The Zoo Keeper will be a book of intrigue and mystery. A child grown to manhood but has seen things beyond his years and suffers from without and within demons not seen by others, not known by others, ….. only felt. They are the kind that make the hairs stand upon the skin and noted only as some sort of …. warning, I guess you could say, but from where do they come. What breeze did they float in on and, most importantly, what is it they want with you. The Zoo Keeper, being written now even as I write this. The book controls. The characters control. And, Mrs. Harmon from The Pelman Murders is centerfold, watching, hunting, and perhaps…..killing.
I often think of us, you and me, in terms of who we are. I have never come up with an answer to suit me.
What are we? Again, the same problem. Oh, I suppose we can talk about material items, flesh, blood, molecules, that sort of things but does it define us? I think not.
So I have decided that what we are is a collection of memories. We are thoughts. We are not future as the future doesn’t exist. We are not present (even though we think we are) because present is both past and future and future doesn’t exist so you cannot have present. Therefore we are past, and past is memory pushing against the present and the future which are both indistinct and perpetually indistinguishable. In writing I am dealing with thought about the future but the future doesn’t come into being until the present when I type or think out a thought that then becomes past as in memory. Even typing the word out. It doesn’t become until AFTER I hit the key and then the letters fall on the page but this is after and not before. Before is thought but doesn’t exit in the here and now until I help it materialize. The future is undefinable. It exists only because we think it does and yet if you die right now that future you thought about is not here.
And yet, time is accessible past and future to an extent with present being the focus. In essence we are time travelers without the awareness that we are.
Do You Know How to Fly? is now on Kindle.
This is a true crime book. It took me six years to write this book. Book number two will be out soon in paperback and on Kindle through Amazon.
The book is about a man on death row in Florida. He is a career criminal whose life in crime started as a youth. His first conviction occurred when only 14 for the rape of a woman who was in her 30s at a car wash. He would have murdered his victim but she managed to get away. He later was arrested as an adult at age 18 for home invasion robbery and spent another 18 months in jail.
After that he was arrested for bank robbery and spent 15 1/2 years in prison. Following being married to a woman he had never met, he was granted parole and he came to Florida and continued his life in crime here. He assaulted mainly older women who lived alone. He is a suspect in one murder in Sarasota County and was convicted in another in Manatee County. I spent six years working on two books. The first book is Do You Know How to Fly. The second will be titled: The Woman in a Pink Top.
These books will be available through Amazon and Barnes and Noble and all other book stores. But, Do You Know how to Fly is the first and you can now download through Kindle for $3.00. You can order paperback copies through the locations listed above or by contacting me for an autographed copy.
You may also get an eAutograph on Kindle by requesting it.
I hope you enjoy my books as much as I enjoyed writing them for you.
Best to you,
A friend called and asked Jan and I out to dinner. It was fun. Jan and I have not seen them in a long time.
Jean and Mike! We went to a Mexican restaurant locally (like where else would we go? oh, just thought we’d pop off in a commercial jet and wing our way to California…God help us…and get Mexican fast food) where we had eaten before. Personally I think it is all made up and kept in the fridge (a lot of restaurants do that) and just pop it in the micro when someone comes along and orders it. Anyway, it was good. I brought home my leftovers in a foam type package and we left it on the table inside the front door. Bet you are wondering where it is tonight and no I didn’t eat it.
Anyway, it was a surprise and welcome one but I am a bit of an anti-social person and I hate crowds and I always feel uncomfortable in such situations. (This morning I met with a group of fellow vets and they sang happy birthday to me. Yep. Pure torture.) On the one hand I want and welcome the attention and on the other it is like telling me that I just walked through a patch of poison ivy. I think that is part of my self-destructive nature like forgetting it was my month to buy donuts for my vet group because it was my birthday month…..hey, why doesn’t the group by the donuts for the person having the birthday and not the reverse.
I would think that is the way it should be, but I guess it all works out in the end. One of the vets there this morning was in a unit in Vietnam that suffered the most casualties of the war. In one engagement they had over 300 casualties. I find it amazing to be in the company of such men as he.
