Ladykiller

You blamed your lewd acts on society and pornography,
claiming 'not guilty' until your bitter, dirty, tragic end.
Illegitimate child -- probably the product of incest.
You psychoanalyzed yourself and came up with no answer.
"Why? How could he have done those things?!" Those evil, derelict deeds.
You smiled, shrugged your shoulders, reminiscing about the stark gore,
the girls, the crowbar, the chase, the murders, the rapes and the blood.
The blood -- you wanted to bathe in it, wash yourself clean with it,
your past, your history, wishing to be a star, deity.
You renounced God and humanity, creating effigies
from burned and battered flesh, from the remains of true innocence.
Your will, your choosing, your destiny -- a self-made man; monster.
In your final hour you accepted Jesus Christ, your savior.
The Governor of Florida, your real God, turned a deaf ear,
as your sister-mother wept for you, her son, her little boy.
The world sighed relief as you left, then went on with its business.
Just a flicker, after all, a meaningless flicker in time.

Ceramic Elephants

I wish my life was like an Urban Outfitters catalog --
at my age, a ridiculous desire, yet still, I want it.
Those kids look like they're having so much fun with their records
and their beer tumblers emblazoned with the words 'slut' and 'douchebag'.
Those crazy kids with their ivy-league educations and their
summers spent in The Hamptons, or in Morocco or Paris.
They gallivant in cut-off's, forced shabby chic, with the back-up
of Daddy's credit card and Mommy's guilt from being away,
never fully present (extended cocktail hours, pill-popping).
Those kids, poor orphans, are forced to reinvent themselves through style,
modern art, macrame plant holders, ceramic elephants,
marijuana cookbooks, paisley-print sheets, fruit-scented perfume,
Indian-inspired jewelry, and pomegranate candles.
They create a space, all their own, in their dormitory rooms,
hosting parties on their magic carpets, drinking from tumblers.
They make toasts, and eat hors d'oeuvres; Life stretches out in front of them,
glossy, immaculate, full of endless possibilities.

Energy

Energy...clean sweeps of it.
Dark bundles of it, lurking.
Light silk feathersweeps of it,
meaningful glances of it.
Energy -- use it up, fast!
Usurp it, demolish it!
You are made of it -- an itch
will never be satisfied.
Energy -- stand up for it,
celebrate it while you can,
it's breaking up, it's breaking.
You depend on it, always.
Energy...it's a fool's game,
nothing but a foolish game
one you are destined to play
simply because you are here.

Tell Me What is Real

You've built your life upon complaints,
stacked neatly, one on the other.
Negativity ruminates,
boiling over -- hot, sticky mess.
It has to be pushed down, controlled;
like everything else, it grows.
Before long it would overtake
your walls like a cloying ivy
wrapping you up like a mummy,
while you make lists, judge, criticize.
Your comparisons won't save you,
neither will your weight, your money,
your husband or your fancy house.
They are all as illusory
as you -- the inside of your mind.

Rancho Tarzanadu: Helicopter Nightmare

Miss Linda had fallen asleep on her bed with the lights on and the sliding glass door open, exhausted. Her sheer lavender curtains rushed into the room in a torrid frenzy as the whir of a helicopter whipped immediately outside of her window, hovering at eye level outside her bedroom balcony. From a loudspeaker came a man's even voice: "National Security Agency! We are just observing...go about your normal business."

Miss Linda tossed and turned. She shouldn't have had that third cherry-vanilla soda with vodka. She tried to wake herself, but she was in the in-between state, in a tug-of-war with the dream world and the waking world.

There was a gust of desert winter air as the helicopter lifted itself up above the house and flew away, almost indecipherably. It was there for only seconds, long enough to realize it was there, and then it was gone into the blackness and the distant stars, slipping in between the folds of the night.

Miss Linda dreamed that she sat up straight in bed, and re-arranged her hair and smoothed out her bedclothes and blankets. Paperwork had blown all over her floor...mail and notes, and postcards and magazines and bills and post-it notes and the pages of books and seed packages and tissues and empty paper bags.

Marlon Brando came to Miss Linda in this dream, dressed in a pin-striped Zoot Suit, cigar in hand. He advised: "You must never intervene with humans and you must always entangle. Jesus, I just want to fear my own truth. Cut, and it's here...a snail. On the edge of a razor."

