Gratuitous Dread Presence

Judgment Ridge Blues

There are no hippies anymore
no more longhairs out to settle the score
young innocence radiating peace from the core
for the old hippies can be such a bore
their tattered lifestyle a subject of scorn
ideals reduced to marketing porn
citing moral bankruptcy as part of the norm
a reason to become reborn.

There are no hippies here
they are all masking themselves in fear
behind keyboards while sipping an imported beer
trusting their fingers to eloquently shed an electronic tear
or maybe they have taken to sport
not just golf but a matter of court
they point to the street when it's time to report
as if black asphalt is a proper retort.

There's not much left to the lore
told on a fault block ridge that tore
judgment asunder in an effort to restore
the faith of those hippies who
aren't around here
anymore.

Poem Written by a Cat Walking on a Keyboard

(a) Poem written by a cat walking on a keyboard
started with the letter zee 17 times
to zoom into a bold efourefourfourfourarfour preceding a bank of fours

and then
there was a space that appeared to be just a new paragraph
but was really a void, empty and a placeholder

next was the food of the art, the letter kay
known for it's boldness for fronting kings
and the stealthiness of a knife
slid into the work 43 times
a space and
9 times more before waylaid
by an errant el
standing alone against an onslaught of hyphens
set at first as a wall
then discretely in patterns
that resembled the image of a prophet
in a can of tomatoes or on a food for breaking fast.

threethreefourthree then preceded a double you wall
two score deep
and maybe longer except then
interrupted by
a frenzy of effs and gees
punctuated by the dramatic return of zee
the mark of genius disturbed
in the prime of it's colloquial existence
as if a blue eyed boy.

Sophistication

We live in an era of increasing sophistication. Humans, like all other living creatures on this planet have the same requirement for basic needs. Prehistoric humans banded together to meet their needs of food, clothing and shelter. When agriculture was introduced, it represented the first advancement on the basic struggles for existence—and made the process of food more complicated by following the nuances of managing crops. As agricultural techniques grew, they became more sophisticated. And, for the first time, man was faced with the management of knowledge that was abstract.

As society grew, the burden of abstract knowledge each human needed to exist also grew. As societies developed into serfdoms, the knowledge needed to function was far greater then the basic needs of survival. The written word began to be used as a way of extending oral knowledge. It would take years before technology advanced enough to mass produce books and other written material.

Once this great expansion of information became widely available, the amount of abstract knowledge required to function in society began to increase. Europeans spread their sophistication in their desires for trade and conquest, and the less sophisticated people in their way suffered. The industrial revolution brought on a greater wave of knowledge, complex with the workings of machinery and marketplaces. Literature began to take hold in people's minds, and the concept of mass media began to spread. The amount of knowledge that was abstract to the common man began to increase significantly.

Mass media brought on the next big wave of abstract knowledge. With this, the intensity of sophistication required for daily existence increased dramatically. With the introduction of radio, television and motion pictures the average human was exposed to abstract knowledge that was completely outside of their physical realm. People were exposed to concepts, international news and art at unprecedented levels.

After the war, the information age brought the next wave of sophistication. An individual person's ability to communicate expanded greatly, and the wealth of knowledge available increased dramatically. The telephone, an abstract means of communicating great distances began to build extended communities that had less traditional boundaries. The gemeinschaft relationships that predominated in preindustrial times began to reassert themselves through this personal medium.

It appears that this level of sophistication continues to grow. It's interesting to note that older feats of sophistication, such as fire building or hunting are no longer even considered useful skills.

Route 113, Vermont

I was returning to Vershire at the end of spring break, a trip in which I hitchhiked from Chicago to Vermont. A ride had dropped me off at White River Junction, Vermont after dark, with about thirty miles to go until I was home. I disliked hitchhiking at night because it was really hard to get rides, but my other alternatives—walking and finding a place to crash—were things I wished to avoid.

I quickly got a ride the short distance I had left on the interstate, and started waling westward on Vermont Route 113, a local highway. Traffic was very light. Soon, I left the lights of the highway, and found myself walking in a very dark, cloudy Vermont night.

Finally, someone came—a pickup truck. I ran up to the cab and opened the door, and immediately noticed that there were two people in the cab, along with a case of Genesee beer. “Where ya goin'?” The driver asked.

