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Sunday, February 17, 2013

In Search of the Lost Chord= Moody Blues

this is a true story... me talking....
My dad died thirty five years ago today. I was eleven. In Seattle there was an express lane gate set up like a guillotine. I learned a couple years ago, the gate was manually switched to come down on my father's car. Collapsing on his head. My mom sued, successfully. One time someone shot at dad when he was in the kitchen. He was a graduate from the Navel Academy but had ulcers so bad that many of my memories of him are him in pain. He almost died in Maynard Hospital a couple years before he died, He had gotten staff infection from a procedure to fix his Ulcers. He stayed in the hospital for the summer. My brother's and I couldn't visit we could only wave to him from the grounds of the Hospital. The night that he almost died my Grandfather, Les Kramer of Olympia Washington insisted that a practitioner of Christian Science come to the hospital or he was leaving the Church.
My brother Brian died from a truck flipping on him (on Vashon Island) a year and a half after my dad was killed. He was eleven and a half. My puberty was infused with death.
There were many assassinations during my childhood also. Kennedy's, king, Malcolm X and a wave of others. They still assassinate at will. They operate on all levels to control the masses into submission.

My Grandpa Les died February 16rh (yesterday) thirty years ago. Both of my Grandma's died in the eighties within twenty four hours of each other December fifteenth. One in Olympia and one in Seattle. Oddly synchronized and natural. My father was an Elk. My Grandpa Les, a Mason. My Grandmother, a daughter of the Eastern Star.

This is one of the Albums that I had in High School.

and another......


In the Court of the Crimson king

The rusted chains of prison moons
Are shattered by the sun.
I walk a road, horizons change
The tournament's begun.
The purple piper plays his tune,
The choir softly sing;
Three lullabies in an ancient tongue,
For the court of the crimson king.

The keeper of the city keys
Put shutters on the dreams.
I wait outside the pilgrim's door
With insufficient schemes.
The black queen chants
the funeral march,
The cracked brass bells will ring;
To summon back the fire witch
To the court of the crimson king.

The gardener plants an evergreen
Whilst trampling on a flower.
I chase the wind of a prism ship
To taste the sweet and sour.
The pattern juggler lifts his hand;
The orchestra begin.
As slowly turns the grinding wheel
In the court of the crimson king.

On soft grey mornings widows cry,
The wise men share a joke;
I run to grasp divining signs
To satisfy the hoax.
The yellow jester does not play
But gently pulls the strings
And smiles as the puppets dance
In the court of the crimson king.

It is not a battle with guns that we fight. It is our hearts, minds and souls that we need to claim

