Witness Protection

 Snow falling down, endlessly, relentlessly, those cold, grim, heartless, stabbing flakes of gossamer ice, spreading their melancholy net out for miles across the heartland; and the cold winds rattling through some forgotten hamlet in a remote corner of the Dakotas (or was it Iowa? Nebraska? Wyoming? ) - a tree deprived flatland of sorts with a town plopped down upon desolate earth -  a town with one main road, one ramshackle gas station, a tiny post office (now closed for renovations) a nondescript general store - a Bunny's Burger joint (also closed because of inclement weather at lunch time, no less!) -  business in these parts having been bad or non-existent for years - except for the constant stream of big-rigs - with drivers typically continuing on to the Regal Truck Oasis in Kindred Village 20 miles further down highway 94. Our protagonist (D.S.) - for some reason always kept in basement settings or some secret loft spaces that cheap hotels were sometimes known to boast of - consuming corn flakes and watching reruns on old-timey tv sets, accompanied by his  intrepid handlers - part-time detectives outsourced from the F.B.I  - who at this point in time must have been figuring that this type of work assignment amounted to some kind of serious demotion... Waking up on this particular day was indeed troubled for the aforementioned Damien - in part because his dream of the night before corresponded quite precisely with the view outside of the loft space hotel room - and his fear - quite justified - was that a new home was to be found for him - in this locale - which to put it mildly did not represent his first choice of venues. 

The Mystery of Flop House for One in Suburbia

 Caretaker Alice came to visit me again today,...the house is feeling empty again...She seems to think I'm making good progress and I'm hoping that she will apprise me more as to my situation...I realize I've been somewhat hazy and brain-foggy lately - I simply want to know about my family and where they have gone...I'm not to the point of panic, but I just need to know what's happened. And then there's the matter involving my dog...I seem to remember having pets at one time - a dog and maybe a cat. Alice reminds me that I've been through so much - with my head condition (injury or whatnot) and to take it one step at a time. Yes - I'm resolved to be hopeful about my status and to conquer my fears...

Winter Poem

weeks after you have resolved

to do that thing...it fades

like a bird egg at Snowqualmie Pass...

was it go again to shop for salt and gravel?

was it sign up for pickle ball  in April?

was it cancel your nightly ration of duck sauce lo mein?

learn to live inside a makeshift 4-star hotel lobby of the mind

one with large-back swivel chairs and flowing fountain fish tanks

one with long red runner carpet and coffee bar refills

art murals and mirrors - and luggage carts to match

a pool with swan boats both inside and out...

a line outside bookstores in hot July

distracted by thoughts of mud in gardens

you fall on ice

more than once, asking why

over-scheduled for hibernation

hands cold inside of gloves

you play a word game over and over

until propelled outside again

reaching for hand and coat

observe how the cars collide slower than normal

one day is actually warm and the sun

plays upon the cardboard horizon

The Dream of Johannes Chorister - Pt. 1

Emerging from the bleary mist and fog, as if from a trance,  ascending stairs in the dark,  through massive doors I enter into a warm, stately, cathedral-like edifice, and then down along the marble corridor with footsteps echoing along the hall until one reaches near where the concert is to be held. A long corridor with portraits hung of older, serious-minded folk, each projecting looks of somber hope, grim alacrity, austere joy.  The large rectangular windows are eye-catching as well, but in a different way,  with geometrically precise patterns of tinted glass, a more festive aura shedding beams of green, red and yellow light. At the end of this strange corridor, a vestibule, with alcoves and side rooms lit by flickering candles. In one of these cordial voices can be heard reminiscing... Here gather the guests and loyal devotees of the much-venerated Johannes Chorister, teacher, visionary, virtuoso, musical progenitor of life-altering approaches to melody and counterpoint....The receding set of panel doors leads into this grand lobby where a cadre of serious-minded followers have gathered, humming familiar tunes from the Chorister catalog. I make note of their faces - humble, respectable, unsophisticated - everyday, salt-of-the-earth people ...The sign near the table reads - please sign in and join our gathering before partaking of tonight's concert. Embarrassed by the unexpected protocol, I search out the least conspicuous "corner" along the wall, but to no avail. Despite my best attempts at small talk,  the stiff upper-body language betrays a stubborn aloofness. How did you hear about our concert? And have you studied the works of Chorister before? I nod affirmatively not wanting to state the obvious. Who of my age and description had not been immersed in  Chorister music, lore and general conformity?  And have you traveled far to reach us here?  Do you play an instrument yourself?   - Yes more than one, piano, organ, some trumpet here and there...  And do you sing? - Not well, but I have studied music for many years.  -And I have sung in choir... 
United they are, it seems, by a secret pride at keeping "real music" alive, music with a long history, an august tradition, a maze of ritual and pageantry surrounding it, while others fall prey to shallow trendy sound-scapes, lustfully arrange mechanized percussion binges, therapeutic noise, elevator muzak and other false idols... I am as yet  unable to inform them of my patchwork of day jobs,  as erstwhile musicologist, piano tuner, make-shift journalist, concerned friend, amateur private investigator ... made curious by their ostensible obsession with a rarified strand of music, cognizant as to the attrition rate that plagues their lot. The heartfelt testimonials blur within memory.

