Television, Part 1

(First in a two-part series.)


Lynn noticed the dog first. A rope with a puffy, frayed end tied it to a light post.

The dog wagged its tail, but didn't bark. Three women bent to coo in puppy talk, but their eyes narrowed at the girl leaning against the wall. It was her dog. She was the one who tied the dirty bandana around its neck.

The girl sat cross-legged on a few layers of cardboard. Kind of Zen-like. A couple knelt to talk to her rather than the dog. Their faces were shadowed and pained. The girl's face drifted with a slow, syrupy peace.

Lynn approached and stood behind the couple.

"Can we get you something? What would you like? A sandwich? We can get you a sandwich."

Food. Always a dilemma.

A woman butted in. "Do you feed this dog? Look. I can see his ribs."

The boyfriend glared back. The girl just stared down at her knees.

The woman dug into her purse in a huff. She shoved three dollars at the girl. "This isn't right. He shouldn't be out here all day like this."

The girl took the money. The woman patted the dog, cupped his face, and sang a goodbye. She rushed off with her spring coat flapping.

Lynn smiled.

The couple shook their heads at the dog lady. "So what can we get for you?"

The girls lips parted only a crack, like the effort overwhelmed her. The couple leaned in. Lynn couldn't hear what she breathed out.

"Alright. If you're sure. You find a safe, warm place tonight then. Okay?"

The girl took the five the couple offered. Lynn spied mottled bruises creeping down her forearm. Of course, the couple saw nothing.

"We'll come see you again, okay? To make sure you're alright."

Lynn watched the couple stand. They didn't want to leave her. They were such good people.

The idiots.

Lynn was now the only one. The girl fixed on Lynn's shoes, then crawled her gaze up to Lynn's knees, her waist, her face.

No recognition. Lynn was too clean and well dressed.

Good. What would she have said, anyway?

Someone swooped in and dumped more change for the dog. Damn, the girl was good.

That was enough cash for two bags. Did she shoot three? Probably. The chick could obviously afford it, so why not?

Lynn moved on. She had a few dollars left for coffee. That's why Danny always sent her to buy. She could talk anybody down.

She decided to sneak a bagel too. She liked the way they looked in the basket so much better than they looked in the trash.

Danny didn't have to know.


Go to Part 2.

Hit Me Baby One More Time

(Tuesday, 9:15 a.m., on the train to Philadelphia.)

Okay, already it's not going well. I had an entire car to myself (my station is first) with rare quiet to sit and write. However, at the very next stop, some chick showed up yelling at her cell phone. In Chinese. Hold on a second while I get my earphones out.

Okay, sorry about that. All set now.

Wait, she's breaking through the music. Maybe I better upgrade to Evanescence.

Oh yeah, that did it. Amy Lee kicks butt. Now, where were we?

Life is all about learning, right? Well, I learned something this morning. I learned all about one of my facial nerves when my dentist burrowed in and stabbed a needle into it. Whoa, that was seat-cruncher. Yum, yum, Novocain. White, shivery, electric, clenching pain through all of my lower teeth and my tongue.

And that was only the right side. She was just getting warmed up.

So, now I have two bean bags disguised as lips tacked to my face. I'm sitting here trying to look normal, but I'm convinced I don't. When I got into my truck to go the train station afterward, I noticed my face was crooked in the rearview mirror. That made me smile.

Oh. My. God. The right side of my mouth perked up, but the left side drooped down. It was ludicrous. I totally lost it.

The problem was, the more hilarious it got, the worse my laugh twisted it. Vicious cycle. I sure hope no one saw me practically crying while I tried to pull my face straight.

Good times, my friends, good times.

So wish me luck. I have a lunch meeting at 12:30 where it would certainly be a plus if I could talk. I guess I'll take a scratch pad for messages just in case.

The Philanthropist known as the Prisoner's Friend

Welcome to the grave of "The Philanthropist."

