DRY WATER is a writer's blog for Charles Turner. I hope you will take time to examine my blog.
Amazon.com: Bolder Colors eBook : Turner, Charles: Kindle Store
It's the beginning of the TALE OF MICKEY DOG.
My tale begins in the dregs of a dark sylvan night, with me clinging to the final minutes of slumber, with Alvin the rescue mutt also asleep on my bed. His whiskers sometimes tickle my uncovered limbs, after I kick them free on tepid nights. Mostly we afford each other space, the wiry little character and me. On this early Sunday, just as the morning is spreading its glory throughout the neighborhood of junked out mobile homes, I awake to a feeling I associate with Alvin licking me. Except, it gradually hits that he is in no position to lick where I experience the warm sensation. In slow motion alarm, I sit up to view my feet.
Dimly visible, kneeling before my rather low bed with the lumpy mattress, I discern a figure with long hair and full beard. His calm aura quells the fear as he continues his task of washing my feet. I can’t make out his facial features, but I can’t help calling out, “Jesus?”
He looks up, glowing as the sunrise is glowing, making me believe.
“What are you doing here, Jesus? You know I am not in your camp.”
His eyes are soulfully beautiful and expressive. His mouth moves, exposing perfect white teeth. His gaze encompasses my total being. “Thomas: do you truly believe I am Jesus?”
“Well,” I begin, feeling suddenly doubtful. “I don’t know. You aren’t wearing the customary halo-”
Jesus assumes a demeanor comically dramatic. “Halo? I don’t need a stinking halo.”
He slaps the white cloth into the porcelain pan and rises. To his feet.
I relax back onto the pillow before rolling to get myself up. I do like this guy. But why was he washing my feet? I sit on the side of the bed, looking for my house slippers. Seems Jesus somehow moved them. I call him Jesus in the interim, waiting for something definitive.
“Here they are,” Jesus says, sliding them to me with his sandalled feet.
As I’m slipping on the slippers, I ponder out loud: “Why would Jesus wash a non Christian’s feet?”
Jesus smiles indulgently. “Not clean enough? Ought I wash them some more?”
I am twisting inside. “How can I know if you really are Jesus?”
With a slight grimace, Jesus steps away to avoid the rotating ceiling fan. Then he levitates himself. He floats above the floor, hovers, locks his gaze into mine, making me paralyzed. His voice roars, shaking the whole room. “Who doubts me doubts the truth.”
Alvin has been quiet, up until this point, at which he leaps into my arms, and I hug him, seeking to calm and comfort the poor thing. Instead, he rises with flailing front feet and wagging tail, wishing to make contact with the hovering form of Jesus, who is staring firmly, waiting for my reaction. Jesus takes note of the dog, waves a hand until Alvin’s body transforms in shape to that of a wiry young human. The stare returns.
Alvin safely slips to the floor and hugs Jesus’ dangling legs.
I don’t know what else to say, but, “Welcome to my humble if trashy home – Jesus.”
His demeanor softens. He sinks to the floor and casually strokes Alvin’s ears and wiry hair. “That’s much better.” He addresses Alvin. “Sit.”
Alvin sinks back on the edge of my disheveled bed, his face beaming adoration at this beautiful visitor.
I give Jesus a friendly nod. “Would you like some breakfast or some coffee? I’ve got to have these things before I can face the day.”
Jesus accompanies me up the narrow hall, and through a sparsely furnished living room, into a gadget laden kitchen – air fryer, blender, juicer, microwave. The usual stuff, largely unused. After fixing the coffee pot I dump a heaping amount of cold cereal into a bowl. Flood it with whole milk. After refusing the bowl, Jesus stands by, watching in curious disgust while I spoon it in. Alvin wants a share, but I wave him back, telling him to stay. After I drain the residual milk into my mouth, I start for Alvin’s food bowl. But I halt.
Instead, I fill a cereal bowl with kibble and set the mandog at the table, with a big spoon. Jesus and I watch with great interest as he learns to manipulate the spoon and shovels most of the kibble inside his mouth, while much of it rattles onto the table, with some spilling on the floor. Alvin happily looks on as I set a glassful of cool water before him. At first he laps but quickly discovers how much easier to gulp the water human style. He quickly finishes the meal, then looks to us for approval.
“You’re a good boy, Alvin,” I say as he rubs the top of his head against my palm.
Jesus can’t resist the coffee smell, so I pour us both a cup and we take it into the living room. With Alvin lying at our feet, we sip quietly.
I set my cup to the side and turn my gaze to Jesus, who is calmly sipping. He pulls the cup away from his lips. “You’re not ‘from my camp?’”
“You’re Jesus. How would you not know that?”
“I have a revelation for you.”
