noise, inviting the busy choreography of its sun-speckled surface to trigger vast, wondrous daydreams, feeling the full potential of my existence. But beneath the magic there’s a threat, a lethal undertow swirling with pincers, stingers, carnivorous appetites, toxic industrial detritus...

And that aquatic, psychotic whatever-it-is that haunts my brittle confections.

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*The Face Zone is also a live show with music.

Friday, May 1, 2015

Incident in Nevada

The nature of government is to be opaque, to underinform its public.  Baseless conspiracy theories aside, there's been more than enough scandal uncovered to extrapolate that, generally, the fix is in. The more that average citizens stand to lose, the thicker the smokescreen.

Once in a while, a disturbing truth is so conspicuous that hiding it is as futile as covering a Christmas tree with a sheet.  Unfortunately, sensitive facts usually pan out in hard-to-connect fragments, if at all, which is why justice needs vigilance.  Hunting fraud is like suppressing an insect colony. When you spot that first kitchen bug, it alerts you to the many others in the walls and you take steps to drive them away. Conversely, each cover-up that remains so sets precedent for the next dangerous secret, just as an unseen roach is free to lay more eggs. 

So get curious, raise questions, and learn from every lie brought to light.

Because corruption grows best in the dark.

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*The Face Zone is also a live show with music.