Tagged: Blogging
Teaser for Buried Within, by Pete Deakon
The screen fills suddenly with what appears to be a creepy looking Target employee standing directly behind a beautiful young brunette as she shops. Next we see the young brunette giving in to a handsome, though, bumbling man’s flattery in a grocery store. The image quickly changes to the red shirted creep now driving on the highway in too small of a car. Changing again, the screen now shows the brunette and handsome man skinny dipping in a lake and as they begin to kiss they carelessly sink under the water. Now the sceen fades to black and reappears with what we can tell are clearly faster moving images beginning with the creep climbing out of his car in the driveway behind the beautiful woman as she starts to run toward the house. Now a heartbeat sounds as the handsome man pulls into the drive after work and sees her legs on the ground in the garage as it opens. The next beat is followed by a policeman’s face denoting helplessness while the man hangs up his phone and resignedly tosses it to the side of the couch. The next beat shows the man loading an ax into the trunk of his car. Then after the next beat a bedroom door opens to reveal the creep’s back as he sits in a chair unaware anyone is in the house. The next beat is followed by the camera zooming in on the handsome man’s face as he begins with a terrible violence to swing the ax. One more beat and we see the image cut out right when the ax would’ve made contact with the creep. Silence accompanies a black screen. A moment later, we see and hear a breezy Missouri forest in the fall which has what can be none other than an empty grave and mound of dirt beside it. Then the words Buried Within appear, followed by “Coming Soon.”
Dreams Comes True
“Does anyone know who this man is?” asked the teacher with a playful smile. The question proved her worth on many levels. One of the two women in charge of the small class of four and five year old pre-kindergartners, she was about the only diversity these white youngsters ever experienced. And on this occasion her husband, also black, came to the classroom on some errand still wearing his business attire. He towered a healthy six foot two over the seated suburbanites-in-training.
The children shook their heads, revealing that they did not have a clue who the man was.
“M-? Is this your dad?” she joked again at poor M-‘s expense.
M- opened her eyes wide, shook her head in the horizontal plane and verbalized, “No.”
“So no one knows who this man is?” the teacher egged on one last time.
Finally, a beacon of light. Of all children, it was the daughter of Pete Deakon himself–writer of should-be-world-renowned blog post Black People Does Not Exist and self-proclaimed leader of the twenty-first century Renewed Effort to Stop Self-Segregation Movement in America (Denver its origins)–it was his little girl, the beloved H-, that fearlessly raised her hand and said, “I know who he is.”
Naturally, other children began to follow their new leader and place their hands in the air, indicating that they too had come to recognize the man.
Quieting down the kids, the teacher asked, “H-, you know who this man is?”
“He’s Martin Luther King!”
There are instances, as rare as double rainbows and three wolf moons, where the lines between our concept of pure joy and the reality of it blur. This is one of them. Take a moment, then, and join me in both picturing and experiencing the delight of the adults present in that classroom last week.
The man did not disappoint, by the way. He looked down at H- and declared, “I do have a dream.”
So I Bought A Romance Novel Yesterday
It wasn’t for me, of course. I bought it as a gift for the last book reader in the land. For my part, I, Peter, the eldest Deakon brother, hailing from that last great North American municipality Kansas City, so named for the river that decreed its eastern boundary and ferried the native tribes of the same name, always scoffed at such trinkets. Not anymore.
I had only moments before stepped out of my aging helicopter, which had assumed the role of confidant over the last few lonely years, and calmly removed my gold-rimmed sunglasses to look upon the setting sun, perhaps for the last time, through the many layers of slowly falling dust my old friend had kicked up. Rarely did she bestow upon me the gift of being able to stare at the life sustaining star unflinching and without filter. There were no governments anymore, no commanders to frown at me if I didn’t wear my cover when outside, but still I deftly exchanged the aviators for my old blue airman’s hat that I nevertheless kept in my flight suit’s left ankle pocket. Ever scanning the sky for trouble, I only looked down for a moment when I paused to wipe clean with my thumb the polished silver captain’s bars before placing their visibly worn fabric bearer on my head, cocked slightly to the right.
That’s when I saw her, rather felt her, approach. She had come to a stop just outside of arms reach at my five o’clock without my noticing, shame on me. It was when I began a turn to my left that out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of her swelling bosom’s shadow as it accented her figure’s shapely outline upon the hard packed dirt. “A quiet runner,” I thought, impressed, “or maybe I am losing my hearing after all these years.” My torso lagged, hips even more so, behind my rapidly turning head as I began to assess friend or foe. The dusty black Glock in her right hand said foe, a rare display of perfect white teeth two widening, full lips revealed said friend.
The Idiot At Kohl’s
After passing through the doors at 9am, he walks up to the nearest manned register.
Perturbed that she didn’t immediately speak up upon his approach, he clears his throat and asks, “Excuse me. I was wondering if there is perhaps a sales associate who can take my measurements for a suit? I have to order a tux online for my brother’s wedding, but I don’t know my measurements for the shirt and coat.”
She looks mildly confused but after a moment’s consideration replies, “You’ll have to go back to customer service for that.”