- Chorister's melodies have taught me the true meaning of music...
- His hymns have changed my outlook entirely..
- It has been six years now since first I heard the joyous "Prelude in E major" of blessed Chorister...
- How different my life became since ....
- I was wandering aimlessly, despairingly for many years, a wretched prisoner of my own dim routine until...

Such heartfelt testimony... How predictable such anecdotes come to sound after a while. But perhaps I am too much a cynic. The glib anecdotes of "visions" and "revelations" -  simple answers to life's great ills falling from the sky as it were...instant cures - for pain, for grief, disappointment, despair - how soon they forget that such "solutions" are nowadays a dime a dozen - one choice among many possible options...The feeling of "serenity" that descends...the "clarity of purpose" that only this music can supply... the magic, enchanted, joyous atmosphere that surrounds one, that guides one's choices step by step...  And yet on a certain level I understand this need, this unquenchable craving for something to fall back upon...a buffet from the harshness and cruelty of existence -  I can hear the staunchest defenders and their rejoinders: What would you suggest then? What do you have to offer us? If not this sublime music, what is there... to live for? ...Perhaps this is not the time to get cheeky with my replies...Don't some people collect paintings or climb mountains...? Don't others amass fortunes...or pursue ill-fated romances... invest in their children's futures or in some fleeting glimmer of fame...? ***Why do I seek to disrupt this quaint gathering - watching as the elder folk sip at their hot chocolate? Who would believe me if I announced as my mission some obscure musicologist's quest for clarification on a thorny issue involving dissonance, half-notes, chord progression, and the theory of harmonic spacings? The mere mention of music, of an interest in music per se would appear to place me in good graces with my hosts - and yet - as has been witnessed so often before - I can anticipate their reactions if I deviate from certain answers when mentioning specific works and composers...It is frustrating to say the least at hitting such walls of narrowness and provinciality on a subject seemingly so universal. It is such rigidity that transforms their "love of music" into a more burdensome passion. And here I hit upon what is perhaps really bothering me under the surface given all my past experiences- and those a few kindred spirits who have fallen away from the pack so to speak if not at all from the true spirit of music...I reflect in particular here upon the case of a promising cellist driven to despair amid such ostensibly cheerful surroundings...  And yet for all this, I see that a real bond has been built up over time among these old people - and their trust in the music is solid, their love of hymns, of song. Is it their sheer complacency that i resist, that on some level I envy? This need for truth at all costs which has been my scourge in life; do I seek to pass on this virus to these happy few -  those who do not spend time over maddening riddles or tragic irreversible mishaps? I am also made aware down the hall of a younger crowd of zealots who seem on some mission to redeem the lost glory of prior ages when Chorister's name was it seemed on every lip... No doubt they will be intent on replying in kind to mockers and skeptics - those who come to fleer and scorn at this solemnity... They will have much to complain about enemies and adversaries, those who have fallen away and those who wander through life aimlessly without the sustenance provided by a  Chorister's melody....