What an amazing sight. This was another one of those jam-on-the-brakes moments. It is the most highly carved and figured monument I've ever seen. For all of its opulence, however, the man's name is not recorded. Only his initials, W.J.M.


The figure of a woman sits in the rubble before the broken doors of a prison, which bears a striking resemblance to the historic Eastern State Penitentiary in Philadelphia. Eastern State was the world's first prison to abandon mere incarceration and punishment for spiritual reflection and change. Unfortunately, this system proved cruel in its own right. Prisoners were held in strict isolation. The prison's website explains: "To prevent distraction, knowledge of the building, and even mild interaction with guards, inmates were hooded whenever they were outside their cells. But the proponents of the system believed strongly that the criminals, exposed, in silence, to thoughts of their behavior and the ugliness of their crimes, would become genuinely penitent. Thus the new word, penitentiary." Benjamin Franklin and the Quakers were the architects of this system.



I found this monument late in the day when I was worried that the cemetery would lock its gates. When I saw this amazing monument, however, I had to stop. As I took pictures of the statues, the sun bled into a rich, orange sunset. This photo of the angel against the sky was taken when the light first began to turn. The overall shot at the top was taken last, just before I turned to leave.





I don't know anything more about this man, but I thought I leave you with these thoughts about him.

From the plaque: He has shown his love for his fellow men as the founder and president of colleges, hospitals, asylums, [ ]dispensaries, [ ] and mission societies, houses of industry and refuge for discharges and homeless prisoners. Through his strenuous exertions and indomitable perseverance over 50,000 prisoners....

UPDATE: Major kudos to Stephen Johnston for researching and discovering that W.J.M. is William James Mullen, "a jeweler, dentist and philanthropist, estimated [to have] rescued 50,000 people from unjust imprisonment. His monument depicts the door of Moyamensing prison with a recently freed woman on the steps. Mullen himself, in a suit and flowing classical cape, stands nearby on a pedestal." So much for my theory that the monument depicts Eastern State Penitentiary! Here is a lithograph of Moyamensing Prison, which no longer exists. Thanks Stephen!!



(Laurel Hill Cemetery, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania)

Footsteps of the Lamb

The last stretch of winter light bent on the hills.

Underneath the ice, the soil was restless. It awoke to a sky kindling with clarity.


(What grows in you when the March sun shines?)

Crouching to Feel Snow

blink.blink.blink.blink
sun shadows
flash
the motion
of morning trees
brown vines
branches
poke through
brilliant snow

blur close
then slow deeper
the forest turns
like a circle
that never bends
peer deep
through the
blink.blink.blink.blink
eyes stinging
swallow the motion
and see the entirety
there
color
the flank of a deer

I walk there too
still belong
time has not
confused
the respect
of a predator stare

The Fever

(Thanks for cheering me up during my conference! It really helped me get through Wednesday. Here are my musings from the second day.)

There's a guy sitting in the front row. He's probably not old enough to be as gray as he is. Every nerve in his body is tuned forward. While others listen (or read the paper or sleep), he scribbles. A lot. (Well, I'm scribbling right now too, but lets not count that, okay?) He nods as if he's in a personal conversation with the speaker. He's so fascinated and enthused, his thoughts are physically pouring out.

Want to know something? I used to work with that guy about 12 years ago.

Well, more specifically, he worked under me, and because of the age difference, it was a bit hilarious. I was a freshly minted and licensed lawyer, and he was a student in a health law masters program. (Don't get me started on that. Tax law is pretty much the only legal discipline which warrants a graduate law degree. Maybe not even that.) I had been at the firm a couple years as a law clerk, and the big boss trusted me and put me in charge of the project.

With all this guy's fever and the uber education, he should be a super lawyer, right?? He lives and breathes the stuff. Look! He practically shakes with it! (To be honest, he literally shakes with it.)

Super lawyer? Not so much. In fact, he kind of sucks. Sorry.

Why? What's the problem? He can't listen. He can't hear people and give them what they need. He can't even see the person in front of him, I think.