Jesus downs the remaining coffee in a few deep gulps. He slams the cup down on the rickety end table. “You Americans do make good coffee. I rate this one four and a half stars.”
“Why not five? It’s over nine bucks a can. I filter the water.”
“Don’t take it so hard. You can’t know about chicory.”
I frown. “Chicory was what was wrong with Aunt Cora’s coffee. I only forced some down to keep her smiling. She was easily crushed.”
Jesus gives me a pitying smile.
I suddenly have dark thoughts. I accuse him of dereliction. “Why haven’t you stopped any of the wars? The wanton killing?”
Jesus sighs. He sits back in the chair, eyes on the ceiling, the lone light bulb.
After an interminable wait, he returns to the conversation. He rolls his head to the side and faces me. “They aren’t my fights, any of them. My father gave humans self determination. It’s not within my province to handle that.”
I look down at Alvin. “But you can manipulate matter. He’s a prime example of it.”
“Parlor tricks,” he says. Then he shuts his eyes. “Do you think I enjoy seeing bodies blown to bits?”
“Somebody enjoys the hell out of it.”
He leans forward and snaps his fingers, undoing Alvin’s transformed body.
Alvin yaps happily. He leaps into the chair with Jesus and tries to reach his face for licking. Jesus hugs him as he speaks. “Do you know who is most responsible? The good citizens who opt for safety, who hope history will not notice them at all, who think minding their own business makes them exempt. They have the numbers and the power. They lack the spark that makes one human. They happily mow their lawns, unconcerned that entire populations are at risk of dying or are actually dying.”
I am almost moved to tears by this statement. “Can they be blamed if they are clueless?”
“Hey, they are letting others murder the planet in addition to mowing down their neighbors. Who’s going extinct? You’re going extinct.”
“Would you like more coffee? I’ve got to have a cup.”
Jesus smiles but it’s a sad smile. “Know who doesn’t get a coffee?”
“Yes, I know.”
“People who don’t have homes or lives don’t get a coffee.”
“I’m a retired old man,” I say. “A product of dirt-poor violence and autism. Living hand to mouth in a wreck of a mobile home. In a younger time I tried to have a voice. I still post about it online. You can see my circumstances. No money, no influence. Practically disabled by time and relentless physical labor. Yet you’re placing blame on people like me.”
Jesus strolls with me into the kitchen. “You didn’t storm any citadels. You stepped away from physical danger. It was in your conditioning to know the truth and be constrained by a psychic violence that isn’t your fault.”
He steps in front of me and stops. “Yet you tried. That sets you apart from the herd. You marched for civil rights and against a war in the 60s. You’ve been speaking on the devolution of society and the injustice of every war and sanctioned nations ever since. You think you are not ‘in my camp.’ Well, you are a lot closer to me than many believers.”
Tears dribble from my eyes. I go around him to pour fresh coffee. I set two cups-full on the table and take a seat.
Jesus sits opposite from me to silently watch and perhaps commiserate as I work through the pain while soothing myself with coffee. Alvin lies peacefully at his feet. He finally takes up his own cup and drinks from it. He pauses the cup inches from his face. “I came today to touch off a chain reaction,” he says, lowering the cup to the table. “It will reveal itself in your daily routine in the months ahead.”
I take our cups to the sink and wash them. After which I take a package of graham crackers from the pantry and lay the open package before him. Jesus smiles. “Your simplicity is touching.”
His immaculate fingers take up a cracker, and he bites off a chunk. “Thank you.”
This is my favorite of all sentences, for it goes far beyond the intent of the author, being quoted endlessly. I wish I had written it.
As I was looking over some of my old projects, it hit me that my telegraphic style of writing can be off-putting. Well, I don't plan to become Hemingway or Shakespeare anytime soon anyway.
In EndEarthers, there is this big cockroach, a ring of still living severed heads, and a wild chimp on the loose with an assault rifle.
A short story collection available at Barnes and Noble and Amazon.
It might surprise some to learn that my formal education ended with the 10th grade. In the lower classes it was possible to fake it enough to pass with reasonably good grades. Never mastered English, math, or much else. I quit faking at the end and failed the tenth miserably.
In my home were no books. I never held one in my hand before my teacher had them passed out. As I looked at all those pages of symbols it seemed to me that I could never make sense of them. Yet, within a few days I was reading with the best of them.
A teacher read The Black Stallion, by Walter Farley, to the class, which stoked my interest in reading for myself. I found out about libraries, becoming a fequent visitor. Books about boxcar children and a dog named Jinks (of Jason Vally) soon led to Dickens and Ray Bradbury.
I was intrinsically unable to grasp my studies, as I mentioned before. But I read all the time. While in the Navy I aced the GED for my honorary diploma.