In the middle of these, my roaming thoughts, a young man with flashing red hair and an awkward, ecstatic energy about him sees fit to  grasp both of my hands leading my down the hallways saying: Please join us...Friend, you have a curious look about you as though, like the rest of us, you also were searching for something ... as if you too were alarmed at what is happening to music, chagrined at young people giving in to all manner of noise, perhaps you seek to help us to preserve this joyous heritage, to prevent it all from passing out of existence entirely...May I...May I simply share with you a line for that famous passage from the Chorister diaries, volume 1, chapter 7, verse 18... when Chorister, beset by worries, in the midst of composing his most spectacular B minor symphony, observes: "on your next walk, look for the simplest twig, enfold it within your safe hands, and carry it back through snow and sleet, lay it upon thy table at home and cover it in warm dry cloth. Make it into your strongest element." How oft I have pondered those amazing words! - Do you not hear the remarkable wisdom hidden in those simple lines? Only someone in touch with the deepest mysteries could utter such words as this! Brother - I know you have been led here for good reason... And is it only to hear the concert or do you wish to join our communion? 

Politely, I stand back, slowly explaining my humble agenda, paying homage to Chorister's reputation as a composer of compellingly simple, elusive melodies that have acquainted themselves with me since my earliest youth;  I recount my obsession with classical music, with the standard ensembles, trios, quartets, choirs, etc. along with my compulsive habit of frequenting the meager concerts that find a hungry, if diminishing audience.  I share my curiosity as to the spectacle that has grown up over several decades attaching itself to Chorister and his music. From humble beginnings the movement had for a time caught fire with the popular imagination embedding themselves into the yearly calendar with feasts and processions and groups of adoring pilgrims migrating from one venue to the next, only to find in recent years, a precipitous falling off of enthusiasm...people for various reasons distracted away from Chorister chorales, from music in general, for that matter, toward what some might see as shallower pursuits: fascination with more plastic arts, more tangible pleasures and gadgetry of all kinds.  Even as I stare at this rag-tag remnant of some former glory, it occurs to me that they have been drawn here as much by an aversion to more worldly pursuits as by the sheer sensuality of this music, a sensuality they would deny themselves in every other respect. A good part of me shares perhaps their desperate obsessional need to escape from the chaos of the world outside, to find a sense of order and even predictable morality amid these ritualistic gatherings - to huddle next to other, like-minded misfits, those bearing scars of cruelty and neglect, for whom other outlets of connection seem overshadowed by sinister worldly interests and self-destructive habits. (I can myself recite at least one famous passage from the Chorister journals: "Consider this, brethren, the very essence of music: deliverance from all fears, fear of pain,  fear of death...") Among his acolytes, Chorister, has remained that often-invoked name, like Rembrandt or Shakespeare - a figure so associated in their minds with the word perfection, a word so rarely attached to human endeavor, a tenaciously idealized descriptor used to separate him from other illustrious composers of note; behold his perfect tenor voice,  his perfect ear, his perfect technique, his illustrious teaching method, his unmatched humility, etc. etc. This quixotic quest of theirs, somewhat ridiculous in the earnestness of a shared secret wisdom that to outsiders must appear inane, tedious or else completely redundant... is for them a crazily plausible lost cause worth fighting for. And yet, even early on I admit to a feeling of being overwhelmed by these somewhat loopy strangers, accosted and exhausted by the onslaught of well-wishes, their incessant repetition of helpful admonitions,  oft-quoted verses, and welcoming gestures - which I fear may turn less auspicious [a provisional form of acceptance based on the expediency of growth...]. Here again I am brought back to the strange elaborate ceremonial brocade that had come to surround the simple music-making that once had characterized the original students of Chorister's music. Complaints had been heard again and again about the obsessive fervor and over-wrought sensibilities of the more recent adherents...and for so very long I had made excuses on their behalf until a series of incidents made me question this level of devotion to a music whose very significance in the grand scheme of things was slipping from my grasp...it had almost been a necessary step for me to let go of this established ancient paradigm of melody in order to expand my understanding of music in general - to re-ask a set of simple questions involving melody, harmony, rhythm, instrumentation and all the rest of it....And then - almost as an after-thought, he time comes for the actual concert...We enter the hall together, sitting in endless rows with wooden chairs, our attention drawn forward to the vast stage that seemed to float and rise before us,  and upward, noticing mural with musical notations at every turn and the massive wood beams above us and the high, majestic ceiling. The full sensual appeal of it all was brought back to me by such a setting.