“Vershire.” I said.

“Sure, I can take you to Vershire, no problem. Hop in back.” So I quickly threw my backpack in, and climbed in. I wasn't the only thing in the bed of the pickup—there were two or three of what appeared to be stripped engine blocks in there.

The driver took off. I had to dodge the engine blocks as they slid to the back of the bed, along with me. I began to get annoyed with the driver. Couldn't he see that I wasn't sitting down? But just as I got settled, the driver slammed on the brakes. My backpack, myself and the engine blocks all slid forward.

I worked to avoid the objects sliding around as the driver started and stopped several more times. Finally, I got a good grip on the cab, and was able to keep from sliding around. I watched as the truck sped along the highway. At one point, it swerved, and took out a mailbox.

After a few minutes of this, the driver pulled off to do some hill climbing. He immediately tackled a hill, but didn't have enough momentum to make it over, so he had to back down. I grabbed my backpack and jumped out when the truck stopped going in reverse.

My exit was noticed by the driver. Quickly turning the truck around, he proceeded to start chasing me down. I found myself in a small dirt field, welding a 50 pound backpack, and avoiding a charging pickup truck like some kind of matador. I was able to easily avoid the truck because it was constantly turning, and I could easily cut the angle. Finally, when I had enough time, I ducked into a patch of trees.

The truck left a few minutes later. I waited for about fifteen minutes myself, and then resumed walking down the highway. I hiked for about an hour before I saw the truck again. It was stuck on the side of a hill. The driver noticed me waling and invited me up so he could 'Take me to Vershire.'

An hour after that, I was picked up by a van that was returning from the White River Junction bus station with several students. I did not tell them about my last ride. I was dropped off at the trail head to my cabin a few minutes later, and made my way down the dark trail to my cabin.

Troubled by

Troubled by my suspicion of financial institutions I
took care to count my money carefully
sorting the stacks of coins by color
arranging them into towers
feeling the message of their value
becoming like bricks in a wall
an economic building of myself.

Scuttled by my lack of financial intuition I
took care to clutch the pennies
tightly in my fist before watching them
drop into a glass pig I had purchased
with the purpose and hope
that the copper would turn into gold.

Humbled by my sudden financial divestment I
looked upon the market sadly
aware that the magnetic fingers in my wallet
were measuring a slow and labored pulse
I exchange value without money.

The Greatest Ride Ever Told

Not quite a hitchhiking story, but related because it all started with me hitchhiking. A long time ago, I was a teenaged runaway—and I ended up spending several months away from home. I can't say why I did it—maybe I was just sensing that I needed adventure. I don't remember all of the names of the people and places, but I still remember who they were in relation to me.

Hitchhiking is often the mode of transport for the desperate. Fellow hitchhikers I met were a sullen, broody crew that had little prospect in life. I saw some desperate people on the road—bums, mostly, con men, or just general drifters. The people that picked me up often weren't too far off themselves—it was almost always the crappy cars filled with crap that stopped. Women alone almost never picked me up, but I had many families and couples give me rides.

My story begins a few days after I left home. I was seventeen.

Temping Tonight on the Old ...

When I graduated from college, I was able to easily get a job in just about anything I wanted. As a result, I worked a variety of positions, in several industries. Certain common themes did exist within my career path, but overall, my resume has a lot of diversity.

In the past few years, however, finding a suitable full time position proved to be very difficult. I would occasionally find advertisements for compelling positions, and would seem to interview well, but somehow, never made it to the point of a job offer.

So I started temping. I kept applying to temp agencies, and once completing an induction interview process, pressed them for work. I'm pretty prolific in my efforts at finding work, so it stands to reason that I have interviewed at a lot of different temp agencies. I discovered that some of the problems that plagued me in my full time job search extended into the temp world.

The induction interviews are often 2-3 hours long, and always include tests, both on paper and computer. The actual interview process is somewhat muted, as it's more of the interviewer getting an idea of the kind and scope of work that you want to do. Most temp agencies accept a business casual dress for these interviews; the ones that don't tend to be a lot more brash with their perspective temps, but don't necessarily have better work.

