Holistic Nurse Coaching
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News Roundup for 12/10/09
2 hours ago
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
I missed the freaking bus to Holyoke
Missed the freaking bus to Holyoke. Déjà vu all over again.
My sneakers were still wet. I was shaking and kept slipping in the slush, thumb out. The sky was hammered lead pounding me with stinging pellets of freezing rain.
Fuck me dead, this New England weather sucks. Cars were passing, spraying runoff. I kept moving backward along Mountain Road. Had to get to Holyoke with this money in my pocket.
A van went by with writing on the side, The HomeCleaner, some crap like that. The driver was eyeballing me. The brake lights went on as I turned. He pulled over and I sloshed to the door.
“Dude,” he said. “Where you headed?”
“Holyoke.” My teeth were chattering. “You The Cleaner?”
“Yep. Get in, I can get you over the hump.”
I wish. He had some ancient 60s music playing, same shit Pop listened to. Ted Nuisance, Journey to the Center of Your Hind. I caught a funky scent of marijuana barely masked by the sharp tang of cleaning chemicals. The Cleaner was a stoner. Ass fuck me now just like in juvie.
“I’m Jake.”
“Bob,” I said. It didn’t match the ink on my arm, but it’s what I always said.
“What’s in Holyoke?”
Holyoke’s in Holyoke, asshole. “A buddy of mine. I owe him money. He wants it.”
“That’s righteous, you out in this nasty weather to pay a debt.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
He pulled a half-spent joint out of the ashtray, offering it. “Care to partake?”
“No, man, I don’t like that stuff.” He let go of the wheel to fire up his half-fatty. We were going up the winding mountain road. He got the sucker lit, put his hand back on wheel and took a big hit. Somehow, we’d managed to stay on the road.
“Picked up the habit in the Army,” he said, blowing smoke.
“Yeah, you get lots of bad habits in the Army. My dad was in the Army.”
“Really?” He looked over, sizing me up. “In The Nam?”
“Yeah.” I pulled out the scrunched pack of Camel non-filters I’d nicked off Pop. My hands were numb and shaking like crazy. “Mind?”
“Yeah, actually. Don’t like the smell of cigarette smoke in the ride.”
“That’s cool.” Freaking hypocrite.
“You live around here? I might know your dad.”
He didn’t look anywhere near as old as Pop. Must have been over there later. “Naw, we just moved here from Ohio,” I said, the lie told so many times it even sounded true to me.
“I’m from Oregon, originally.” He pronounced it organ, and it took me a second before I understood he’d said Oregon without the e. Oh happy days. I nodded. “Ahh.”
“I’m going into Holyoke, too. Where do you want me to drop you?”
“Anywhere near I-5 is good.” The sooner the better, I needed a smoke.
“Alright, Dude, keep your powder dry.”
He pulled over. I got out. “Thanks,” I said. I meant it. I could walk from here. The streetlights blinked on as The HomeCleaner drove off.
When I got to my buddy’s place, his van was sitting out front, The Home Cleaner. Dude was scoring. I waited. It was the worst five minutes of my life. An eternity of pain. When the van finally pulled away, I took care of business and got back on the highway to catch the bus. Guess who pulled up? The freaking Home Cleaner.
The passenger window rolled down. “Dude, you need a ride back?”
“Sure." What the heck. In for a penny, in for a pound, Pop always said.
He jabbered the whole ride back. I don’t know what he was talking about. I got out near the spot he’d picked me up earlier, walked to Pop’s. He was still sitting in the kitchen chair. He’d turned blue. I pulled the needle from his arm, flushed it with bleach and cooked up some love.
“That’s what you get for not saving me a taste, Pops.” I rode the rocket home.
My sneakers were still wet. I was shaking and kept slipping in the slush, thumb out. The sky was hammered lead pounding me with stinging pellets of freezing rain.
Fuck me dead, this New England weather sucks. Cars were passing, spraying runoff. I kept moving backward along Mountain Road. Had to get to Holyoke with this money in my pocket.
A van went by with writing on the side, The HomeCleaner, some crap like that. The driver was eyeballing me. The brake lights went on as I turned. He pulled over and I sloshed to the door.
“Dude,” he said. “Where you headed?”
“Holyoke.” My teeth were chattering. “You The Cleaner?”
“Yep. Get in, I can get you over the hump.”