But within minutes, almost oblivious to the people still entering the chamber,  the concert has already commenced, without fanfare. the music simply begins perfunctorily out of nowhere with one (?), two (?), three (?) soothingly slow, soaring, piercing orchestral pieces followed by an omnipresent choir singing all-too-familiar Chorister songs and cantatas - and with audience members invited to join in at certain places, some of whom chose to sing or hum along with the entire production. A goodly number held spellbound by the mesmerizing spectacle, others approaching it with a sort of business-like stoicism. Afterwards during another reception, people mill about chatting. The conversation is more subdued than before but more than a little predictable - with most alluding to the superiority of the Chorister melodies when compared to contemporary trends dismissed as either painfully out-of-touch "elitist-composer noise" or the "purposeful therapeutic elevator music" - cloying, sickly-sweet, prepackaged sound manipulations - the working of ads-men, hucksters, manipulators of enlightened opinion. I find occasion then to strike up conversation with a few about the actual music itself, with references to time and key signatures - Choristers seeming preference Eb and F#, Gmin and Cdim chords - but to my surprise almost everyone seemed offended by my intentions - as if to discuss these matters were a subtle way of poking fun or stumbling upon dangerous lines of inquiry.

Afterwards, a goodly number of folk stream out into the cold; many are tempted to linger, to greet and recruit the stragglers such as myself... It has dawned on them now that I have a reason for being there other than mere concert-going. Am I a potential devotee of this music that I seem already so familiar with ...Understandably they are suspicious of my motives. Am I a typical "nay-sayer" - another disenchanted soul  come to mock and fleer at their solemnity...? The small talk turns every now and then to such mistrust of outside nefarious forces  - the media and others doing their utmost to discredit, to ridicule the antiquated aspects of their approach - if not to music per se - then to the arts in general... My host - the ebullient greeter - is most intent upon discerning my connection to the composer and his work. I inform him of my musical background, my interest in theory - western harmony, counterpoint, etc. - and the controversies swirling around Chorister and his use of the "jarring discords..." - strange unexpected disruptions sewn amid otherwise simple and accessible chord progressions - especially  in the larger orchestral works. - Ah yes - you and everyone else these days seems fixated on that thorny subject, but really you should not let that be your stumbling block.  - And along with that - I persisted - the question of the original editions  of particular scores - the debates over which version of Chorister is to be performed and in what manner - Yes, my friend and this two perhaps relates to what people call the discords... And of course the famous diaries...From behind his smile, i could begin to discern no small amount of annoyance... It is clear to me, friend, forgive for sounding cynical, but your standoffishness suggests that you are either a scoffer, someone who hath come "to fleer and scorn at our solemnity" or else you are a journalist here to sniff out a scandal. It is the latter option i admit, somewhat sheepishly - you have found me out.

On the Court...

 ... you find yourself on a court, a basketball floor, with the parquet wood if you can find it with a group of injured, aging former something-or-others living for that elusive adrenaline rush...and there, on that very court, (forget the polished wood, you'll take what you can get...)  you enter into that parallel universe where a certain kind of "perfect" or shall we say 'optimum" social interaction not only happens but is mandated, where the individual actually counts for something because he or she (in this case, myself) is actually necessary as one of only five players on a team working together towards a common goal...where the personal connection get validated even by complete strangers. Plunged into this dynamic vortex,  you suddenly finds yourself moving - gliding - shuffling - stopping and starting in a wild, arduous, fast-paced macho ballet of sorts  - but that's a good thing -  as long as you're on the floor - even for a pickup game - the light shines upon you and whatever gifts or contributions you can offer are noticed by others, even appreciated. The fact that such a world can exist - a sweaty world yes - but one in which that "people working together" cliche really comes to fruition. Let's forget about those games where no one passes the ball or plays defense, where elbows fly, where travels and double-dribbles occur; no one gets a charge call; people get fouled - as in hacked, hammered, taken out, quasi-decapitated - every time they drive the lane. The two or three hog-doggy, show-boaters get their 20 points with zero assists and suck the proverbial air out of the gym while others stomp off cursing under their breath.  Let us dwell on those more civilized show-downs where people who know the game somewhat are able to reach that lofty plateau known as spontaneous "team ball" (think: New York Knicks circa 1969-1973, Boston Celtics 1986 and 2008, Dallas Mavs 2014, San Antonio Spurs, 2007, 2014). It's here where a real sense of possibility takes over and you get caught up in that collective unconscious task of striving, working, toiling for the greater good - often times not even realizing the sheer exertion you're putting forth - here again in contrast to "jogging" where every step is sheer torment - in this game - you get lost in the group effort, and by the time you know you're tired, the game is almost over...It's that universe where five people are called upon to do great things - having only met and memorized each other's first names minutes before -setting screens and blocking out, doing pick-and-rolls on the fly, making outlet passes and alley-oops,  keeping the ball moving in a continuous series of deftly executed precision passes until someone - winking at his compadres - breaks these beautiful rhythmic motions with a well-timed shot. A channelling of passions - yes - that is a huge part of what makes this universe hum. A proper venting - release of certain overwrought, aggressive instincts, including but not limited to: anger, enmity,  petulance, hubris, fear, sorrow, regret, insecurity, grit, folly, vitriol, desperation, vain-glory, delusions of grandeur (is that a feeling?) such as must and do show themselves ON THE COURT sometimes - but in a good sort of unavoidable way as when the point guard to takes the ball to the rim and gets taken down by the power forward - before he can even mumble "and one..." is already glaring at this guy (who, truth be told, is perhaps not a natural athlete or "baller" at that by any means, somewhat clumsy with the footwork, but making up for it with brawn and swinging elbows) and the guy who just got mauled staring daggers at this bruiser as if to say: "Think you're somebody, dude, tryin' a break my neck like a @$#@#$% linebacker? You think we playin' hockey out here?