He took a breath.

"Believe in One Day. There was a apace. The Gardener had land and steak. Black motorcycle. The egg farmer's in the ocean. It's a day pulled. And for penguins. Ever read 'The Merchants'? It winds muscle. You're staying. Me. You will be called to the left out of justice. It's The Wonder Twins. I understand. My son, try living faster than the speed of light. But you, mad men, will still be lying and I will be sober."

He paused.

And finally: "He went as mad as a March Hare."

Miss Linda awoke, for real, disgruntled. None of it made any sense at all.

Or, obviously, the question would be: did it?

Rancho Tarzanadu: Dark Hour

Miss Linda was in a bind. Manuel was being held at Guantanamo Bay, indefinitely, for questioning.

Little Johnny and the male FBI agent had both disappeared into the Vortex, without a trace, sliding in 'accidentally' on cardboard boxes.

The FBI had obviously pulled the funding for Little Johnny's stay after his disappearance occurred, and almost worse, the daily prepared gourmet meals had been halted as well. Miss Linda was a horrible cook, and piece-mealing meals together the best she could. Basically she was eating whatever was lying around in the refrigerator. She ate lot of peanut butter sandwiches, cheese sandwiches, and scrambled eggs. She wasn't much cut out for 'roughing it', but desperate times called for desperate measures.

She was having strange, psychedelic dreams that were a residual effect from the energy work she had been practicing. She felt a growing blurred line between this world and the next with more and more clarity. Although that didn't lend itself very well to sleep, so she was also tired. Very, very tired.

She had also lost her other boarder, the Psychic, who left on a whim one afternoon unexpectedly to follow the cloud patterns to the Native American Gaming Casinos. She left Miss Linda a note written in red lipstick on a paper towel in the kitchen (the last paper towel on the roll, by the way). It said, "Sorry...gotta go!" Miss Linda understood, but now she was left alone and almost penniless, without a solid plan of action.

She missed Manuel. He drove her crazy.

She was afraid. She might actually have to get a job.

She would have to be her own boss, of course.

She began to contemplate her options, while chewing on a stale slice of dry burned toast accompanied by a glass of lukewarm tap water.

Rancho Tarzanadu: Miss Linda's Phantom Lover

Miss Linda had a phantom lover for the last few years. He lived across the golf course in the hills; he was very reclusive. Sometimes when the moon was full or new, he would come traipsing across the green with a red rose in his mouth. Miss Linda had a difficult time saying no to him, even though she knew it was ultimately fruitless. He was like a firefly caught in a jar...only for the moment. She always felt a deep melancholy when he was gone...which was usually. He would never stay the full night when he visited her, always creeping out before dawn (she wondered if maybe he was related to Vampires), and she would wake up alone and ponder if it had actually happened or if she had dreamed it. He would stay away for days, weeks, sometimes months at a time, and she would speculate about what he was up to. She told no one of his existence, because he had made it very clear that he was not her 'boyfriend'. "Why do we have to 'label' it?" he would moan, and look anxiously towards the fading sun dial on the golf course green. "Why can't you just let it be what it is?"

"And what is it?" she would ask him. He would avoid the question, then slip away.

Everyone at Rancho Tarzanadu thought she was a loner; how could she tell them that she was emotionally involved with a phantom?

He made Miss Linda very angry and she started to resent his capricious behavior and elusive charm. He was never available for most major holidays or family functions and when she needed anything from him he was nowhere to be found. When she got into a car accident and needed a ride he later told her that his cell reception was horrible in the woods so he never got her message. She found this hard to believe. When she got her eyes unexpectedly dilated at the eye doctor months previously and needed a ride home he later told her that he needed more advance notice of such things and had a former engagement. She ended up driving herself home, blindly, and saw it as a metaphor for their 'relationship' which was really just a 'situation'.

For Miss Linda's most recent birthday, he handed her a folded up piece of paper, with an 'I.O.U' scrawled inside.

She would completely and utterly lose her patience with him and vow never to speak to him again, only to find him climbing up her balcony unannounced at an unexpected hour while serenading and mesmerizing her with his magical flute and incandescent ways; they would laugh and dance into the wee hours. (That stupid flute! Maybe it was the culprit of all this nonsense.) He would soothe the savage beast inside her with music and stories and smoke and mirrors and then disappear into the morning fog as she would awaken in a vague cloud, alone.