I wish. He had some ancient 60s music playing, same shit Pop listened to. Ted Nuisance, Journey to the Center of Your Hind. I caught a funky scent of marijuana barely masked by the sharp tang of cleaning chemicals. The Cleaner was a stoner. Ass fuck me now just like in juvie.
“I’m Jake.”
“Bob,” I said. It didn’t match the ink on my arm, but it’s what I always said.
“What’s in Holyoke?”
Holyoke’s in Holyoke, asshole. “A buddy of mine. I owe him money. He wants it.”
“That’s righteous, you out in this nasty weather to pay a debt.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
He pulled a half-spent joint out of the ashtray, offering it. “Care to partake?”
“No, man, I don’t like that stuff.” He let go of the wheel to fire up his half-fatty. We were going up the winding mountain road. He got the sucker lit, put his hand back on wheel and took a big hit. Somehow, we’d managed to stay on the road.
“Picked up the habit in the Army,” he said, blowing smoke.
“Yeah, you get lots of bad habits in the Army. My dad was in the Army.”
“Really?” He looked over, sizing me up. “In The Nam?”
“Yeah.” I pulled out the scrunched pack of Camel non-filters I’d nicked off Pop. My hands were numb and shaking like crazy. “Mind?”
“Yeah, actually. Don’t like the smell of cigarette smoke in the ride.”
“That’s cool.” Freaking hypocrite.
“You live around here? I might know your dad.”
He didn’t look anywhere near as old as Pop. Must have been over there later. “Naw, we just moved here from Ohio,” I said, the lie told so many times it even sounded true to me.
“I’m from Oregon, originally.” He pronounced it organ, and it took me a second before I understood he’d said Oregon without the e. Oh happy days. I nodded. “Ahh.”
“I’m going into Holyoke, too. Where do you want me to drop you?”
“Anywhere near I-5 is good.” The sooner the better, I needed a smoke.
“Alright, Dude, keep your powder dry.”
He pulled over. I got out. “Thanks,” I said. I meant it. I could walk from here. The streetlights blinked on as The HomeCleaner drove off.
When I got to my buddy’s place, his van was sitting out front, The Home Cleaner. Dude was scoring. I waited. It was the worst five minutes of my life. An eternity of pain. When the van finally pulled away, I took care of business and got back on the highway to catch the bus. Guess who pulled up? The freaking Home Cleaner.
The passenger window rolled down. “Dude, you need a ride back?”
“Sure." What the heck. In for a penny, in for a pound, Pop always said.
He jabbered the whole ride back. I don’t know what he was talking about. I got out near the spot he’d picked me up earlier, walked to Pop’s. He was still sitting in the kitchen chair. He’d turned blue. I pulled the needle from his arm, flushed it with bleach and cooked up some love.
“That’s what you get for not saving me a taste, Pops.” I rode the rocket home.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
The Owlster
Dan Thompsett is my favorite roustabout poet.
I think the guy might have ground glass in his veins . . . he can be prickly and cantankerous as all hell . . . but his poetry is splendid!
Look for Where Joe's Memory Failed Him, the inspiration for Dean's short story: iDream, where Joe's memory failed him . . .
enjoy!
I think the guy might have ground glass in his veins . . . he can be prickly and cantankerous as all hell . . . but his poetry is splendid!
Look for Where Joe's Memory Failed Him, the inspiration for Dean's short story: iDream, where Joe's memory failed him . . .
enjoy!
Thursday, September 10, 2009
If I had a hammer, I'd hammer you dead
Murder Happens | Chapter One
Look at you sitting there. Seeing your enigmatic smile and crinkled brow, anyone would think you’re pleased with me, with your circumstance, with the world at large as you spread today’s newspaper over past issues collected.
Still, they wouldn’t know you. Not like I do, wouldn’t know your face of morning displeasure. Though puffy with sleep and haggard with hang over, you’re still delectable with your tanned limbs, your chiffon peignoir and fluffy slippers. No denying you’re an attractive woman.
If I had a hammer, I’d hammer you dead.
A roofer’s claw hammer, the tar-stained business end swinging, your eyes widening, horrified as you realize my intent. You twitch instinctively to avoid the heavy-duty steel, a spasm of fear before your forehead crumples, spattering me in a baptism of bright blood. You spill lifeless to the floor, sewer smell filling the kitchen.
“Would you like more coffee, dearest?” I offer the pot. Another cup remains, softly steaming with the barest hint of cinnamon, the way you like it. Dear reader, this is no Walter Mitty daydream. You’ve been warned.
