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Lockdown Chronicles – Part 1

Reider Larsen. September 2012

Reider shared an original song, accompanying himself on acoustic guitar:

“Babel”

Spiraling down to Earth.
I saw an angel
and an ancient
curse
What’s worse,
I tried to relate that
time is missing sand
The more I want to say…
The less I can.
The folly of a man.
Oh my.
Oh what to do?
A camera captures the moment
but in a moment,
can I captivate you?
The time’s upon us
so,
just take
my hand.
It’s no elegant plan,
But as they say,
we might get carried away in lust
I trust.
What’s so only?
And if we don’t do something,
Something else might happen
to me.
But what am I to say?
I don’t have the words,
Oh hell,
I’ll make them up.
Because no matter what they would be
there are no words
could ever
mean
enough.
Who am I to say
that it’s fate,
here that brought you.
That you and I could be
just a fling
or an I do.
Who am I to say,
if I  do not know you.
What you and I could be.
So let’s take
the
chance
to.

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Mark Caltonhill, May 2012

Mark Caltonhill performed an extract from his poetry/stand-up routine, including the following new sonnet on one downside of aging:

Who will rid me of these meddlesome hairs,
sprouting ungodly from within my ears,
so dark and flagrant while all around greys,
yet hidden from my presbyopic eyes?
“Excuse me, not I, a thousand times no,”
my tantrumic coiffeur won’t snip so low;
“With hirsute auricles I can’t compromise,”
my barb’rous barber refuses to rise;
“The hand’s my domain, I’ll not pass the wrist,”
dogmatic’ly says my manicurist;
“And don’t look at me, I only do skin,”
my dermatologist’s excuse sounds thin.
“I’ll cut those hairs, clip your nails, paint your tan,
and then close your eyes,” smiles the mortician.

(c) Copyright 2012 Red Room.  Material on this site is the property of contributing members of the Red Room Community. Please do not copy any part of this publication. Thank you.

Matthew Purpura, May 2012

Matthew Purpura  (sang an original song, accompanying himself on guitar)

please click on the MPEG file below. the text to his tune follows:
Matt Purpura – Touch the Ground

I just want to touch my feet to the ground.
Stuck in motion, between the ocean and the air.
Salt is the only thing we share.
Darkness falling, even the moon is scared.
Fields and pastures, dreams and laughter disappear.
Where is my golden mare,
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Nate Murray, April 2012

Radicofani

The vast, green Tuscan hills stretched out for miles in all directions. Directly above me, a cobblestone bell tower chimed off some hour in the midafternoon, though which hour exactly, it really didn’t matter. Much farther above me, the clouds formed a gray sheet across the sky. But it was not the monochrome gray which would indicate a bleak day. Rather, it was a vibrant quilt of many shades of gray, which kept the temperature at a comfortable cool. I could practically taste the air’s freshness.

Later, I walked at steep inclines through the few streets of the town. The homes were knit tightly together, much like the people. On a previous trip, I had met the manager of the town’s only bank, and he had proudly talked about his home and some of its history. Incidentally, he was also the mayor. After revisiting him, I found myself in the mood for a coffee, and I strode into a café to order a cappuccino. Embarrassingly, ordering a cappuccino after mid-morning was taboo and clearly marked me as a tourist, of which I was the only one here. But I enjoyed it all the same.

Then, unfortunately, it was time to go. Reluctantly, I pulled away from the map of Italy which hung from my bedroom wall. I told myself, like I did every day, that I would find a way to make it back there for real. Until then, the map would have to do. I took my backpack and walked out into the monochrome gray morning to catch the bus to work.

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Patrick Wayland, April 2012

Nuclear Family Missile

In the 1980’s my father was a senior strategist in Air Force Intelligence. He worked on a secret project to conceal nuclear missiles in the American suburban environment. I grew up with the top half of a Titan II nuclear missile sticking out of my backyard.

The aluminum cylinder rose into the air thirty feet above the cut grass. Rustic wood panel camouflage made the missile appear to be a grain silo, but with the letters U, S, and A down the side. And in the late morning the shadow of the nose cone would crawl across my bedroom floor like the finger of God reminding me of my own mortality. Every morning.

My mother and father were quite liberal in their parenting. They rarely needed to enforce rules or punish me. The monument to mass destruction in my backyard kept me guilt ridden and out of trouble during my early teens. While my friends spent Saturday night vandalizing the school, I was home watching WWII documentaries or reading Edgar Allen Poe or listening to country music. My father only spoke at length to me about two things: winning the war and the mistake Kennedy made by not invading Cuba. Whenever I felt rebellious, I’d stand against the fence on the far side of the yard with my slingshot and shoot rocks at the missile casing. The aluminum shell of the Titan II had a beautiful ring when struck. Tingggg… tingggg… tinggg. It was like the long bell in a Japanese temple surrounded by cherry blossoms, and pine trees, and ponds with those really big goldfish that they have. And then my father would run out the back door – “PATRICK! THE NUCLEAR MISSILE IS NOT A TOY!”