Instead, he gives them what he thinks they need. His churning, churning brain has room for nothing else.

I'm a respected lawyer, but you can probably guess that I don't live and breathe the law. (Try to hide your shock. Please.) I'll never be a huge star in the legal field, because I refuse to sacrifice myself on that alter. I would have no other life. I would crumble away.

Yet, part of me is like him. Part of me is gripped by a fever. Can you tell?

When you talk to me, you have my complete attention. I want to hear your thoughts. I want to understand what drives you and shapes you. And at the same time, I will freely share in return.

It's the desire for that connection which burns in me. Not case law or statutes or regulations. It's the hidden light deep in humanity.

For me, writing is one of the few places minds can really intertwine, and the fever to do it is not something I intend to cure.

Thanks for taking the journey with me.

Hell is a Stackable, Straight-Backed Chair

As I write this, I'm not quite sure if I'm awake or asleep. I think I fell asleep a while ago, but I think I woke up. If I didn't, I really wish I'd dream something better than this.

Somebody just asked a question?!

Big surprise, she doesn't know the answer.

My coffee is half gone, but I'm still stuck in mental mud. Maybe I should drink some more. Yeah, make me go to the bathroom. A LOT. Bathroom breaks are sweet. Bathroom breaks are the best.

Lawyers in Pennsylvania must do 12 hours of continuing legal education per year, and this is my 2-day extravaganza when I do the whole shebang at once. Problem is, these folks are as lively as rust. If I were talking about tax exempt bonds, I'd throw some random pictures into my Powerpoint presentation. Ducks maybe. Or a platypus.

The platypus is the evolutionary pinnacle of duckness. A mammal which lays eggs! Brilliant!

I'm becoming a fossil right here, right now. Some grad student in 10,000 years is going to brush the dust away from my nostril and sketch me in the dirt.

Now her microphone is cutting out. Kind of like an audio strobe effect, but not in a cool way. She sounds like a dolphin. Perhaps she'd like a fish?

Is it Thursday yet?

Ghost Stones

Come sit by the fire.

Spring weeps from the crystals of snow. Feel it blowing?

Come sit by the fire and push winter from the stones.

Look in on us when the years hammer flesh from bone. Pieces of us are here. Our fingers settled every stone.

These shapes are the frozen breath of our dreams. They remain, even when our souls long lay splintered by the trees.


(Ruins in the forest of Marsh Creek State Park, Chester County, Downingtown, Pennsylvania. This house stands on a hillside overlooking Brandywine Creek. The ruins of a large stone barn are nearby.)

Crosses

Before it was a Cross, it was merely a cross.

I stand contemplating the shape. Like a stamp over the human form. Arms. Head and neck. The long sweep down to toes. The high intersection falls like bonds over the heart.

Does it pin them down? A prison of elegant geometry?

Perhaps not.

Perhaps those three points flow from the mind, from the deeds of each hand, inward toward the heart. There, the magic combines, and it flies down and down to make its mark in the watchful world.

I feel someone showing me.

I turn to catch a glimpse of the way they went.

Wednesday Breakfast Club

I'd like to give the Requiem video a little more airtime, so I'll keep it short.

Feeling a little introspective today? Here's a question I've been meaning to ask you. What was the favorite time in your life? Was it long ago, or is it now? When did you most feel like yourself?

The Passions of Bryn: Requiem II

So, I've introduced you to Bryn, a vampire tortured by the extreme pleasure of killing the men she loves. The first installment of this series was "Winter Wind." Then, we followed Bryn to the theater where she was about to be treated to a performance of Mozart's Requiem mass.

Now, I'd like to share with you something special. I wanted to push the boundaries this time, and even though it was a hideous amount of work for 6 1/2 minutes of this dark world, it was worth it.

Come out of the cold and sit a while with Bryn. I hope you enjoy your stay.



On to The Passions of Bryn: Dreams.