“Oh, you saved me some? What a treat.”
“Of course, darling,” I say, ignoring your sarcasm, and top off your mug. I leave room for cream and your two bags of artificial sweetener, and dream of better ways to start my day.
If I had a bell, I’d toll your death knell.
I’d duct tape your hands to your thighs, wrap you in plastic, watch you turn blue, struggling, eyes bulging, reddening, blood vessels bursting a 4th of July on white sclera.
I’d ring the bell in joyous celebration, that bell, on your side table. Your signal when you take yourself to bed for slavish pampering, jingling it for more ice, more vodka, more tonic, more lime, more cheese, and meaty bite-sized tidbits, and snack crackers, and where’s the remote? You do enjoy being pampered.
“Hey!” Your fingers snap with irritation in my face. “You in there? Wake up. The toast is done. And you’re humming that song again. Stop it.”
“Sorry, my sweet.”
If I had a song, I’d sing it this morning sawing off your head with a crenulated bread knife, your dog lapping eagerly at the pooling edge of blood, dancing a paw print tango on the tile floor.
Ah, but the toast. I fetch the thin slabs of bread with wooden tongs, spread them evenly with buttery-flavored spread before serving.
“Where’s the jam?”
“You used the last of it yesterday,” I say, and to cut off a tirade of quick-to-rise temper, I add, “and I was too busy to stop before the store closed. I’ve started a list. It’s there near your plate. Here’s a pen.”
You shuffle through the sections of old newsprint. You find the list, take the pen, and munch your toast without jam. Your face softens as it does under retail fluorescence, imagining goodies filling the shelves of our well-stocked cupboards.
It’s the same with your lists of all things to do, to buy, things to enhance your daily routine. Clothes, Christmas presents, furniture, yard implements at the huge home store full of refurbishing refinements, more is always better, less the ultimate evil.
“I have free time this afternoon. I could swing by, pick you up, steal you away to the grocery store?”
“Hair appointment at two,” you say, studying your fingertips. “And these claws need work.”
“Well, I’m off for my Wednesday nine-o’clock. No rest for the wicked.” You offer your cheek. I kiss dutifully, taking the list with your child-like scribbling. “Until this evening, my sweet.”
You return to your papers, coffee and dietary toast while your dog I refuse to call by name escorts me out, snapping at my ankles as I close the door.
“Shut up, Fluffy,” you say. You toss him a crust as I peek through the window, your hand going for the bottle of ibuprofen.
Glancing in the car’s mirror, I’m humming a familiar song. I stop to reflect on my reflection, gazing directly into the silent mirror. Blue, bright, pellucid. A smile twitches on my lips. I start the car, the song returning to my throat.
If I had a hammer, I’d hammer you in the morning.
Look at you sitting there. Seeing your enigmatic smile and crinkled brow, anyone would think you’re pleased with me, with your circumstance, with the world at large as you spread today’s newspaper over past issues collected.
Still, they wouldn’t know you. Not like I do, wouldn’t know your face of morning displeasure. Though puffy with sleep and haggard with hang over, you’re still delectable with your tanned limbs, your chiffon peignoir and fluffy slippers. No denying you’re an attractive woman.
If I had a hammer, I’d hammer you dead.
A roofer’s claw hammer, the tar-stained business end swinging, your eyes widening, horrified as you realize my intent. You twitch instinctively to avoid the heavy-duty steel, a spasm of fear before your forehead crumples, spattering me in a baptism of bright blood. You spill lifeless to the floor, sewer smell filling the kitchen.
“Would you like more coffee, dearest?” I offer the pot. Another cup remains, softly steaming with the barest hint of cinnamon, the way you like it. Dear reader, this is no Walter Mitty daydream. You’ve been warned.
“Oh, you saved me some? What a treat.”
“Of course, darling,” I say, ignoring your sarcasm, and top off your mug. I leave room for cream and your two bags of artificial sweetener, and dream of better ways to start my day.
If I had a bell, I’d toll your death knell.
I’d duct tape your hands to your thighs, wrap you in plastic, watch you turn blue, struggling, eyes bulging, reddening, blood vessels bursting a 4th of July on white sclera.
I’d ring the bell in joyous celebration, that bell, on your side table. Your signal when you take yourself to bed for slavish pampering, jingling it for more ice, more vodka, more tonic, more lime, more cheese, and meaty bite-sized tidbits, and snack crackers, and where’s the remote? You do enjoy being pampered.
