People

There are only two kinds

of people in the world,

those who put people

in two categories

and those who don't.

_

Waves

the first wave buries you
maybe it was a word
or someone ignoring your cry for help
so you tumble on the sand
rolling in a watery grave
but you don't die
the second wave is lost love
broken promises 10 feet high and cresting
your heart pressed against the ocean floor
by blue/green hands
liquid fingers named pain and suffering
your skin turns to porcelain
your heart becomes a stone
you die inside
but your heart keeps beating
a drummer to remind you
of the loneliness
and cruel rhythm of this world
there is another sound
that awakens you
a voice still and calm
like the beating of dove's wings
in turquoise sky
the words are love
the message is hope
the Son of God
gathers the shattered pieces
of your world
and makes a new creation


but only if you ask.

Steve Malkowski
outcastpress.org

Smokin!

When I was in the eighth grade, my best friend invited me over for a private rendezvous in his tree fort. He had pilfered some cigarettes from his mom's purse and we had our first smoke fest. Our noses ran, our eyes watered and we coughed a lot, but we were cool. I deciced shortly thereafter that I didn't like smoking. Even though my folks did and I'd inhaled thier stuff since my birth, I still couldn't get used to it. I figured then I didn't need cigarettes as part of my persona. They weren't for me.

I've often wondered what prompted the individual who initially discovered tobacco, to decide that the smell and discomfort caused by the smoke was somehow beneficial. What was the attraction? Maybe they had bad BO and the nicotine fumes smelled better. Perhaps a more suitable fly and evil spirit repellant? Who knows.

And now, what is it about someone with one of those little white things poking out their face that convinces them they're visually in style? It really looks silly. Somehow, the masses have concluded that a cigarette, on fire, in your mouth, can improve your appearance. It's decidedly better than a finger up the nose. But really, what's the draw here? Freud would have much to say on the matter. I don't get it though. Why would someone who doesn't smoke, ask someone who does, for a teaching on using a substance that burns the eyes, makes them cough and smell bad? It's a peer pressure mystery.

Another puzzlement that has me thinking. Why do women smoke? Guys scratch and spit, squirt snot and fart, so it's not too much of a stretch to add a ciggy to the behavior. The image doesn't suffer. A gal however, that's got a nice do and duds, the right makeup with danglies and beads, who lights one up, just doesn't do it for me. As a matter of fact, any woman, gussied up or not with a cigarette isn't too attractive. There's an ample amount of unappealing that's been added. So ladies, if you smoke it ain't pretty. Besides, you stink.

Improvisational

I've not liked improvisational jazz much. I like a little, but if it gets too random, I stop listening. I want a bit of a melody line. It needs to resolve or it becomes musical chaos on key.

Ironically, I appreciate alot of abstract paintings that can look very chaotic. What appeals to me are the colors and how balanced the work is in design. If there is some emotion it also illicits, that's good too. But, some things just grab me and I can't explain why.

The impressionists had perhaps my favorite artistic style. They veered from the realistic, ad libbed the scenes and came up with great compositions. But they didn't go too far from the tune.

Minimalists, however are not on my like list. Their work looks to me like visual intellectualism. I find it dull, flat and boring. All head and no heart, like playing an uncomplicted melody over and over.

I was working on a drawing from a photo the other day and could not get a feel for it. The pose was just that, a pose. It looked stiff. I got frustrated and ended up with what I've drawn. It's a departure from what I usually do but I like it for some reason. I guess it's because it's improvisational. A bit of a jazz face.

A Realization

In the depth of Winter

I finally learned

That there was within me

An invincible Summer

Albert Camus

Boredom

I would often go to the Saturday Market in Portland. It was a great place to find arts and crafts of all kinds but I'd frequent it just to watch people. One day I bought a snack at the food court and settled in to observe. A hot dog stand was across the way and I noticed these two gals waiting for a customer. None came. They busied themselves with cleaning and straightening until there was nothing left to do. They finally nestled into the pose I've drawn.

Depression

My parents lived through the 1930's economic upheaval. It seemed to affect my dad the most. He talked about it quite alot and was always frugal in his spending. His father lost a grocery store and the large family of ten or so children lived at the poverty level for some years until the war. He was a hoarder of all things assumed to be of future usefulness. His garage was packed with cans of rusty fasteners, old spark plugs, wine corks, and a variety of rescued items from junk stores. His philosophy was, "Ya never know".

I've never experienced any kind of lack as my dad. He was, like most of that generation, an excellent provider and wanted to be certain that our family had what he didn't. I grew up with everything I needed. Most of my wants, as far as toys or whatever, were satisfied. Others in my neighborhood were like me.

I'm currently comfortable. The economic chaos hasn't affected me, and it's difficult to relate to those who are struggling. People can't understand another's pain unless they experience it themselves. I do have a concern though. I wonder about those who've lost everything. There is probably some young person, like my father, who will be permanently changed. I hope not.