One day, at age 19 I discovered Generation of Vipers, An Essay on Morals, and Opus 21, all by Philip Wylie. I had never encountered a mind whose purpose was to make us think and feel. Wylie changed my life. He made me want to seek out other authors with unique perspectives.
I tried my hand at writing, but found I had little to say. Still I persisted by writing undisciplined verses and song poems. The years were cruising by. Turmoil from personal circumstances made my effort more irrelevant than ever.
At one point I became alcohol free, after practically swimming in it for years. Ate healthy food. Suddenly I could not just begin stories. I could finish them. I did not say they were good stories.
After I retired there was time to work at it. Not knowing Strunk from Wagnals, I relied on the good books I had always read for structure, syntax - whatever - as was imprinted in my memory. I made a book with Lulu to preserve these fledgling efforts.
One day I showed my brother a draft of the first chapter of EndEarthers. He made me promise to write it out in a book. And so I wrote the first of six stories, eventully publishing with Draft2Digital. Now I am nearing completion of a companion volume which I call Bolder Colors.
At 83, my time may be short, but I intend to go as long as nature will let me.
·
Tales of life, love, desperation, and wonder. Can be found at Barnes and Noble online bookstore, as well as Amazon.
Before my retirement life was so hectic I couldn't write stories. The discord was unreal. I used my creative impulses to write song lyrics, mainly to keep my hand in. Bonus: This kind of writing helps one make a habit of word economy. I don't read, play, or sing music. None of my family and friends do. So these samples of my lyrics are just a partial record of past activity. They have been praised by some, and disparaged by others. Here is a sampling:
1. Daisy Plumtree, Lady Outlaw
Daisy Plumtree was a lusty one,
She loved an old buffalo gun.
She'd shoot her round,
Then stand her ground,
Where many men might run.
If her ways was rough and raw,
She learned it from her paw;
Who killed eight men,
Then made it ten,
Which set his fate with the law.
She was Daisy Missy Plumtree
Rough and ready
Rode the outlaw trail
To rob the outbound mail
Missy Daisy Daisy Plumtree
(repeat)
She went on the lam in Mexico
And fell in with Two Feathers Crow
She leaned her gun
In Crow's wigwam
Made from hides of buffalo
But the soldiers killed her man
He was crossing the Rio Grande
Daisy got hung
Before she swung
Said Daisy Crow is who I am
She was Daisy Missy Plumtree
Rough and ready
Rode the outlaw trail
To rob the outbound mail
Missy Daisy Daisy Plumtree
2. Little Songs
It gets many responses. Most have been favorable. I got one DNF (did not finish) and one three stars on Amazon. But this one response makes every second I've spent writing worth it.
Hi Charles! I just wanted to reach out and share that I just had a mental breakdown that caused me to be in the psych ward for the past 6 days (just got out yesterday). While I was in there, I finally had time to read again, so I read your book EndEarthers as a means of distraction from my thoughts and it really helped a lot. It also helps that it's so far a really great read and I wish more people with your perspective wrote as well. So I just want to thank you for writing it because it helped me stay sane. 
27 degrees, flakes on the ground.
My dog runs in the snow.
Frank the cat is hiding somehow.My favorite cooking utensil is my cast iron skillet. For years I struggled to keep it seasoned. Lately I discovered via Youtube that the answer is olive oil and salt. I didn't want to use up what olive oil I had on hand. Since the skillet often has a residue of butter, I substituted that for olive oil. Works like a charm. Just heat the skillet, put in some butter and salt and scrub it down, using no other ingredient. Wipe it out. I doubt if any system is perfect, but I'm satisfied with the results I get.
Protect your pet they said. If you are cold they are cold, they said. So it's in the thirties and the heat is on. So where's the dog? Out running the yard. Came in for a quick snack, held it in his mouth and went to the door to be let out. I told the shelter when we adopted he would mostly stay indoors. Not this dog. He lives in the yard. I make him sleep indoors but he would stay outside if I let him. ?????????
Ringo is a Shepherd mix, the only dog I have had with ears that stand up. His original owner may have kept him tied in the yard. Something has made him occasionally whistle, as though a rope or choke chain was yanked too hard or perhaps running until the rope checked his speed. He is independent; if you tell him to do something he doesn't do it unless he wants to or gets bribed with a snack. But he has separation anxiety as exhibited each time I unlock the gate and leave the yard. He does seem to love me because during his indoor time he hangs close and naps near my feet.
About A Complete Unknown: I love the guy playing Dylan. Somebody else should be Pete Seger. If you go in looking for facts beyond the meteoric rise of Dylan the artist not much is on a proper timeline or perspective. The greatest departure is his romance with Suze. And last meet with Woody. Still I highly recommend it first as an intro to early Dylan and second because it draws fans back to the time when we first noticed and were hooked for life.