“Hey!” Your fingers snap with irritation in my face. “You in there? Wake up. The toast is done. And you’re humming that song again. Stop it.”
“Sorry, my sweet.”
If I had a song, I’d sing it this morning sawing off your head with a crenulated bread knife, your dog lapping eagerly at the pooling edge of blood, dancing a paw print tango on the tile floor.
Ah, but the toast. I fetch the thin slabs of bread with wooden tongs, spread them evenly with buttery-flavored spread before serving.
“Where’s the jam?”
“You used the last of it yesterday,” I say, and to cut off a tirade of quick-to-rise temper, I add, “and I was too busy to stop before the store closed. I’ve started a list. It’s there near your plate. Here’s a pen.”
You shuffle through the sections of old newsprint. You find the list, take the pen, and munch your toast without jam. Your face softens as it does under retail fluorescence, imagining goodies filling the shelves of our well-stocked cupboards.
It’s the same with your lists of all things to do, to buy, things to enhance your daily routine. Clothes, Christmas presents, furniture, yard implements at the huge home store full of refurbishing refinements, more is always better, less the ultimate evil.
“I have free time this afternoon. I could swing by, pick you up, steal you away to the grocery store?”
“Hair appointment at two,” you say, studying your fingertips. “And these claws need work.”
“Well, I’m off for my Wednesday nine-o’clock. No rest for the wicked.” You offer your cheek. I kiss dutifully, taking the list with your child-like scribbling. “Until this evening, my sweet.”
You return to your papers, coffee and dietary toast while your dog I refuse to call by name escorts me out, snapping at my ankles as I close the door.
“Shut up, Fluffy,” you say. You toss him a crust as I peek through the window, your hand going for the bottle of ibuprofen.
Glancing in the car’s mirror, I’m humming a familiar song. I stop to reflect on my reflection, gazing directly into the silent mirror. Blue, bright, pellucid. A smile twitches on my lips. I start the car, the song returning to my throat.
If I had a hammer, I’d hammer you in the morning.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
iDream: When Joe’s Memory Failed Him
The Journal News Agency
For Immediate Release
CUPERTINO- . . . [blah, blah, blah] . . . The success of the iDream technology has caused an explosion of elective surgeries for those able to afford the wet [forebrain] implant . . . [blah, blah, blah] . . .
Cut to chase . . . Bl-ack, ack, ack . . .
And sex dreams, more outrageous, the better! Cr-ack, ack, ack.
Dream world incarnations, sweet victims rendered into pieces and fat parts
Turning unblinking eyes, slabs of shimmering golden granite
Watching always watching fangs under horns upon a throne
Of our denial and desire with ten-hundred thousand incinerating even more
And nary squeak, life a pitiful prologue unto death’s dark dream
Whatever it is . . . you tell me. H-ack-ack-ack.
Dreamed of suicide, cool barrel against head. Explosive discharge spackling wall with blood and brain, ruined skull face forward into soggy Shredded Wheat. Break fast. Peace, at last.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
this is where dean fearce lives, the link is where he loves
Been a negligent slacker when it comes to writing, but Paula and I started this other blog site to share the unfolding of our conscious loving relationship. Now I'm feeling the urge to caress the qwerty keys again.
I've got many stories written from the old TIBU glory days, and I have a couple novels gathering virtual dust. Feeling the urge to shake them out and see what's there.
If it's decent, I'll share it here, heck, I'll probably share it either way. You can always hit the comment button and tell me how you feel about it.
You've been warned.
Dean Fearce
I've got many stories written from the old TIBU glory days, and I have a couple novels gathering virtual dust. Feeling the urge to shake them out and see what's there.
If it's decent, I'll share it here, heck, I'll probably share it either way. You can always hit the comment button and tell me how you feel about it.
You've been warned.
Dean Fearce
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Richard & Paula by Design
Richard and Paula explore and reveal the conscious design behind building a loving relationship.
Tom Owens, former NAS Creative Director and Copywriter has this to say:
I have to say your blog is a trip. It's gutsy being that self-revealing and vulnerable for all the world to see. I couldn't do it myself...lapsed Irish Catholics are much more comfortable bundling that kind of honest introspection into a tight little black ball in the pit of our stomachs which we then carry to our graves...
Tom Owens, former NAS Creative Director and Copywriter has this to say:
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