One such temporary service, which seemed to have a lot of positions available, was one that I worked pretty hard securing an interview. My testing went fine, and during the talking phase of the interview, I explained some of the problems associated with my arrest for domestic battery that had occurred over ten years ago. The interview ended well.

My efforts at getting an assignment were unsuccessful. I called several times per week for about two weeks. I finally asked why I wasn't getting assignments, and was told that it was 'difficult to get work for convicted felons.' I tried to explain that I wasn't a convicted felon, and in fact didn't even have a conviction, but I could tell by the tone of her voice that she didn't believe me.

Once, while working at the reception desk, I discovered that the company had a tradition of buying lunch for all employees once per month. I asked my contact if that included me, and she told me she didn't know, and that I should approach the company's chief accountant and ask them.

Another office I worked in was a phone bank. I was one of eight or so employees and temps in a bank of cubicles that was closely watched by two supervisors at desks facing our workstations. They constantly told us to keep calling, and would occasionally walk over and examine our tally sheets. Breaks were rigidly enforced at set times—and employees weren't allowed to leave their desks while not on break.

I worked at one assignment for two days doing some data manipulation on a spreadsheet. Several weeks later, another assignment came up—and the temp agency asked me if I wanted it. It was a longer term assignment, and close to my home. Unfortunately, when the client heard that it was me, they requested someone with less experience.

My current assignment isn't too bad. It's a medium sized call center, with about 150 employees, of which about 35 percent are temps. The office has no HR department, and they take on about 6-10 new temps per month. The training is pretty complex—they have multiple systems with different requirements, and training takes about a month. Once temps 'get the picture' they leave the training department and are assigned accounts. It's not uncommon to talk to a temp that's been there for over a year—there are at least ten of them. This company contracts with several temp agencies, so not all temps work for the same agency. The fact that I was the inaugural employee of my temp agency worked to my advantage.

The environment is rather dreary, so the perm staff try to liven things up. They constantly have events where they provide lunch or some kind of treat, as well as have various trivia and puzzle contests. Staff takes care to not remind temps that they are temps. But it's not all like that—when I open my web browser, the corporate page displays link teasers that I can't view because I need to log in as an employee. When I fill out my corporate time card, my name is listed as 'Christopher Temp Buxton'.

Home Runs

I stand at home plate, ready to swing. The pitcher studies me closely, his eyes picking out where he wants the ball to go. He pitches, and as the ball comes in, I start my swing. My arms stretch out, and whack: the ball sales over the center fielder's head. As the fielder chases down the ball, I quickly race around the bases. By the time I reach home, I'm out of breath.

'Home run' is one of those wonderful English phrases that has a meaning much greater then the sum of the words. As an event in a sport, it's significance is grater. In football, one has touchdowns, and you can't get more then 1 in a single play. Soccer and hockey all focus on scoring a goal, also just one point. Basketball has the term 'slam dunk', which comes close to the meaning of home run, but has subtle differences in the context of meaning. A slam dunk is something you do in your opponent's face, but still is just (usually) one field goal.

A home run, however, has the ability to score up to four runs in a single play. In professional baseball, when a player hits the ball over the fence, he's able to casually trot around the bases. It's a big moment, and always helpful to the team. In the recreational leagues I've played in, how far you hit the ball is a lot more important—there are no fences. A fast fielder with a good arm can easily cut you down at the plate if you trotted around the bases.

And I'm one of those players who hits home runs. I currently play 16 inch softball in an extremely informal league. I've played there for over 20 years now. I had to quit early this year, and barely played a half season—and this year is the first for me in this league where I haven't hit multiple home runs. Makes me feel a bit old.

It wasn't this season, though, when I realized that I took hitting home runs for granted. I played baseball for years, and other then a year or so in little league, I was able to regularly clobber the ball. At Vershire, I was one of the students that had brought a glove, and spent the springtime playing games in the field next to the dump. In college, I played in college in intramurals, and even took a class for softball.

But most of my home runs came after I joined the Screwballs. During my first game, when I felt like I was being auditioned, I concentrated on getting hits. I did swing away once, but wasn't able to get it far enough. It didn't matter—I went on to hit 6 or so home runs that season, the most on our team that year.