Halloween Night

The day had begun just like any other with my black cat scratching on the mattress at 5:30 a.m. and making her endearing little squeaky noises,  rousing me from slumber on a typical Thursday. "Halloween..." - I teased her "is that your favorite holiday, kitty?" Outside the window, the last few leaves of deep crimson and amber were clinging to the otherwise bare trees. School was already an afterthought. The day would race by in a blur with the usual kids in costume, traveling in pairs or packs, munching their candy in the hallways, and trading stories about their favorite scary movie. It was to be the last year of trick-or-treating for our nerd posse who were, as per usual, venturing out in our slovenly, ill-conceived, makeshift costumes. Opting for simplicity, Aaron decided to go again as a "dust-pan ghost" with a gray and dusty bed sheet he had pilfered from his basement.  Russell went as a make-shift sorcerer/magician with a droopy wand, a black cape and purple boots. Will wore a polyester shirt and disco pants. I wore a worn football jersey passed down from my big brother and an old Rams helmet with floppy horns attached. The sketchiest haunts in town were up and down a neighborhood called Edgewood perched on a hill where rows of old maple and oak trees lined quiet blocks with a minimum of street-lights. There were old houses there, many of which had been turned into to multi-unit apartments; but the people were generous, gave away lots of candy, and seemed to revel in the scare-factor of their enclave. Pumpkins glowing by candle-light could be seen up and down the blocks, whereas the usual artificial illumination was lacking. It was a weird feeling going from house-to-house, as it had been the year before, because we looked so out of place, still young of course, but awkward, and getting too old for this kind of thing, almost like people were expecting us to start pulling pranks in dark alleyways, egging pedestrians, smashing decorations, lighting fires or stealing hubcaps as a random alternative to the most innocent routine of gathering up hordes of candies in our pillow sacks. There was this one house in particular that Aaron wanted to visit because of a girl named Marcie who lived there; she was a field hockey player and Aaron wanted to tell her that he had been to her game and watched her score a goal and that he admired athletes who weren't stuck up. Russell thought this was a tedious plan and said so; he offered to show us the glowing neon house inhabited by the aging hippies that we had heard about but had never seen because we weren't sure where it was. Wills was voting with Russell which left me with the deciding vote. I saw that Aaron was giving me a look as if to say that if he didn't find a way to rendezvous with Marcie in some inanely casual sort of way, that his life would be over, so I proposed that let Aaron have his moment of glory before venturing down to see the hippie house with the ghouls in the front yard...But soon enough Aaron began back-peddling and getting cold feet.  I just want to see her, briefly, just to confirm a hunch. I don't necessarily want to talk to her - yet. I don't really know her all that well. Just need to see if she's with some other guy, etc. etc. We gave him grief about that. And so...we went up and down a few streets, letting Aaron engage in his lost puppy routine, until Russell put his foot down and demanded that we check out the hippie house, remembering the splendid weirdness he had encountered from a year before, with a "headless hippie" driving a motorbike through a makeshift "cemetery" on the front lawn.  It was all kind of dream-like on that "final" Halloween outing - the night when I really felt an unsettling transition taking place, not just like when your voice becomes all bent out of shape during puberty and your limbs hurt and you start bumping into furniture, but an actual saying goodbye to childhood, a moment after which I would not have a full excuse by claiming that I was "still a kid" and could get away with being clueless and unaccountable for my actions. Even during that nocturnal trek, I could feel a weight of added responsibilities being piled on my back as my oversized football costume began to feel unduly fake and ridiculous.  