She considered putting up barriers and blockades around her property, so he couldn't get through if he ever tried again. But he could get through anyway, because her heart was still unbarricaded. She felt like a chump; she'd been duped with faerie dust and moonbeams. She sat outside on her balcony, smoking and looking at the stars and listening to the frogs sing, and wondering. She disliked him immensely for making her wait and wonder. She decided firmly that she would never yearn for him again. The next day she would waffle, then wander around the house trying to talk some sense into herself. If he knew the torment he caused her and cared about her even slightly, he would never, ever attempt to bedazzle her again with his whimsical ways, but would go deeper and farther into those wooded hills and play his flute to the muses and the birds instead...surely they would understand him far better than she ever could.

Rancho Tarzanadu: Miss Linda's Lucid Dreaming

Miss Linda had a recurring lucid dream. This time she knew she was in the lucid dream before she tried the things that usually signaled to her that she was dreaming, like trying to turn on light switches that would not produce light. She decided to test her dream theory; she turned to her bedside table and tried to turn on the light switch. No go. She tossed back the covers and stepped out of bed (within the dream) and swiftly started to flap her hands against her thighs as if her hands were hummingbird wings. She started to gradually rise off the floor. This unnerved her a bit, but she proceeded. She leveled herself out so she was parallel to the floor, but a few feet above it. She flew around her own bedroom for a few seconds, then ventured outside to her balcony. There was a full moon, which filled the backyard with cool blue-white light and lit up the ground with the imperial shadows from the tall pine trees cast upon it. She sailed and swooped over the backyard, dipping and flipping in the air as if she was performing in a circus trapeze act, and she gained more confidence which fed her momentum. There was a cool Autumn breeze, not cold, but cool, moist and buoyant. She felt supported as if she were floating on the surface of the sea.

An owl hooted in the trees, and airplanes flew high above her head. She could hear the creatures of the night rustling in the bushes, and dogs barking faintly in the neighboring backyards. Frogs were sing-croaking from the country club golf course pond nearby.

She was free as a bird and weightless, spiraling this way and that, diving in close to the ground and skimming over small ground plants, then rushing back up towards the sky, soaring above the tops of the pines.

The more frequently she had this dream, the longer she could remain in this state of bliss, floating and flying in mid-air.

She caught herself thinking that she was flying and dreaming at the same time, and realized what an unnatural state that was to find herself in. She started to lose her balance.

She woke up abruptly, safely in her own bed, in the same position she had fallen asleep in.

She turned to her bedside table, turned on her lamp which illuminated instantly, and made a few key notes in her dream journal. She was determined to master this technique of dream-flight no matter how long it took her, even if it was a slow, methodical process over the course of her lifetime.

She turned out the light, snuggled into a comfortable position, and went back to a smooth, sound, seamless sleep until morning.

She awoke in the early daylight with remnants of stardust and sticky Blue Plumbago flowers intertwined throughout her hair.

Rancho Tarzanadu: 'Little Johnny' and the FBI Agents

'Little Johnny' (his code name) was brought to Rancho Tarzanadu for refuge, and a place to explore his creativity in a non-judgmental and supportive atmosphere. It was carefully studied for months previously by FBI Psychiatrists, and had been deemed the perfect place for 'Little Johnny' to study, get fresh air in a (relatively) safe environment, and a place for him to open up and expand his strategic craft of war. 'Little Johnny' had a special talent, although he still spoke no words at age six, of strategizing military manoeuvres with miniature military tanks, vehicles, personnel and weaponry. It was a rare gift, indeed, especially considering his age and lack of practical experience. He was a child to be closely watched and observed, to be taken note of. The FBI was abuzz like a hive surrounding its Queen about 'Little Johnny's' talent, and his very large brain.

They had tried keeping him on an actual military base for observation at first, but this proved fruitless. He curled up in the fetal position and started sucking his thumb. Again. His parents had both disappeared earlier that year, and being a boy of six, he was greatly affected. He felt isolated and alone, abandoned. Not being very creatively profuse in this condition, the FBI had to reconvene about his placement, in an environment that would nurture his abilities, yet give him the space to explore on his own. He needed to be somewhere he felt safe, in a community atmosphere, but not heavily doted on or interfered with.