In other interesting news facts, I came across a veterans art studio in St. Petersburg. They are doing an open house on September 16. There is to be a band there, other artists, and me. I’ve been invited to do a book signing. So now the mad rush is on to complete and print the first of two books in a series regarding a true crime event. I managed to get a cover done for the book. It only took me three days. I only lost 12 versions of the artwork to the monster hiding in my computer that probably ate the damn things. When I reported my problems to the software manager/owner/developer I was informed that no one ever from the time that God made Adam had ever reported having any difficulty with their software. I guess, in a way, that was a polite way of being told, “you’re stupid.”
Yesterday was my birthday. It was not a significant day for me. Nothing stood out. There was no “wow” factor. For me it was just another day. But for my wife, and my friends, it held a different meaning. Oddly no one actually asked me how old I am. Perhaps that was out of politeness. Perhaps, like me, they recognize that in life everything is moving forward. So on the day before yesterday I was one day shy of being fully the age I reportedly became at the hour and minute of my birth so many years before. Then, I have to say that today I am the age I was yesterday plus one day. I find that atrociously simple and yet complex in a mutually beneficial manner. It occurs to me that we begin the countdown on life when the baby is reported to have exited the mother’s womb. The record will continue until, quite simply, we die. It’s how we count the days and years. I suppose in some small way it all makes sense. I mean, it’s absolutely necessary that it makes sense for some. I don’t know if I fall within those ranks. I might. But I seriously don’t know.
What I do know is that advancing to another age, a plateau in life, is something we cannot prevent. I find it curious to have friends who lament the passing of the years. I’m not so concerned about the years as I am the activities that occurred within those years. I’m sure that we all have moments where we examine ourselves and in many cases are not happy about what we find there. At least that is how it is with me.
I have determined that over the course of my life I have been very self-destructive at times. Perhaps I was programmed that way by the very people who should have been supporting me and telling me that I could achieve all that I want in this life by working hard. Instead I recall being an 11-year-old child riding in my parents car with my father driving and we passed an area made up of beautiful homes that had smaller, yet still opulent, side homes for guests or for family members. I can recall saying to them that one day I would be successful and I would own one of those homes and the building that was a smaller house would become their home and it would be paid for totally by me. Instead of a simple positive response from both my parents, one so desperately needed, the response was, “Sure. Your brothers said the same thing and neither one of them have accomplished that goal, so neither will you.”
So I truly believe that the programming was attached during that short conversation in which I, as a small child, reached out to the very people who should have been encouraging me, and found instead a belief that I was bound to fail. And, I believe, that I like so many others in the similar situations are doing everything we can to make certain that our parents were wrong and yet the programming, in many cases, was so strong we fail before we begin.
So my hat is off to those who try and fail and yet still fight the false images fed to them as children. Perhaps we are all winners in the end.
I recall that I gave a slight sigh at his comment, feeling a minor depression forming somewhere in the back of my mind, deep in some rift of grey matter, and I turned to go. It was best to simply go at that point. To leave. To retreat. To leave this man alone before he confused me even more with his ability to see when he was blind and to know without being told. Odd, I thought, How like him he was to the rest of the world in many ways and yet completely unlike the world in many other ways. Too complex for my wee brain to handle and so I turned to go just as he spoke.
“Do you know there is little difference between a white piece of paper and a black piece of paper?”
I was at the Tampa Library earlier today and I stepped outside for a moment to check the weather. There I found a very thin, grey-haired man standing alone leaning up against a pillar near the front door of the building. I noticed that he held a white cane with a red tip on it that informed me that he was blind. We both stood there about twenty feet apart without speaking. I noticed that the cane was held lightly in his right hand and his left hand was hanging loosely with nothing to do . I looked again at the cane and, being someone interested in math, I was curious about the angle that he and the cane formed.
“Forty-five degrees,” he said without looking in my direction.
