James Hart / Fiction

If fiction is dead, reality is not far behind.

James Hart

James Hart
Be Home Soon,
December 31
Hart will have maintained this blog for One-hundred-sixty-nine million, nine-hundred-forty-eight thousand, six-hundred seconds through 31 May 2014. Times two (roughly) deep in the Twenty-Fifteen. ******************************** ******************************** ******************************* A carpenter's level designs a calm sea. ******************************** ******************************** Violent movies and prime-time TV shows ought to have disclaimers as reality checks during curtain calls. The cast could gather for a bow and civil handshake and or cheek kisses in order to demonstrate (to the least sophisticated among us) to let us know that the aforementioned carnage was make believe. A fiction. An entertainment. Such reality checks (and stage craft tribute) would well serve a fairness to the deranged among us who are prone to confuse the fantasia of entertainment violence as 'acceptable reality behavior'. There are legions of empty vessels awaiting sustenance about 'how' to react. With sure-bet frequency, the ubiquity of guns and conditioned criminal reflex results in aberrant behavior with subsequent ruinous acts of violence. We see it along the road. We read it and see it and hear it in the news. Such a paradigm! Odd that bow and bow and bow and bow are the same word. One for thank you, one for protection (?}, and the other to stay off the icebergs ... and of course there's the shoe tie, and gift wrap and that bloke from Saginaw, reading USA Today on the Greyhound. Here's a limerick from my Average Guy series: Of all emotion, the grin 'n frown, the best among us, stand down. ******************************** Here's a paragraph from my Average Guy: a couple of satiate dinner guests had ensconced themselves on the living room sofa.* * Whoops that was an abandoned paste, thanks, Merriam W. }One Moment{ Like all boys they wanted everything: the wild treetops and Tarzan hollers, then back to the soccer game on Channel 9 with their buttered microwave popcorn and tough-guy toothpicks. The painted fancy news ladies, in high skirts. Slivered clapboard was a place to carve initials. Not far, canaries built their own thatch nest, hunkered and still against the wind from all directions. An onyx black crow its wing tips torn of feather like a shrapnel-wounded plane, stood watching. Until it was yellow and black, a flurry of woven grass and fallen scatter of shadowed ruin. A swooped escape of yellow dots and the black clawing predator of powerful wide wing, its bright beak triumphant to the sunshine, the white fluff chicks burst within merciless gripped coil. A quick flight toward 3 o'clock backward through nascent Linden buds. An automatic trick spiraling, a mystical bullet, the motion at once there and gone to stellar over soul of weathered naked branch. Its prize of canary chicks: a satiation to the endless March blue. ******************************** (more) Average Guy Then the Old Spiced Fuller Brush man shows up blowing Lucky Strike smoke rings, Dinah Shore had her own hour, and ol' Ike poured concrete, coast to coast. Sundays? Victory at Sea, Archbishop Sheen, Groucho Marx, I'm never sure, such awhile back, weren't the Commies about to attack? Then who'd blink first, Nikita or Jack? ******************************** She spoke of life she did. I'd a fascinating 'eye in the sky' riff' invoking the richly named Auden, at midnight: A to F, clamored-clack of generous muse, nearly always helmeted faces appeared, dusty in white powder, an encounter along the parallel hedgerow , of dog-eared tome, her lips an alabaster meow: some kindling, Edward R. Murrow, the who, what, where when and howl Another magnolia time, first daffodils, another year from June, cold-level ferns as white knuckles; O the color of yellow sugared Chuckles. a sow with piglets, upon the soil: where oil prisms the mud, A new day, so near insane, this autumn an abject postpartum; O bacon, o eggs, why did I start'em? Now I have to eat, the ceiling fan, an aeroplane prop, a yolk slurp, one more word, perhaps a fast break, maybe a dark hour, nothing but cake ... a belly ache ... cooler by the lake. &ah:It's a bit early, Oxford level though, as I'm left, in our adage: truth may vary. If only Aynie would have used "Atlas Mugged", as real utopian form. Keep those Dreamliners rollin'! Until greed and fear return to the dictionary, beyond the zone of human nature. Operative words above: OXFORD & ADAGE &/or: PEOPLE WE GOT THE POWER


DECEMBER 29, 2012 11:38AM


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Gloria Maryann and I packed everything we needed even as the sooty detrital and oily frozen slush on the garage floor would mess up the possibility of a warm and dry ramp to the X-way.

"Let's leave the radio off," she said.
I turned it off after catching the initial refrain of Steely Dan's greatest hit.
"Well if you want to," I replied looking over my shoulder, my glove in my mouth, leaning backward idling toward the cul de sac. Gloria Maryann seemed larger than life bundled and round. She locked the doors.

Next time we'll pay up for heated seats I thought. 

We'd remembered I didn't close the garage door and made a stupid illegal U turn at the first intersection. Actually no one that I saw saw what I did, except Gloria Maryann. "We shouldnota left Dog." 
"I've been meaning to tell you..."
"Watch what you're doing. It's slipperier than a snail on a mirror out here."
"Sure. It sleeted. Not sure if you'd say blustery or--or galeish."
"That's not a word."
Our Honda Ridge started to warm up. Stomping, cold, I used her key to go back into the house and compulsively rechecked my mental check off list, wondering if I could convince Gloria Maryann to pick up Dog. I could not stand his circular pleading behind that mesh. That sturdy BARK BARK and his sad cascara. I shone the penlight on the thermostat, assuring '62'. Touching the backdoor lock, re-closing the drapes. I used a paper towel on the splash marks and droplets, those miniature puddles like islands on a slate sea, walking backward out the door. The burglar lights were still on. I reset the alarm.
"This is not a good day. Did you check the stove?"
Gloria Maryann snap-pushed the radio button.
I nodded.  She'd her mittens off, lighting a narrow cigarette. Her eyes as moist as the condensation behind her furry hood. I cracked my window.
"You know, if you set up all the fastest computers on earth, NASA, China, Leningrad, Israel, New Delhi, you know Seoul Tehran--all the big guns, and you set them on zero, to say zero and ran them, if you ran all them with the replication of zero..."
"...and then after a hundred years you added one at the front of the string..."
"How could you find the front of the string."
"Let me finish!"
"Right. Sssh."
"You'd have a year old number to name."
"You'd have a nebulous beginning of a ..."
"A definition of--
"A bluster!"
"...a point of departure. A drop of water. A grain of sand beginning to begin to define infinity...
"With an unknown multiplier."

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Oh no. Not the unknown multiplier. I read poetry so I can stay away from that stuff JP. Then Gloria Maryann has to make it the nebulous of the entire piece.
I like the radio off on slick roadways too. I also like the conspiracy in their tone and the way he backs out the door cleaning up the puddles. I hope they are going to that motel room you once described with the thick tube picture screen. And they never turn it on. Coitus. Even without knowing the multiplier I can tell the ratio of happiness will increase in a motel room in the snow.
Enjoyed. And please tell Maryann Gloria to quit trying to ruin infinity.