I can't tell you how I hit a home run. I really don't remember. As the pitch comes in, there's a moment where it seems that I lose sight of the ball. It doesn't matter, I've started my swing, and I just know that the ball will be in the right place. I complete my swing and start running. I usually steal a glance on my way to first to see how far the ball's gone, but it's hard to look closely and run.

Over the years, my ability to hit home runs in the league has been dampened by my reputation. When I approach the plate, the outfielders back up a respectable distance. It's kind of satisfying to watch them treat me so, it's even more satisfying when I still hit it over their heads. One team in particular that has suffered many times has a center fielder who is able to make spectacular catches over his shoulder. He's caught me this way once this season, and twice last season.

One of my favorite home runs came in a championship game. It was top of the last inning, and our team was down by one run. I managed to hit a solo home run to right field, which gave us the only run that inning. Unfortunately, my pitching wasn't as good, and we lost the game—but my homer kept us in a bit longer.

The problem, though, in life, is that the home runs we all hit aren't so easily defined. It's not a simple crack of the bat, and a casual trot while lapping up applause from the assembled crowd. Home runs come in many different forms, and often you don't even know that it's happened until you realize that there are spectators, and they're cheering. Or sometimes you are the only spectator.

Buffalo, New York

It was early fall, and I was on my way back to school. I had spent the night in a storage shed in suburban Buffalo, and secured a ride to the right side of town. It was still pretty early—sunrise had come only 10 minutes ago, and everything was covered in a layer of frost. I went to the sweet spot on the highway, and in a few minutes I got one of the best rides I ever had.

He was a young man, about thirty or so, driving a Chrysler that was a couple years old, and he was heading to White River Junction, Vermont. He wasn't very talkative, and I never learned why he was making the long drive, or what he did for a living. We talked idly about various political and social issues.

Somewhere near Albany, he left the interstate and took to the back roads. We stopped for gas, and he purchased a Rand McNally atlas. We smoked a couple of times, but I can't remember if we used my stash or his. I love maps, so I spent some time pouring over Rand McNally's latest edition, which was as new and fresh to me as a newspaper.

New England is a truly beautiful place, and I think the best way to enter it is through upstate New York. The rolling plains gradually stiffen into mountains, and the fields gently give way to thickets, then groves, then forest. The network of roads are wonderfuly rural, more so because their age sofened the harshness of rural ares in the west.

At one point, I realized that he had taken a wrong road, and that the highway we were on was taking us north and east of Lake Champlain. I pointed this out immediately, and we were able to find an alternate route. It was several hours after sunset when we arrived in White River Junction, and the bright morning was distant memory. In fact, it had become overcast, and the night that loomed before me was unusually dark. I was dropped off on the right side of town.

Hindsight shows me that the dark night was an omen. I was close to home—only about an hour's drive, so I decided to try to sleep in my own bed that night. That turned out to be a bad decision.

Tidewater 41009

So I spent the last few days in southern California. I brought my daughter to meet my mother in law, who can't easily travel. Because of her maternity leave, it was best if my wife remained behind, so I had the experience of taking the baby solo through the US Airline system.

Travelling with a baby is pretty difficult, especially solo. I had my first experience taking the baby into a men's bathroom ... which will prove to be more of an interesting affair as my daughter grows older. I also had the experience of changing an honest to goodness poopy diaper in an airplane. It was an experince that was unappreciated all around.

I was surprised at the level of service provided by the TSA staff. I was kind of expecting some kind of horrorshow experence from what I've seen across the net, but the staff was very helpful. They allowed me to bring several bottles of water for the baby, and there was a person who was detailed to me upon completion of the screening who helped me get everything back together. The airline, Southwest, had a special envoy who worked at the head of their really long line who allowed me into a special 'baby' line that was much faster.

My visit with the inlaws was fantastic, but I knew it was going to be even before I left. My sister in law provided me with a bevvy of fine brew, as well as taking me to several nice resturants, including a sushi buffet. It's amazing to have inlaws that I actually like.

But I cannot explain the level of joy it gave me to bring my daughter to see her grandmother. My daughter is a ficle beast when it comes to being in the arms of strangers, but she knew something was special about Mams. No tears came, and Mams had her laughing within a few minutes. They had a great time together, and I have already noticed that the baby misses her.

This is the promised land callin', and the poor boy's on the line.