todays class writing Feb. twenty third thirteen


Peter had been following her for three days. He was coming to admire her ability to hide her trail. She was heading back toward town. Why would anyone go back? He had three weeks to get her back to Boss Man. Boss Man worked for Charles Waco. Waco was the regional Chief. His staff called him King. Charles Waco liked to be called King . Eavesdropping - he was all about eavesdropping -he heard the reference of “King” when one of his boys was talking about him. All of them called him “King” and every time, he’d smile and straighten a bit. Yes, this was his destiny.
Peter’s head held a picture of her scowling, data about her background. A Doctor’s opinion, describing her as psychotic and possibly dangerous. What he saw was a six foot one Amazon . His height. He liked tall women. He was getting close. She kept turning towards him. She’d look his way. One time he saw her salute with her middle finger. He had a scope on her. It was way to far for her to see him set in the bushes so that the sun wouldn’t give him away. He didn’t believe some of the intel. It appeared to be exaggeration. Once captured he wasn’t supposed to talk with her except out of need. “Just bring her back alive, , don’t let her go”. He would get a bounty of the Mansion on the Hill if he brought her back alive. That was motivation.
The mansion had one hundred acres with a river running through. Pasture, all fenced, a barn and a stable. A field of Alfalfa. His dream. As he was nearing her, he had the thought that that mansion was probably offered to all the chumps working for Waco.
He found an out crop of stones by the river. The Deschutes. He decided to stash his gear and change out of his camo. Tucked his shirt in and put on a baseball cap. Glad they had let him have longer hair, now. He was going for his Presbyterian Church look. Glasses? He found them and put them on, though they were non-prescription. His eyes were the best in his unit. He always had bragged about them. Teasing his peers.
Yep, He was ready. He looked around for the anchors to aid his memory to find the gear on hisway back through. The tree hanging off the cliff across the rapids was upside down. Alive. Teetering over the cliff like a hallucination was a gnarled and twisted fir tree. He thought he better find something else to remember. That tree wouldn’t hang there for long. The rock that jutted out next to the cliff looked like a wizard. That was it. Rapids, curve in river towards wizard with hanging tree cliff. He didn’t need a nmonic to remember the image. He needed to start to tally the turns they were making. He looked up and she was on the move again. He had given her a surveillance break when she was bathing. He had younger sisters. He figured he owed her some respect. It looked to him like her mission was to cut down every wire fence that she saw. The only gear she seemed to carry was a down coat, a rope and the two foot rebar clip. Maybe that’s why they wanted her? She walked the back roads close to the river and would hide if she heard any vehicles. On a bridge on a straight calm part of the river she stood. She raised her arms and he could see she was saying something. Then she turned towards him and waited.
He took a deep breath. He thought of his acting class “ok”. He acted like he was surprised to see her. He started waving his hands. “Hey,” “Wait Up”
“Oh God” she thought. She wasn’t even moving she thought.
He stumbled to the ground, on purpose, to be the dweeb he was pretending to be.
“Oh goody, its you.” She said in a monotone whisper. He thought, “She is crazy.” because she acted like she knew him. From the ground, he looked up to see a women, majestic, in a golden hue. Long legs. Jeans with a hole at the knee. Not tight. Tight enough to see her hips in a curve like a belly dancer that he loved to watch. She looked like she felt like putting her boot on his neck. Scowling like in the picture of her. Not happy to see him. She didn’t offer to help him up. She started to walk away. He decided to play her slow. He had another eighteen days to get her in. Once back to the dangling tree he could walkie talkie a helicopter in to pick her up. There was a nice clearing around the bend of the river.
Maybe she would need some warmth tonight he thought. Hypnotized by her stride he thought about that honey vinegar thing that his mom repeated almost daily to him in his teens. Why get her more angry by cuffing her to soon? Her green eyes. She looked like Arwyn of the Elves.. Her top lip... Oops, he had to stop seeing her that way. He hit his leg really hard, to get him out of his throbbing reverie. She looked at him and shook her head. She sighed in disgust. He thought he heard her swear like she was mumbling to someone else. Yep. Crazy.
The familiar sound of a woosh drumming of a helicopter flying low over a tree, she dove under the river brush. He could hear her breath slow. He took off his cap and acted like a tourist waving with it. No salute. Though he knew that they were checking up with him. Cheyenne started to run after the helicopter passed . She later said to him, “Usually they would land if they saw a wanderer?” “
Shucks, he tried to slouch. “They must have had somewhere to go. Mam”
“What is wrong with you? I am not a mam. Shit”
He had stumbled again this time, not on purpose.

Charles S. Waco looked at his mustache and thought he needed a trim.
Soon his prize would be granted him. He had three people after her with the same goal , if one of them could bring her in alive, they ,whoever it was , would get the Mansion. He kind of alluded that others might be in on it but didn’t outright say. He said that there would be help and they would keep an eye out for him. Waco talked individually to each. This he said on a DVD which they were to erase and destroy after listening, then give it back to my driver. Each man got a DVD. Three hours a part from each other. Waco liked sports. He knew that the kindest man was at a handicap. Peter kirchaoski was the kindest. He wanted to test his theory. He was sure the kind guy would lose. He would have bet Stuart, if Stuart was alive. Each man was told that he was the top and the only one that he was certain would find her and protect her… She was a daughter of a friend. Which she was. That too was part of his plan…He actually had asked her father permission to marry her if polygamy was legal. Her father said he would be honored if he would allow him a job doing nothing all day. ? A bribe of sorts. A sale of sorts. So at sixteen, after the second boy that she had liked had mysteriously moved away without saying good bye. Her father and mother would bring her to the Lake House that he owned. They would take their boat across the bay to dinners occationally insisting that she join them. He had hidden cameras every where and coveted the footage of her looking into the mirror straight at the camera.
He regretted not sending his crew together now. He realized he had given them too much time. Seven days. Way to much time. What if they figure they can take some spoils from her? He gasped at the thought. He forgot about her purity. He had to keep it in tack. She had been chosen when she was nine. He had seen her one day crossing the street a regal long legged nymph, she captured his heart, his soul, he couldn’t help it. She made him lust for her. She was a siren calling him. It wasn’t his fault and in the bible after all. They all had many women, their daughters, he thought of his. She would be in their steed they were ready to f fledge into the world of outer sociability. They needed to be free from his privileged and secret desires.
He had kept an eye on her. Even to the point of having a maid be a snoop in Cheyenne’s childhood home on the lake. Cameras placed in every room. Two in her bathroom. Her parents didn’t know.