Session September 3, 2016

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He leaned against a wall, chewing a toothpick, watching them.

By RC

The following is a transcript of the defense attorney’s remarks:

You really shouldn’t judge Manny too harshly, seeing that his old man (as he would call him) beat him up regularly as he was growing up, pretty much divorcing him from emotion and teaching him to care about nothing, but himself. And since his mother—well, we won’t even get into what she did with the numerous men she happened to meet as a waitress. Suffice it to say that these guys were brought home when Manny’s “old man” wasn’t around, but he would never tell on her. If Manny ever loved anyone, it was his mother.

Like I say, he is a victim, if there ever was one, and that is why you should give him the benefit of every doubt. Now, what I am about to tell you comes straight from Manny and Sal, the two guys with whom we are concerned.

The day that Manny and Sal carried out what some have characterized as their “nefarious mission” to “get as much money as possible, while inflicting the most damage,” was a very nice day.  It was easy to get into the house, as the occupants were preparing for a pool party—which wasn’t scheduled till later. But Manny knew nothing about that. They just made sure that their machetes were sharp and then they pushed their way in.

Afterwards, and this is the part I want to address, Sal threw up in the rose bushes. Manny, on the other hand, was very interested in the final moments. He leaned against a wall, chewing a toothpick, watching them. This proves my earlier assertions. A victim, that’s what Manny is. He had absolutely no remorse. And that is why you should send him to a home where he may get the care he needs. We should hate the act, but love the person. Look at him in his new suit. Doesn’t he look sweet, like he just needs a little mothering?

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He was hoisted out of ignorance by the rope of compassion.

By MD

It wasn’t until Sergi read the works of Dostoevsky and Tolstoy that he found religion. Raised in the atheistic regime of early Lenin Communism, he eschewed any attempts by his peasant parents to embrace any form of spirituality.  But to them, education was of foremost importance, so they made sure he was able to attend the finest schools, as prescribed by government intelligence assessments.

And it was here that the government failed--the Bible had been banned, religion had been banned, churches were closed, and clergy exiled or executed.  But the new society of Russia failed to ban the works of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky.  And as Sergi studied these classics of Russian literature, he learned, almost by osmosis, the value of belief and faith in a higher existence.  He was hoisted out of ignorance by the rope of compassion. The examples of Raskolnikov and the Brothers Karamazov brought him to embrace the Russian Orthodox church and the mercy of God.  In solitude he retired and ensconced himself in the snowy countryside, in an abandoned church, and Sergi spent his days immersed in his purloined Bible.  Although he was alone, before long he realized that the presence of God was companion enough. And then, the government descended, and executed him -- ironically on the same day as Tolstoy’s death.

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Richard can find most anything in ten minutes.
by TT

Richard's Luck

Richard could find anything in ten minutes. But he couldn't find a parking spot. Where he went camping in the forest - there wasn't one camping spot left. Apparently everyone had reservations. "That's ridiculous," Richard fumed. "I'll take this trail and see where it goes. Perhaps I'll find a campsite."

The trail meandered through the woods until it suddenly stopped at a huge fallen tree - The enormous tree had fallen over the trail. There was a sign beside it. Richard got out of the car to read it. 

The sign said:  This tree is 1000 years old. It can't be moved without cutting it into pieces. So if you wish to continue then climb over it and walk. Sincerely yours,  The Forest Service.

Richard looked at the trees further on. It all looked the same. I'll park here and put up my tent, he thought. I don't think anyone will care.

But Richard was wrong. He overslept in his tent and awoke to the horrible sounds of a gigantic saw.

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It was the year of the Water Ox to the Wood Tiger, 1913-1914.

By CC

Nuunuk and Ugluk had been married for 25 years and recently borne two children whom they named Pooka (which means Number One) and Hoopu (which means Number Twelve). They ate raw fish and threw rocks at birds hoping to knock one down for a bit of mealtime variety.  But mostly they got their food from the sea.

One day Ugluk saw something floating in the water. It was a sodden pamphlet. She had no idea what this thing might be, but pulled it out of the water, its wet leaves flopping like seaweed. It started to dry in the canoe. By evening, by the fire, it became obvious this thing was a book, obvious at least to Pooka, who had spent a few hours with an intrepid State-paid traveling indigenous teacher who produced books from his sled for them to study. So Pooka was able to read a little of the print:  It was the Year of the Water Ox to the Wood Tiger, 1913-1914.  He translated this as best he could for his parents and sister. They looked at him blankly.

What is a Water Ox? Asked Nuunuk, thinking it must be something like a Walrus or a Whale. And what is a Wood Tiger, asked Ugluk, shaking her head in dismay.  Pooka didn’t really know but he was proud of his little education and started to feel shamed by their questions.  I don’t know, he was forced to admit. It’s just a devil book anyway, he said suddenly, tossing the pamphlet on the fire, where it flamed up prettily. Nuunuk turned to Pooka and asked You got any more of those potatoes? Obviously thinking of the time months ago that the teacher had slipped him some provisions. Pooka shook his head no, wondering at the stupidity of his parents, who had no conception of time.

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For the last decade he had documented people like these - and now he was one of them.
by KC

Home

As an art historian, Victor loved to travel. From the Far East to Cape Horn, the Pacific Islands to the Arctic Circle, nowhere and everywhere was home. 

Vic could not understand lengthy contemplation of a single work of art until he saw 'Tres Bollas,' a new work by an elderly sculptor named Salvador India. 

They sat in a semi-circle around the balls, the group of spectators, the "Ballies" as they were known.

For the last decade he had documented people like these - and now he was one of them.

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It was as if she'd cast witchcraft on him, a spell to make him do crazy things.

by RMAF

It was as if she'd cast witchcraft on him, a spell to make him do crazy things. Horra Dora Mora the professed witch of the Sierra desert told her photographer male pal "If you want to marry me, you'll have to do away with my ex male pal's collections of stuffed coyotes, snakes and lizards and his dilapidated dune buggies. Then, and only then, will we unite as one. And my loveliness will all be yours.