I hope one and all had a holiday such that your life was lifted in some way - Maybe exhausted, but satisfied and willing to repeat each year always. Here's hoping the coming year will be good to you.
Stave One
It was night on the Eve,
My friends who believe.
Santa's weight did creak
The old sled unique
When he went aboard to steer
Those eight magic deer.
The deer were champing;
The elves were stamping,
Cheering liftoff imminent.
Santa returned the sentiment.
The bag was loaded,
Full to near exploded.
The swirled, piled, sheets of white
Glimmered neath the gleams of light
Cast by stars in the sylvan night,
Startled by sled, deer, and Santa in sudden flight.
STAVE TWO
Santa chugged Mylanta, Alka Seltzer, Pepto, and Tums
Yelled at the reindeer, "Faster ya bums!"
The sleigh was hot with friction smokin',
As it lit on roofs and waited for Santa to place a token
In each stocking and beneath each tree,
No time to take even a pea
(There was pea salad on Andy Smith's table).
The elements of night were growing unstable.
Santa rolled up his sleeves:
"Gotta serve every child who believes,
From one to nine hundred and one,
Get all in on the fun."
STAVE THREE
In the still sylvan night
Perchance a swinging light
What or who this Holiest hour
With lantern a-glower
Puts foot before foot
Entrants boot by boot
Moon-dapple bower
What eyes sweep the room
Broomstraw across the gloom
Peruse yon sleeping tadpole
Gloved hand pulls out of the hole
In his bag a fragment of star
To place it in center of the scar
Of moonlight across the blanket scroll
STAVE FOUR
Pirate Pete hid among the rocks
Inside the many slopes and pocks
Listening for the swoosh of approaching sleigh and deer.
He lolled across the coarse stone sipping foaming beer.
In his hand a lasso to trap the fat man's ride,
A sword and pistol pressing his side.
"Swoo-" He hears it on high.
"-oosh'. He flings his rope to the sky.
With a twang the line grows taught;
Santa, elves, and deer are caught.
"Har," the delighted pirate cries;
"I've got you for all your lies.
Telling folks the reindeer are boys,
Giving out on the savior's birth mere toys;
I could make you walk a plank.
Arrr, in fact, my ship just sank.
Would ye be for giving a poor pirate lad a ride?
I'll take it and swallow my pride."
"Get in young man," spoke stern Santa.
"Folks like you make me need Mylanta.
What's this guff that I'm a liar?
The truth of Christmas is life's fire,
With a little harmless fun.
Hey, look what I've done.
I don't mean to make you cry, friend.
Take this gift and let our argument end."
"Arr; I'm a pirate; I can never change.
In the end, I'm gonna rob you though it seems strange.
Can you keep me an appointment for the mid of May?
For I intend to waylay you on the one called May Day."
"Certainly, I can;
Here shake my hand."
He let Pete down
And turned the sleigh around.
"Adios, you pirate," he yelled.
"Open your gift; it's swell."
The pirate removed the patch from his one eye
He opened the gift and began to cry.
"Arr, a teddy bear,
With curly brown hair.
Thank you, Santa Claus.
We'll not fight; there's no cause."
And Santa cried "Hi yo reindeer"
And sailed into a sky serene and clear.
STAVE FIVE
Next went sleigh and crew
To the lands of gloom and grue,
Where the heart of the season
Knows not spirit's treason;
But ministers to wrath and rue.
"Santa," said one elf named Joe,
"There's a child whose father says no
When asked if there is love named Santa.
The child has no gift;
He's not on the list.
Oh, Santa, what is the answer?"
Santa clucked sadly with woe;
"There is no answer friend Joe;
For magic dust I sprinkle
To make their hearts twinkle;
But, I cannot alter the nature
Of despair, of disbelief and failure
If hearts are closed and avenues cut off."
He choked with a sob and a cough.
That one's meager Christmas they served,
That one they lost the nerve.
Another one slept in booze and pills,
Soon to forget his worldly ills.
And when they left the plain of gloom and sadness
It left a stain on all their remaining gladness.
STAVE SIX
On the fly again
Santa rests, a toddy in hand.
He notes young Linda moved without warning;
She lived at the house below just this morning.
He sends elf Joe to reconnoiter
Searching here and across the border.
She's here, Joe signals;
It's the girl with the pigtails.
They swoop; they land.
Asleep in the sand
The whole family huddled.
The elf's approach, befuddled.
I don't understand why some must hide.
And Joe the elf stood back and cried.
STAVE SEVEN
'Round the globe in a twinkling
These stories are but an inkling
Of all the wonder encapsulated
In a journey love instigated
And where the sleigh landed and still
Runners burned holes in the ice like a hot grill.
All the jewels in the crown of the season
Form an afterglow more lasting than sight or reason.