With Russell leading us in tow, and Aaron resigned to losing out on his fateful rendezvous with Marcie, Will emerged as the lucky recipient of female attention - in part because so many eyes were drawn to his funky disco attire. I noticed him walking behind us at one point after having been whisked aside by an enthusiastic trio of admirers - each one dressed up as felines (lions, tigers, cheetahs) of one sort or another. He seemed to have disappeared for a full ten minutes until somehow miraculously re-emerging near the front of the hippie domicile just as we were finishing our climb up the hilly street. He gawked at us with his goofy smile and pointed to the side street he had used as a short cut, then proceeded to give us the run down on his three new friends and the one who had been flirting with him the most. It was sort of awkward and irritating for the rest of us that we weren't sure how to react to his success; part of me felt like certain rites of passage came easier for Wills, that he wasn't quite one of us, the maladjustment factor just wasn't there for him. His boyish charm, his love of Monty Python movies and Steve Martin comedy routines allowed for a plenty of banter between us, but his jaunty confidence did not jibe with our dark insecurities and our sometimes barely-concealed, erratic self-loathing. This night would perhaps represent for him a rapturous beginning of a long string of success; he would no doubt break ties with us in the coming months, unintentionally, good-naturedly, almost as an after-thought. Our paths simply would not cross once he and the lioness began dating. In his stead, we would invite Larry or Leonard or Ben to "hang with us" late on Friday and Saturday nights from the ever-present repository of young, hapless, somewhat spacey, under-achieving,  wall-flowerish males-in-waiting. At a certain point in the evening I looked inside my pillow case to count up my candies, noticing how many of the "goodies" I had previously relished only a year ago, seemed dated and stale now to my aging taste-buds. I wasn't sure that this loot-in-the-bag had any real value except for the sheer bulk that I had accumulated. The way people stared at us when we said "Trick or Treat..." with our strained, half-husky, half-shrill voices was beginning to grate upon my nerves. Even the hippies juggling their citrus fruit and putting on their make-shift ghost theater in the drive-way failed to leave me mesmerized and enchanted, the way I once had been, the way I once had responded to the smallest of gothic decorations adorning porches and front laws in late October. Aaron was becoming exhausted; I could tell he wanted to quit early. He gave me one of his looks that it was time to take leave of Russell and Will; we would head back to Aaron's early for a quick count of candies and then watch some lousy late-show horror movie on channel 9.  I can't do THIS anymore he said to me. My heart's not in it. We're done with this routine, my friend...  and despite all the banalities that Aaron was known for spouting, I felt that truer words had never been spoken. We were both the type that did not look forward to the future. The idea of progress had not been hard-wired into our DNA.  To the contrary, we were looking for ways to stem the tide, to move backwards, to stop time in its tracks, to make believe that each change of seasons was identical to the one before. This shared melancholy was a secret bond - but even in this regard I felt that I possessed it more than either Aaron or Russell or Leonard, if we decided that Leonard (although younger) should prove worthy of our company. Walking down Rosewood Place, a shiver came over me and I was brought back to the time - a mere five or six years prior - when those menacing oafs Dan Powell and Evan Rhodes had jumped out of the bushes and sprayed us with vinegar, defacing our costumes, snatching our candy bags, calling us "losers" and "dorks" - which in retrospect was pretty tame, but at the time left me twitching for weeks on end with panic. What a crazy year that had been, filled with my superstitions about lucky and unlucky shirts destined to bring blessing or misfortunes;  the year Aaron and Brett and Guy and myself formed our secret society against the world, before Brett's abrupt departure in 6th grade and Guy being sent away for special help because of certain emotional difficulties. He had bragged to us that he broke down crying every day - he had counted he said - that the random (and, as we ourselves witnessed, sometimes ridiculous) crying spells broke out something like 565 days in a row, and when his parents finally discovered the streak, they sent him to another school and we never saw him again.) I had always loved this street because of the rose buds and orange blossoms of early spring, but now a certain grey house and its prickly hedge retained the aura of past trauma. For old time's sake, it seemed, Aaron purposely took us down that stretch as if to show our victory over time, to underscore for me that the spot where this sad, visceral encounter had once transpired was no longer that same spot, only a barren square of sidewalk next to an untrimmed hedge near a flickering autumnal street light. It was eerily quiet on this residential block from which the other treat-or-treaters had already fled;  we walked in the middle of the street and felt the weight of so many similar walks to and from school.