One could say we had three pets: a cat, a dog, and a nuclear missile. It required the same amount of involvement as a pet. I’d have to check the fuel containment twice a week, clean grass-cuttings out of the base seals, and remove leaves from the exhaust vent. The missile’s camouflage often confused our cat. He’d try to sharpen his claws on the fake wood panel. Occasionally he would run, jump, and try to climb the missile, only to slide down, legs pathetically outstretched with that claw-on-metal screech.

At school my classmates and I watched 16mm films about what to do when the attack sirens wailed. Jump into a ditch. Use your desk as cover. Only hide in abandoned refrigerators that don’t lock. But I knew better. At night, I’d covertly looked through my father’s classified damage estimation files as if they were Playboys. My father was patriotic and defiant, and his advice was to run towards the incoming missiles with arms outstretched. “Get it over with,” he’d say with tobacco pipe in hand. “At least we’ll all go down together.” How comforting.

The only thing I remember my parents fighting about was hosting backyard barbeques. Most of the day our backyard was shrouded in the missile’s shadow and my mother hated the inevitable questions about the particulars of grain storage. “Uh, would you like another hotdog?” she would nervously ask to change the subject as if hiding some family infidelity or alcoholism. After my father interrupted the dog urinating on the missile, he would give his standard reply: “It’s the new prairie home look. It’s all the rage in Wyoming.”

Growing up, I learned that telling the truth really had no value when people did not want to believe it. When I told my friends that I had a nuclear missile in my backyard, they just laughed and called me Country-boy. “It’s a nuclear missile,” I’d say. “Whatever, Country-boy,” my friends would yell back. “Country-boy! Country-boy! Why don’t you go thresh some wheat, Country-boy,” one friend would taunt. “Yeah, why don’t you go home and grind some grain into flour meal by removing the bran layer.” (My friends were a little on the nerdy side.)

But now that I’m older and living on my own, I often find myself remembering that shadow of ultimate destruction that crawled across my bedroom floor every morning; after all, it was more than just a nuclear missile. It was the comforting idea that there was some greater force looking out for me. Like a really fat kid who would beat up anyone who bothered me at school. A protector. A friend. Since I moved away from my family and the Cold War ended, I know I’ve lost something… the overshadowing presence of something greater than my own selfish needs. That and the knowledge of mutually assured destruction with my enemies. I have to admit, I miss my family’s nuclear missile.

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Peter Giordano, March 2012

A bubbling cacophony develops
Everywhere.
Far gone,
He is joking.
Kindness, love, maternal nurturing obliterate
Perfect quintessence.
Realizing some truth understood very well
Xerxes yearned zoologically.

(c) Copyright 2012 Red Room.  Material on this site is the property of contributing members of the Red Room Community. Please do not copy any part of  this publication. Thank you.

Jim Kay, March 2012

A One-Character Dialogue Situation

Bernie has chosen to exercise on a Schwinn Air-Dyne bike during his fitness class. He realizes the seat is too low because his knees remain too bent when his foot is at the bottom. Three adjustments to the seat seem to have made no difference. Clearly the machine hates him. Slowly, Bernie remembers that he owned a Schwinn Air-Dyne bike some years ago. His shoes slide forward, off the pedals and Bernie remembers that his old bike had toe clips. This bike has a warning tag stating that toe clips should not be used. “Why not?”, he wonders. “What’s the good of having my feet slide off?” Slowly, Bernie’s crotch becomes numb and he remembers why he got rid of that old Schwinn; this used to happen all the time. While trying to keep his weight back and over the main part of the seat, thereby affording blood circulation to his priceless crotch, Bernie looks around the room. Off to the right is a perfect example of female beauty. She appears Hispanic and is working out on an elliptical trainer. Bernie imagines her being featured in an advertisement for the machine. Bernie thinks he would consider buying one if he saw such an advertisement except Bernie already has one. Such a girl did not come with Bernie’s machine. Besides which, Bernie’s wife would never allow him to ‘keep her’ even if she did ‘follow him home.’ Bernie realizes she would not. Eventually the fifteen minutes of torture pass and Bernie records his exercise numbers and walks slowly over to the mat where the other students are gathering. Bernie imagines he is walking like an old-time western cowboy with his legs spread a bit too far apart. He is doing this, not because he is bow-legged, but because his crotch is on fire as the circulation slowly returns.

On the mat, the teacher is addressing some inane question to each student in turn. Bernie realizes the teacher is addressing each student by name and he learns that the ‘perfect specimen’ is named Stephanie. In high school, Bernie’s class had 325 students and about half were girls. He prided himself on knowing the name of each girl in his class on-sight. Despite his best effort to forget, Bernie remembers that over a period of four years, this skill had helped him to date exactly one girl and she dumped him right after taking him home to meet her mother. Bernie feels like a dog that chases cars but doesn’t know how to drive. Bernie cringes with the knowledge that he’s never known how to drive. Bernie notices the girl next to him on the mat. She also appears to be Hispanic, just like Miss perfect and has a lesser but only a little lesser profile. Why not admire the girl who is closer, he thinks. By this point, Bernie has missed the girl’s name.