Apparently the FBI had been keeping tabs on Rancho Tarzanadu for some time, unbeknownst to Miss Linda. When they showed up at her door she had a sudden, sinking feeling, and events from her past came rushing to the surface of her brain and she felt like she was drowning. She must have swayed a little bit, for the next thing she knew two FBI agents had her by each arm and were ushering her back inside the house. They sat her down in her own living room chair, and ran through their list of terms and conditions. Miss Linda was relieved. They wanted a little boy to live there, room and board paid in full (and then some) for his protection. Miss Linda was curious as to how they sought her out for this 'mission', since she had no military training of her own.

"Your father," the male agent spoke, "was...well-connected and well-respected. We've been here before...'we' being the 'collective we'."

"I see," Miss Linda replied, looking at the amount of the check that they had presented her with. And as she folded it and tucked it away she said, "I'm sure we can work something out."

Miss Linda had never wanted children of her own, and still did not. She liked children fine (well-behaved ones), but she didn't want the responsibility of caring for one of her own. In fact, the thought of it made her somewhat nauseous. Ex-boyfriends of hers had mentioned having children with her in the past, but she ended up leaving them, or jeopardizing the relationships to get out of it. But this child would be different; he would just be another boarder. Her first official boarder.

'Little Johnny' took to Miss Linda immediately. He could sense her uneasiness, but being an idiot-savant he could also sense her true essence and the light that shone out of her (some would call this an 'aura'). Whatever it was, 'Little Johnny' saw it clearly, and bonded with her in a silent and distant way, but with a psychic cord attached to her soul.

It took Miss Linda a while to warm up to him, but it was a slow and steady pace of blossoming toward his little spirit like a flower in the sun. She gave him plenty of space, but when they did spend some random moments together, it was profound, and they both realized this without having words for what it was or needing to express it. Miss Linda felt as if she might have known him in a previous life, but she was not even sure if she believed in that sort of thing. He kept to himself. The only physical affection Miss Linda showed him was a gentle tap-tap on the head every now and again, and sometimes she would give him a genuinely warm hug, when the mood struck her. He always held on longer than she did, and hugged her a little bit harder. He adored her. She was reticent, but open-minded, and kind by nature to animals and good-natured children.

Miss Linda was actually kinder than she liked to let on. She had her guard up. She had her creative pursuits to focus on, and didn't want to lose track of that.

"As long as he doesn't get in my way," Miss Linda told the FBI agents. "I have things I need to get done, and can't be babysitting all the time."

"It won't be like that, Ma'am," the female agent replied. Miss Linda did not like that she called her "ma'am", and wasn't that thrilled with her tone, either. "We would be 'Little Johnny's' caretakers...we'll bring him his meals, via a daily food delivery service...all organic, healthy and tasty meals and snacks. We'll have someone tidy up his room on a regular basis, provide a teacher for his lessons, and we'll be around once a week for observational purposes to make sure he's doing okay. There will be more helicopters flying slowly by your house, however, and sometimes hovering. That's something you'll have to get used to. We'll be taking photographs of 'Little Johnny's' work from above, and need to document that."

"I understand," replied Miss Linda. "I agree on one final condition: you bring me fresh, organic, tasty meals also. Including dessert. And for Manuel as well."

The FBI agents gave each other a look.

"You drive a hard bargain, Ma'am," the female agent replied. "But I think we can accommodate you."

Miss Linda was secretly pleased with her own bargaining skills, and also greatly relieved; she was a horrible cook.

Rancho Tarzanadu: Miss Linda

Miss Linda is a dichotomy, in many ways. She dislikes attention, but she is always doing things to draw attention to herself. She dislikes being photographed, but she loves dressing up. Her fashion sense would be best described as 'strange'. Some have commented that she has an 'ugly-pretty' style. She is mostly drawn to fashions of the 1960's and 1970's and does not follow any modern day fashion trends. Much of her wardrobe is polyester psychedelic floral prints. She is very much a homebody, so mostly wears these outlandish clothes at home.

