Archive for February, 2015

The Decline Amid The Rise

February 25, 2015 Leave a comment

I believe that our society has always been the treacherous mess that it so obviously is today. I’m no historian or researcher, but I’ve been around for a long time and one picks up a lot of information over time. A broadly varied life has been my university. Although today’s news informs all of us of horrendous deeds by the dozen, it is because of the information rapid transit system. One hundred and fifty years ago, this same vile crap was being perpetrated by the psychopaths of the time. Of course there was much less of it because there were much fewer people. Where you find people, you find evil. More people = more evil.

Now we have box seats from which to observe the mendacity, greed and psychopathy – often as it happens. Just this morning I saw a viral video of a young cop as he knocked an aged homeless man to the ground. He then stood over the helpless old man, wagging a finger and forbidding him to use the public washroom to which he was headed to pee. Is that why that young dick became a cop? So he could get a uniform and a badge that entitled him to be an abusive swine?

When I was a kid growing up in Toronto, a man who wanted to become a cop had to be at least six feet tall, clean shaven and impeccably uniformed. Many rode silver Harley-Davidson motorcycles, some were three wheelers with trunks on the back. Riders wore black polished leather boots up over their calves, and they looked fabulous. They did not carry guns or clubs, and they were very kind and patient with kids who were lost or hurt or scared. Maybe they beat up drunks, too, but without the ever-present cameras of today, who knew?

I like to watch the real life police shows like ‘Forensic Files’ and ‘First Forty-Eight Hours’. I’m sure the police groups that are used in the documentary-style shows are chosen because they are so sincere, polite and professional. There must be plenty of arrogant, short-cutting cops who don’t get chosen for public exposure. I’ve always been happy that there are cops around whose job it is to keep the criminals off our backs while they help us toe the line while driving, doing business and so on.

Over all, society is obviously oozing down to less elegant levels, even as technology rises to almost unimaginable levels. I wonder how anyone can contemplate going into a criminal profession when I see the fantastic forensic tools that today’s professional police departments have.

I have a granddaughter that I adore. I feel a burden of sorrow when I think of the quality of the society into which she will mature. I suffer the knowledge that I won’t be here to help protect her. At the same time, I know that she will be equipped with the knowledge and courage to do the right things and protect herself from the wrong things.

Categories: Uncategorized

A Fascinating Woman (3)

February 15, 2015 Leave a comment

Truman Garrison pushed Damia Zaa out of his consciousness. He had a screenplay to write. He had contracted to create three films for Reward Studios and was eager to finish this third and final draft to fulfill the contract. Part of setting up life alone on a hundred acre hobby ranch was to find and hire a capable ranch hand. He’d need someone to manage the place and care for the animals, especially when Truman was away for extended periods of time, which will be frequent.

The ranch house was extensive. The basement was crude and was accessed through a trap door to a simple staircase. The ceiling was low but the atmosphere was quite dry. Eventually, Garrison would create a wine cellar there. The ground floor included a large country-style kitchen that opened onto the rear deck and pool at one end and onto the large dining room at the other end. Down the length of the dining room was a long pine table with ten matching chairs on a polished floor of wide pine boards. Off the dining room was a small alcove that was a library. Three walls were lined with books, floor to ceiling. The fourth side was open to a massive living room, tastefully furnished with an assortment of easy chairs and sofas. A grand piano stood at the far end of the room before double French doors of glass.

A panel of the bookshelves swung aside to reveal a guest suite. It had its own full bathroom, sleeping alcove and large living room with much closet space. Truman expected that his hired help would live in the house with him until he could have a gate house built. The suite was fully equipped like a small apartment and when hidden behind the bookshelf that swung into place, was apparently not there. It had one window that looked out toward the orchard, deck and pool. Another window looked out over the deep ravine where the rare, healthy elm trees grew.

Truman Garrison went into town, to the post office to ask the postmistress if she knew where he could find an experienced hand or young couple to manage the ranch for him. She referred him to a very capable hand named Shayd Tsord. She expected Shayd to be in later in the day and promised to pass on the job opportunity lead.