As soon as everyone has provided their answer to the teacher’s question, they are directed to a nearby exercise machine for a demonstration. Bernie hates these demonstrations. He’s been a member of two or three clubs over the years and knows how to operate all of the common equipment. As Bernie gets up, he sees a cell phone on the mat next to him. It obviously belongs to the ‘almost as good’ Hispanic girl. He grabs the phone before anyone else could have a chance, and trots after the girl. Perhaps ‘trot’ is giving Bernie a little too much credit. He has long legs and can walk very rapidly but trotting is faster than Bernie has ever cared to move his body. He thinks carefully over his mental image of the girl so he can be sure to approach the right one. He spots her and moves in close. She gives him a nervous and puzzled look, probably surprised that he is so obviously heading right for her. Bernie holds out the phone which she immediately recognizes with a start. She takes the phone, thanks Bernie and looks back at the place she had been sitting on the mat. Then she turns to the teacher and Bernie’s opening is gone. He couldn’t think of anything to say, not even ‘You’re Welcome.’ Bernie cringes inside.

Bodacious Moon               

He’d studied optics and even understood the relativistic effect
But none of that prepared him for the experience.
“Sure I know why the moon looks larger on the horizon.”
Wow! He thought. That moon is REALLY big down on the horizon.
He heard himself puzzling what he thought he already knew.
But now he was captivated in a way that text books never had.
Why didn’t someone tell me big really was BIG?
He felt something awakening with this girl standing close beside him.
Not just A girl but THIS girl. The tingling in his chest resembled fear.
The strength of his pounding heart brought him dismay.
The tingling was drifting lower, stomach, abdomen, lower.
It came in for a landing and he sensed his stirring erection.
“Well aren’t you going to tell me?” The question was terrifying.
Tell you what, he stammered. “I just asked you about the moon.”
Oh. Thank God, she didn’t know.
The atmosphere curves the light and acts like a lens to make it so.
“Sometimes I like it better when I don’t know too much.”
YES! He almost shouted it. He didn’t want her to know about IT.
Do you think we should go back inside now? He asked.
“Don’t you want to wait until that settles down a little more?”

(c) Copyright 2012 Red Room.  Material on this site is the property of contributing members of the Red Room Community. Please do not copy any part of  this publication. Thank you.

Jim Kay, February 2012

June in September

In September, we men sense the onset of winter.
There’s a chill in the air.
Is this, we ask, the end of summer?
There’s a chill in our bones.
Is this woman to be the last one we know?
There’s a chill in our hearts.
We see summer all around us and some reach out.
There’s a chill in our fingers.
September sees only June and desires but June sees only September and desires not.
There’s a chill in our image.
Winter will not be stopped and spring will not come again.
There’s a chill in our folly.
Seek you September men your summer daughter; if you are fortunate enough to have one.
There’s a chill in her absence.
There’s life-long warmth in her presence.

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Nicholas Chen, January 2012

The 2012 Opening Red Room was held tonight with a reduced Chinese New year sized crowd but the creativity and enthusiasm was second to none. We had first time performers and veterans as well incluidng stirring female vocalist who composed a touch song from her grandfather’s diary, a re-emergine bass player without band, but accompanied by 60 sets of snapping fingers, Improv accapella music, trilingual poetry in voice and song, Moon Dust love poem comparing Neil Armstrong’s vsiit to the barren moon and a shy admirer’s revelation process that he would never travel to the moon without the one he loved, a stirring reading from Dr Gino Strada’s Green Parrot book describing the war surgeon’s reconstructive work in the face of massive Russian human rights violations ie explosives traaeted at children during their Afghan invasion followed by a reading of the “What We Want” mission statement of NGO Emergency which provides free medical service worldwide to face down war, terrorism etc, excerpts from Spamolot by Holly Harrington Mark “Marlarky’s” reading in response to critics of Will being dead, my recitations from Will the Bard on the richness of life and special persons who turn difficulties into positives as evidence that Will still lives up in Bhutan with Michaal Jackson, Elvis and others who have not really left the planet. Masterful MC Manav ended the proceedings at 11pm quietly as not to disturb the neighbors. Another inspiring Red Room evening which showed the power of the individual artist, the power of humanity and the timeless values that are reflected and preserved and shared by Red Roomers. Newcomer Charles Hung stated he had participated in these kinds of activities in many cities and cited Montreal in his your 4-5 decades ago and how inspired he was to listen to the Red Roomers. To all who came tonite, you were all wonderful. To those who were away, we felt your presence and essence in spirit and look forward to seeing you next month on the third Saturday of February. Open your hearts, minds, souls and share. Bravo again…listen to the sound of the rain, the whispers of the wind, the souls and sounds of the voices of the ancestors and wise ones of old…come find your inner resonance with your fellow travelers..come to the Red Room is you Aspire and Inspire. In the words of the cognoscente…”Bis”! Encore! Until next month….be safe and may the force be with you…

 

(c) Copyright 2012 Red Room.  Material on this site is the property of contributing members of the Red Room Community. Please do not copy any part of  this publication. Thank you.