“Thank you.”
The line at customer service is short. The problems are not. Finally, it is his turn.
“Um, yes. I just need some help with finding my measurements for a suit. My brother is getting married and I have to reserve it online, but I don’t know my measurements. Do you have someone, maybe in the men’s department, who can help me with that?”
The bewildered woman silently stares at him when she suddenly remembers something. Pressing her radio button, she says, “Jewelry: I have a customer here who needs you to take his measurements.” Then she turns to the man and says, “Just head on back to the front to the-”
“Yes, I heard. Jewelry department,” he concludes for her, seriously considering skipping the wedding.
Before he is able to leave the area, an associate more experienced in customer service stops him.
“Excuse me, sir. What did you need help with?”
Annoyed at this extra and unwanted attention, he only slows his walk as he explains, “Oh, I just need some measurements for-”
“Well what size shirt do you wear?” she interrupts.
He freezes mid-stride and wishes he would’ve said, “Perhaps you couldn’t tell, but I don’t know my size. That’s why I’m here. I don’t know my size because I’m an idiot. What’s worse is you should have recognized me for what I am and ignored me. But you didn’t. It seems I may be contagious–all the more reason to let me by unmolested. But, again, you didn’t, so now you get to listen. The clue you missed was that you were talking to a man standing in a Kohl’s because he believed that someone employed here would have the dexterity to use a tape measure to help a brother out. In any case, please stop talking to me now. Mind you, I don’t point the finger your way for causing this situation. I accept the blame readily. You see, just like you, I should have recognized I’m an idiot because only idiots would shop at a store where everything is always 70% off. By definition that’s not possible. And now I have a question for you. What’s it like to work for a company whose destruction would improve the world?”
****
All below units are U.S. Customary
Neck – 16 1/2″
Chest – 42″
Sleeve – 36″
Brain – Pea-sized with little room for growth
Mr. Williams
By Request
I took a course in college called “Mass Media and Communications”. I can’t remember the reason. But what I will never forget is one of the lessons. This was back in the early 2000s, so HDTV (1080p etc) wasn’t prevalent yet. The professor taught us how a television worked. I had no idea before then. He explained that a device inside the box quickly draws a very thin line–two hundred forty evenly spaced lines actually–across the screen. Then on its return trip, this device fills in the blanks just left with another set of lines. That’s where 480i (NTSC) comes from. Old televisions in America had 480 “interlaced” lines. Now we all watch in some level of progressively scanning lines, meaning the picture is fully refreshed each trip across the screen and the image is high definition. Now you know.
What all this techno-mumbo-jumbo means to us mortals is that the images on the television screen are an illusion. They’re not really there. Different than a painting, sculpture, or the words and images in a tangible book/magazine/newspaper, which we can really see and feel and touch, the images on the television screen are an optical illusion. Our brain is able to put together all these rapidly moving lines and we think we see a man or woman or if you’re four and a half years old, it seems that all you see is an Octonaut.
But the truth is there is nothing there. There is only an illusion. Mr. Williams is not in our living room. Only a powerful illusion that our brain wants to believe is a trustworthy man named Brian Williams is there. But even that is not true. This illusion isn’t on or in the television, the illusion is in our minds.
The question then becomes, “Can an illusion lie?” I say no. I say there is no non-fiction television to begin with. How could there be?
If there is anything to be learned from current events, it is that we’ve allowed ourselves, yet again, to be fooled. The new question, the only question I see remaining at the end of this is, “How many more times will we let it happen before we turn off the TV?”
Through His Eyes
A bitter poem as the worst holiday ever conceived approaches dreadfully slow.
Longsuffering does not mean suffering through long hours at work to buy you jewelry.
Longsuffering does not mean suffering through long lines with other procrastinating men to buy you flowers.
Longsuffering does not mean suffering through long years of staring at some perplexingly huge teddy bear that got me laid once.
Longsuffering does not mean suffering through long explanations about why you can’t make friends with women.
Longsuffering does not mean suffering through long lists of men’s names who you thought really loved you.
Longsuffering does not mean suffering through long years of hoping you’d get the clue that I wanted to be more than friends.
Longsuffering does not mean suffering through long periods of silence as you conclude life is as your dad said it was, not as you wanted it to be.
Longsuffering does mean suffering through long days and nights which add up to years of wondering where the hell a woman worth her salt hides and if I will even be able to recognize her.
Arpicembalo Che Fa Il Piano E Il Forte
“Large keyboard instrument that produces soft and loud (Barron 95).”
At seven feet long, six hundred seventy pounds, and taller than a toddler, it demands attention. But for a few aesthetic nuances, there is purpose in every handcrafted stationary and moving part. Equally beautiful and functional, the black behemoth exemplifies creativity. Neither do its origins disappoint. Cristofori’s problem was monotony. The harpsichord produced one sound. The strings were plucked. No matter how hard or soft the musician pressed down on the keys, the resultant volume was the same. But life’s spark would not let the matter rest. He sought both soft and loud, and henceforth created a new connection to the Infinite.