Career Search #237

When it finally occurred to Q that it was his turn to speak, after listening to the career counselor drone on for what seemed like an eternity, he realized that he had missed his golden opportunity to refute her supercilious jabs, in which he found his ego sliced and diced into a dozen neatly-arranged geometric shapes. The phrase that stuck with him, perhaps the only description that really sunk in and did damage the way hydrochloric acid does to skin, had something to do with his "lack of affect" his annoyingly opaque, inscrutable countenance. The face was a problem. The stiff head attached to rigid neck, shoulders and body. Did he ever smile? Did he ever laugh? It might be one thing to be "in a mood," but at some point you had to put your game face on. Yet another hapless male. She was getting burnt out "helping" people who inexplicably could not or would not receive it. Three hours worth of tests and inventories, plus one cognitive-skills test that Q was unable to finish in the allotted 15 minutes. The counselor, a Ms. Piero, was politely unimpressed by the limited options indicated by the logarithm on the computer screen. This was for her another chance to lift an underachiever up by his boot straps and send him on his way except that her obvious frustration was seeping out through a veil of encouragement. You show very little affect. It is as if you are not responding to stimuli in a timely manner, failing to bring appropriate gestures, smiles, nods, guffaws to a particular interaction. In a typical job setting (with competitive salary mind you) you will need to be more transparent with feelings, more politically attuned to other people and their point of view. Am I reaching you? Are you hearing this? It's hard to tell because of that blank expression on your face. She scribbled a few notes, but mostly was scanning her computer screen in search of a diagnosis. Yes, she said conferring with her laptop, I can see from the answers you've given in the personality inventory. You are a definite follower. I might even say a dangerously impressionable follower-type, with a repressed skeptical side that you feel the need to suppress at all costs. Again puzzled and miffed by Q's quizzical look, she inquired: Is any of this registering with you? Are you following me? Q spoke at last: A follower. Well, I can see that. - You can see that? So you agree then? Yes - I can see that. How you arrived at that... - How I arrived at that... But do you agree Mr. Dennison? I can see that, but what about my job choices, my career path, I'm not sure how - Oh, well that is very complex. There are definitely certain professions I would entirely advise against. For example, I would stop even considering any sort of self-directed job such as doctor, lawyer, engineer, pilot, architect, business owner, CEO,  pro athlete, fashion designer but of course....(laughter) ... you haven't been thinking in this direction, have you? I've boiled it down for you, Mr. Dennison...How to put this. Yes, what is absolutely essential for you is order, structure, routine, repetition, following a firmly established rote protocol - not having to deviate from a set of guidelines. How do you feel about such an arrangement? I mean, given your personality type, this may sound draconian, but it's really quite necessary. - I can see that. - Is that so? Really? You can see that? Well then, assuming that you're not being sarcastic. I can't tell from that hyper-subdued, poker face of yours - I'm going to recommend for you any kind of low level bureaucratic position - possibly a job for some local or state government office. Maybe a clerical position, maybe something at the DMV. Does that sound in line with your...uhm...your....what's the word I'm looking for...your ambition? - Is that really how I appear to you? I can see that. - Yes, Mr. Dennison, you are giving off an aura of inwardness that is really not what today's job market is looking for. - I can see that. - You keep saying that, Mr. Dennison, but are you really sure what I'm trying to tell you. You look like someone who's not really interested in working. You don't wear any kind of enthusiasm on your sleeve. Do you think an employer wants to hire someone who is already "checking out" during the job interview? - Right. I see what you're saying. - You can see that. That's good. So - ah well - our time is up for today. Perhaps we can schedule a follow-up appointment. Would that be alright? - Shall I write you a check for ... The fee for today is $100. Debit cards are fine. How about next Friday at 10:00 a.m. I think we definitely need a follow-up. So...for this coming week, I'd like you to investigate these four employment opportunities and see if any of them appeal to you. Can you handle that? - Sure, said Q.