She has been doing yoga for twenty-seven years, and has a certification to teach it, although she doesn't like to be in a room full of people telling them what to do, so she hasn't taught for several years. She is currently studying massage therapy, and hopes to do that part-time while she pursues her creative endeavors, such as writing, songwriting, and making objects d'art from broken vintage dolls and thrift-shop oddities. Hence, the need for prospective boarders to bring in extra money. Although she loves being creative, and it makes her very happy, she realizes that she may never make any money from any of her endeavors, and thus, is trying to be practical. Miss Linda is not very practical at all, by nature. She likes to think of herself as 'mystical' and 'otherworldly'. Mostly others just think she's weird, although they are inexplicably drawn to her, as are children and animals. Miss Linda doesn't understand this herself, as she finds most people annoying. But she also enjoys their company when partaking in food and drink and most holidays. She enjoys the camaraderie of some, and probably more than she's willing to admit to herself, but she needs a lot of quiet time to pursue what's meaningful to her. She tends to feel nothing for someone, or too much, and sometimes both, simultaneously.

Miss Linda has been in Junior College for the last twenty-eight years. She met with a school counselor, who told her that she had enough credits for three degrees, but she needed to take Algebra in order to graduate. Miss Linda is horrible at math, which is ironic considering her father was an electrical engineer at Hughes Aircraft and did math problems for fun in his spare time. She keeps putting Algebra on the back burner, and instead takes classes such as Abnormal Psychology, Oriental Philosophy, World Religions, Women's History, and The Hero's Journey in Literature. She is well-versed in many things, but horrible at math. Ironically, she pays all of her bills on time, and is good at budgeting her money. She has grown to believe that the necessity for math in the school system for a Liberal Arts major is a governmental plot against artists, to hold them back from achieving their goals and reaching their true potential. She believes the government sees artists as 'dangerous', therefore throwing them a calculated curveball of calculus to screw them up, preventing them from making any real difference in the world or in the collective unconscious. Miss Linda thinks too much, which is also ironic because sometimes she is perceived as a blonde nitwit. She scored higher than her father when they took an IQ test together, one rainy afternoon. Just a few points higher. She was also in the 'gifted' program in grammar school, but she doesn't like to brag about it. People don't listen, anyway, or they're caught up in their own lives, thinking their own thoughts, or overwhelmed by the onslaught of media and are sitting brainwashed in front of their television sets, mouths slack and eyes wide, absorbing endless waves of nothingness.

Miss Linda has been very interested lately in energy work, and has been practicing the powers of levitation. She has told no one, not even Manuel, but she thinks he might suspect because of the looks he gives her sometimes when she enters a room a little too noiselessly. So far she has only been able to rise a couple of inches off the ground, and only for a few seconds at a time. Frankly, she finds it a little frightening. But too compelling to stop. She has also been having vivid dreams more frequently, dreams in which she is flying, mostly over the backyard, too scared to branch off into the city. Yet.

Miss Linda has three cats. She acknowledges, herself, that she is probably a crazy cat lady. That used to freak her out, but now she's okay with it. Two of her three cats play the piano, mostly in the wee hours of the night. Miss Linda praises them for this, and the more praise she gives them, the more they play the piano, and the better at it they get. She's hoping to record an album of cat music sometime in the future, once they have enough material worked up.

She has been working for the last thirty years, slaving for 'the man'. She worked for nine years at an Advertising Specialty Company that promoted things, mostly movies and TV shows. She came up with the ideas for these products. She enjoyed it at first, but then felt like her soul was dying. She felt like she was contributing to the giant landfill of the world, that was somewhere, out there. The company that she worked for  got acquired by a larger company, and one year later fired all the original employees after meticulously studying their work systems and taking all their clients. Miss Linda, along with her co-workers were out on their asses on the pavement, with no ice-cream cakes or gold watches to show for it. She got drunk with a fellow co-worker twelve years her junior and had sex with him in her ex-boss's beach condo in Santa Monica, while he was out of town on business. She'd do it again; it was a good night.

Miss Linda does not behave very well when dealing with authority figures, and tends to 'talk back'. When she is told what to do, she usually ends up doing the exact opposite. One of her ex-bosses told her that she was 'giving her attitude energetically', even though Miss Linda had remained silent, biting her tongue. Miss Linda rolled her eyes and snorted while walking away, and eventually got fired. She also throws her jury-duty summons cards in the trashcan, then claims she never received them, if questioned.

She wanted to change her life now, for the better and do something to further the world growth into one of serenity, harmony, and love. As much as individual people may bother her, she had grand hopes for the collective whole. She was not sure why she felt this way, however.

Miss Linda believes, above all else, of making lemons into lemonade. This is her saving grace.