Mystifying in its identical name, the keyboard these words are typed on sits atop a wooden table in a room whose walls and closed blinds seem inclined to constantly advance inward. The piano keeps them at bay. Its weight symbolizes its persistence to preserve its place in this world.
The words begin to grow short. The afternoon advances. The man approaches confidently, if lazily. As he steps around the bench, his body brushes against the hanging blinds. He pulls his hand up short of the light switch. As if unable to contain a joyful secret, the swinging blinds reveal the sun is shining. He opens them and smiles.
There is nothing, I mean nothing, that compares to playing the piano in the light of the sun.
*Barron, James. Piano: The Making of a Steinway Concert Grand. New York: Times, 2006. Print.
It’s Not
It’s not. I promise it’s not.
It’s not that a four year old was beating me in Memory.
It’s not.
It’s not that I was even trying a little bit because two losses in a row to a child in anything is embarrassing.
It’s not.
It’s not that she was teaching me how annoying my victorious mannerisms were as she copied them instantly and completely, saying, “Haha! I’m cleaning up!” when she saw that she was on the home stretch and knew she could not lose.
It’s not.
It’s that her body position, essentially half-standing, half-sitting so that she could easily pivot on her knee and reach any card that she desired, had resulted in her other leg’s pant leg being pulled up to near high-water-Frodo-Baggins-hobbit height and every time she moved her now protruding bare foot I could not but think of the emphasis Peter Jackson placed on those abnormally long, obnoxiously hairy feet as if they were the most difficult piece of trick photography in the Lord of the Rings trilogy. That’s what it was. That’s what annoyed me so. Promise.
Table of Contents or Try From Memory?
“What is the deal with the traffic?” he muttered, alone in his car. It was 6:44pm and that meant he only had sixteen minutes to drive the twenty minutes of pavement that separated him from his destination. “I wanted to be there right now,” he continued.
As predicted, twenty minutes later he arrived. Transforming what should have been a three-point turn into an eleven-point turn, he finally came down off the curb and shifted to park.
“Oh man. I didn’t expect anyone to be dressed up. Oh well,” he thought, seeing a few other stragglers walking up to the building.
Not knowing what to expect, he approached the door and was yet again immediately greeted with a welcoming handshake from a stranger.
“This place is amazing,” he thought.
He knew some of what was going on. He wasn’t dumb. He sat in pews like these week after week for a decade as a child. “It’s just muscle memory,” he could hear the critics say. It felt familiar and familiar feels good. “You go to what you know,” Hollywood wisdom taught about behavior during trying times. But he didn’t care.
“So what?” he thought. “Who cares if I only like this place because it is familiar? Why is that wrong?”
Then he heard it. It couldn’t have been louder than a whisper, but boy was it distinct. When the church was a little fuller on Sundays, it wasn’t as audible. But on this night, it sounded like the crack of thunder.
“Tonight’s,” a pause, “scripture reading,” the man looked up, “is from the Gospel of Luke,” the man stopped. “Turn with me,” he continued, “to Luke chapter eleven,” he took a breath, “where we’ll read,” and another, “verses one through two.”
Pages ruffled.
American
A text from my brother last weekend informed me both that Europe had recently been terrorized and that three (point seven) million people demonstrated unity in and around Paris. My thoughts were “no surprise” and “that’s seems pretty remarkable” in that order. Honestly, as you can tell by there being no post released this morning, the show of unity has actually rendered me speechless. (Mon and Tues were kinda already developed over the weekend). I’d love to comment on such a big event. But there didn’t seem to be anything to say. It seemed awesome that that many people gathered together. When was the last time that many people got together? I want to say the million man march way back when claimed a million, but it’s always hard to count. Several other marches here have attempted to gather a million people, but they never succeed. One million people is a lot of people in the same place.
But here’s the thing. I don’t think any relatives of terrorists were in that show of unity. Were any parents of terrorists there? Or sibilngs? Or first cousins? Second cousins? How about their children or wives, did any of them show up?
Scratch that.
I want to talk about America. There are three hundred sixty million Americans. Subtract the approximately seventeen million college students and their professors who believe the terrorists may have a point, and that leaves three hundred forty million Americans walking the streets in unity against terrorism daily. Does anyone really doubt our resolve? Where’s that headline? Where’s that photo op?
Moreover, the United States’ active duty military numbers over one million men and women. And these people are serious. They don’t march down streets of peaceful cities lined with world-renowned architecture. They walk down dirt roads lined with IEDs. It’s easy to let piecemeal news stories about a couple fuck-ups ruin the larger organization’s image, but honestly the only image that counts is the one that includes American men and women serving this country today, American men and women who put their family through hell and risk their own lives near daily, American men and women who volunteer to do this because they were born (or fought their way) into a country that knows its way of life is better and worth sacrifices, American men and women who are constantly setting higher standards of honor, respect, service, integrity, excellence, decency, dignity, and a whole host of other virtues unlike any of their armed predecessors, American men and women who travel away from their neck of the woods to yours because you can’t get your shit together.
So yeah. It was neat that over three million Europeans went to the park. But when are you going to impress me?