However, it now appears that the financial situation is slowly improving. At least the number crunchers and economists say so. It looks as though we can look forward to another era of prosperity. But, "Ya never know".

Chance

I've never been much of a gambler. I decided early on that my winning streak wouldn't be one at all, more like a stumble. I would enter contests as a kid but was always dissappointed. Bikes, BB guns and other toys to drool over, went to those that Chance smiled upon. I gave up trying in my adolecent years.

When the state lottery became official, temptation coaxed me out of my wariness and I got the itch to scratch. I don't remember how many tickets I bought, but I can assure you that there weren't many and all my money stayed in the treasury. I now think of money spent on lottery tickets as taxes which keeps me from buying them.

My wife and I stayed a night in Reno once while on a road trip. We did the cheap buffet in one of the joints and sauntered over to the slots. She played the nickel machines. I think all the bells, flashing lights and noise must have numbed me into thinking I could leave with more than I came with. I was overcome with naievity and invested in a quarter bandit. I looked at my small handful of coins and hoped that one would nausiate the box enough for it to puke out a pot. It just burped a beep and had no indigestion for any of them. Susan the Lucky though, won a bucket full of nickles and we left pretty happy. However, a speeding ticket on the way home consumed her winnings along with a bit more. Did I mention she was driving? We've since sworn off casinos.

I have never even once entertained the thought of betting on horses. The odds against winning to me seem astronomical. My relationship with Chance along with the inconceivable variables of horse and rider, guarantee a loss for me. You've got this guy on a horse who has to keep his weight down and may be faint from hunger. Or maybe had a fight with his trainer, girl friend or wife or maybe all three and is not in the mood to ride. Or perhaps nature calls in the middle of the ride. Cramps, pulled muscle, brain anurysm. Is he going to race at his full capacity? No. Then there's the horse who may have had a bad oat for breakfast or a fight with rider. Maybe it's thinking it will just stop running because it's tired of getting whipped and wants to retire. Cramps, pulled muscle, brain anurysm. No bob-tail nag for me. Gambling on horses is like feeding them dollars.

We were standing on the platform in Polgate, England waiting for the train to London when I noticed small gaggles of ladies starting to gather. They were dressed in their finery and all had hats of various sizes perched on their heads. We boarded the train and I sat across from the woman pictured above. Her's was much less ostentatious than most, but I wanted to ask if the crow put up much of a fight. I thought better of it. Someone popped open a champagne bottle and passed around the bubbly in paper cups. Curiosity won and I finally asked her what the occasion was. It was ladies day at the horse races and those of the feminine variety with a hat would get in free.

Oh. I immediately explained to her that the laws of probability were dead set against her and suggested she give me her betting money since she was going to lose it anyway. No, she wanted the chance to lose it herself. Too bad. I would have spent it wisely on overcrowded tourist attractions and taken a chance on bland fish n chips.

Hair

My face is taller now. It was much shorter earlier in my life but has grown alot over the last few years. I don't like it. As a matter of fact I never really liked it. It never looked good enough for me. I had someone once tell me I had bedroom eyes but that's a different item. If I could go back to those days of yesteryear, I'd tell myself I looked pretty ok. My face wasn't movie star material but I look acceptable in photos from then. I should have accepted what I had and not worried about my handsomness factor. I would have been less shy.

Andre Aggasi was concerned about his looks. His face grew taller than mine at an early age. So much so that he had fake hair in his twenties. It looked good probably because it was long and flowing when he played tennis. He doesn't have much hair now but he looks good. Real good. I'd like to look like him but I've decided that what I have is enough. When I'm seventy and my face lengthens to the upper back half of my head, I won't look as great as I do now. I'll see pictures of myself taken in my more hansome years and realize even though women didn't chase me down I need to like my face now. I'm starting to.

It's been said that God knows the number of hairs on an individual's head. I think people lose their hair so He doesn't have to keep track of so many. I'd be more comfortable now though if I still had my younger number.

Sign of the Times

I returned recently from a three and a half week visit to England where I did all the tourist stuff. We spent most of our time in London. I marveled at the art, monuments and architecture and took way too many pictures. After a while I became visually saturated and everything began to look like one giant antique. I was ready to come back to the bland modern of Phoenix.

We visited the city of Rye in Sussex, a port on the Channel and wandered down its cobbled streets. It could have easily been a set for filming a medieval movie. We came across a house with a four foot tall entry door. People were supposedly shorter then because of diet or maybe genetics. Evidently the home owners were a bit more diminutive than their neighbors whose doors were taller. Maybe they wanted to keep the average sized swat team of the era from easily storming the building.

The plaque shown above was a few doors down. I wonder if it could been mounted on every building in the city.