Friday, April 22, 2011


I can teach you to be a superhero.  I can get you going on costumes, disguises, alter egos. I'm working on a manual with visuals so you won't have to do much reading.  I don't believe that the ability to read should be a prerequisite for the superhero life.  I know you're time constrained but want to be super.  I offer courses you can take from your own home.  You can become a superhero at your own pace.

Powers--sometimes, you're born with them; sometimes, you aren't.  I can bring out your God-given powers that only the select few possess; I can teach you to maximize your human abilities, learn to turn your basic body into an instrument of war.  I can teach you to jump.  Over cars, low-level buildings, straight up high in the air.  I can teach you to scale buildings.  Move from level to level, window to window, hang by hand from the space between bricks.  I can teach you healing.  I can teach you how to walk through fire unscathed.  I can teach you how to shoot basic earth elements from your body as projectiles.

There are things, though, I can't teach you.  You should be aware of these things before you go any further.  I can't teach you to fly.  The sobering, un-super reality of liability prevents it.  I can't explain to you the unexplainable yin and yang of how once you become a superhero, super villains will begin to appear where they didn't exist previously.  I can't save you from the inevitable tragic losses of loved ones you are sure to experience.  I can’t spare you the pain of the woman you love just being out of reach.  I can't teach you how to have a heart, show compassion for the world’s mothers and daughters.  I can’t teach how to know, now’s the time to begin.  I can't teach you how to know when it's time to say, it's over.

Friday, April 15, 2011


In the rearview mirror you see children in white dresses and miniature tuxedos dancing and twirling and laughing at a wedding reception the carefree revolutions of youth, the grownups move in slower smaller circles, closer together, holding hands, eyes more contemplative and brimming with the sadness of passage.

In a wide carpeted room there is a clock.  In rooms everywhere there are clocks.  The hands spin so you can knock off minutes hours days and lives.  There are people gathered everywhere mourning what the clocks tell them, what the clocks scream, what the clocks remember from long ago.

You stack up chairs and stand on the unstable mountaintop this top heavy construct and shout, there are books, there are philosophers, there are musicians destroying guitars and drums--don’t cry over the moving hands.

The chairs are rickety and are like a group of frail acrobats building and holding onto their loose architecture built to the heavens.  The gathered are oohing and aahing and their worried sounds  fill the room rise on high and you wave your hands motion everyone for just one second to stop.

Then you are on the tip of one foot.  Then you turn.  The chairs below you wobble like worlds built on fault lines.  But you’re turning. You spin to stop the thing that's devouring us all the thing where someone close dies you say if I just keep moving the pain doesn't have a chance. This is your revolution.

The people watching are frozen silent can't clap.  You know will cry if you stop and think. So you spin your hands in the air round and round and round, spinning, unstoppable motion, blur, light, essence.