“What?” I asked, surprised by his comment as I had said nothing to him and wasn’t even sure if he knew I was standing near him.
“Forty-five degrees,” he said again, and then added, “You were wondering at what angle my cane was set from my body. It’s forty=five degrees.” He sniffed and wriggled his nose as if something had irritated it.
“But I didn’t say anything to you.”
“I know,” he signed. “But it’s a common question by those, like you, who are curious about angles and such.”
We stood in silence for several moments and then I added, “But I am the only one out here.”
He turned his head to the left and then to the right and said, “Yep, you’re right. I haven’t seen anyone out here for at least twenty minutes.”
‘Tis evil ill to discover, perhaps, that the slightest memory that can e’er pass the gunwales of the mind from deep in some haunted place long forgot or caught in a whirlpool of time past the September of our lives can cause such pain in the reflection of the moment that others would most likely have forgot or came to disregard the event, and yet the pain lies there in the smoky mirrors of life and the bleeding out without a drop of blood that cannot be seen continues unabated
I Never Learned to Play the Harmonica
There are times at night, when all seems so still surrounding
and yet, creeping through the stillness, the emptiness, the loneliness,
I hear the whispering sound of wind gamboling outside
Outside the door, outside the windows, outside the walls
toying amid the trees and bushes amid a blanket of shadows there
while I sit alone in the dark listening to a company of voices
of those living secretly in the walls and floors
in places like those I hurried past once upon a child’s time
not lingering, always fearing a hand would sudden pierce the clouded veil
and then towards some chaotic chilling gloom near distant dragged would be
even though struggled did I against the wish to linger
as a delicious, haunting sense of taste that drew me
pulled me, the dark distress temping to drive me, to push past self and merge with it
of those secret places not one knew of that which lured and teased and cast fear all around me
deep enchantment lay where the cold was thick and strong
but, I no longer feel the chilling thrill of those passing moments punctuating the day
for now at the door behind me lays child’s clothing
and now, instead of cold places, dark and troubling that slow my way
I first had come to fear the chipping away of time, and yet, in the spell
in passing by the tumbling chips of man thought clay
I have come to watch them fall more serenely
knowing, sensing that stopping the flakes cannot ever be
nor can I force them to heel to my sway
in passing by them, they in silent snow like fall
watching as they simply slip away in dark of fog
as a chill finger traces a line upon my skin
the touch leaving me wanting more than a little to drink
when drink could, I thought, calm and sleep derive
from some place that only drinkers seem to know
a shallow place, a silent hole, poison filled
where memories in nightmares come full and then spinning slip away
ghostly beings, apparitions that I alone can see the misery in
a private hell of wrongs done that cannot be undone
where pain in torrent rains from all sides, and yet
and yet, feelings cannot show through the web of numbness
regrets are dimmed by liquor’s ghostly fake kindness
so I struggle with the desire to down the bottle whole
as those memories to be drowned sallied forth
the casual haunting for me they do seek
to prod me, wake me, tear at me from my struggling sleep
like the dusty dime harmonica sitting on the shelf
the one laughing at me in the dark
the toy I never learned to play
though tried a hundred times to make
one simple note for me alone
one note to hear the simple tone
while others slept and not one knew
just how I wanted it to play for me
and for the rabbit that forever sleeps alone 1/18/16
I’m standing outside in a midnight rain
Naked living in a mortal flame
There where no one can see me in my shame
Surrounded by a darkness most intense
Within which no one sees me buckle from the pain.
As cold rain—an old rain mixes with
What tears are left
What tears can be shed
What tears can be bled
As the cold rain, —an old rain
Mixes with the salt of tears
And bathes me in chilling water
While searching out the host of fears
And no one can see me
No one can see me there
Crouched down, naked, breathing out a steam
To standing alone in a cold, old rain
Bathed in chilling water
From ancient wells come forth.
And no one is looking there
No one hears the blessing said
Over the ritual knife to be fed
And drenched in chilling waters
Where I stand alone in a midnight rain
And there I plunge the dagger into my troubled heart. November 11, 2013