A Fascinating Woman (2)

February 12, 2015 Leave a comment

With the sunrise came the blacksmith. She had assured Truman Garrison that she would return in the morning and she did. The same impeccable, green pickup truck rolled up the long driveway onto The Small ‘t’ Ranch. This time there was a trailer hooked to the back of the truck. The trailer was painted an exact match to the truck. Damia Zaa parked her rig on a level place beside the gravel driveway. Garrison was not on the scene but Damia didn’t let it delay her. She simply went to the stable and took the first horse out of its box stall. With a quick tie of the horse’s bridle to a cleat on the side of the blacksmith trailer, the animal was secured. She fired up her propane forge and chose a narrow bar of steel from an organized selection in the neat, clean trailer.

Damia Zaa began to heat and hammer the bar of steel on a heavy anvil. Inside the house, Truman Garrison was awakened by the steady, musical clang of hammer on steel and steel on iron. He looked out his front window and saw Damia at work. He stood and watched as the young woman skilfully shaped and fitted horse shoes while they glowed almost white hot in the flame from the propane fired forge. She plunged each glowing semicircle into a bucket of water and cooled it to place it against the horse’s hoof to check for shape and size. She was making the fourth shoe for the first horse when Truman Garrison appeared at the front door. He greeted her and stood watching for a minute. The sun had risen and was shining warmly on Damia’s work area. Truman observed the beads of sweat standing out on her forehead and running down her cheeks. When she swung her heavy hammer, droplets on her chest glistened and shook loose to run down into her white cleavage.

Truman Garrison shook himself out of the fantasy that was creeping into his mind’s eye. He’d never before seen or even heard of a woman who was so large, so beautiful, so accomplished and so… separate. He felt she was separate from wherever she was and whoever was near her. Truman retreated into the house where he brewed fresh coffee and prepared a tray with two mugs of coffee, a small cream cup and matching sugar bowl with bagels, small spoons and napkins. He was strangely nervous as he took the tray out to Damia in hopes she would pause to share a moment of conversation. She seemed to be very reticent to talk, so he was prepared for rejection.

“Can I persuade you to take a coffee break?” he said. She had just finished shoeing the first horse.

“I suppose you might,” she said. “First I want to put this mare back in her stall.”

“I’ll bring the coffee out by the stable too,” Truman said. “We can sit at the picnic table in the orchard.”

She went ahead, leading the buckskin mare back to the stable. Truman followed with the tray, enjoying her sensual shape and the way she strode with her long, beautifully shaped legs. Her hold on the lead that was clipped to the horse’s halter was light and confident, like she knew the horse would, without hesitation, do just as she wanted it to. While she returned the horse to its spacious box stall, Truman set out the coffee and bagels on the picnic bench in the shade of an apple tree. Garrison was hoping to draw some conversation out of Damia Zaa.

She glided out of the stable with her long-legged stride and went directly to the picnic table. Truman was startled when Damia chose to sit next to him at the picnic table. It was for only a moment because the table began to lift a bit on the far side. Damia rose immediately and went ‘round to the other side of the table and sat opposite Truman. She reached for a mug of black coffee and drank it without adding cream or sugar. Truman was pleased to notice that because he took it that way himself.

“Do you live around here?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” she said, looking out across the field of ripening hay. Truman didn’t expect that answer and was thinking about what to say next.

“I know who you are,” Damia said and turned to face him.

“Who am I?” Truman said. He wanted to know which Truman Garrison she knew. He was known in some circles as the author of many mystery-thriller novels. Other environments knew him as producer of several films based on his novels. Some knew him as director of a few of his films. Some thought of him as just an actor, because that’s where his likeness appeared most often. In other circles he was known as a professor of literature at Tufts University. A few knew him as a fierce competitor in motor racing and sailboat racing.

“I know you’re the man who wrote, ‘Beyond Almost’”. He was again taken aback. It was his most obscure work, and the only one in which he felt he actually created a work of art. It was an almost unknown work, except for a rare few people who appreciated what that book represented. Damia became an even more puzzling conundrum.

A Fascinating Woman

February 11, 2015 Leave a comment

She’s fascinating because she’s unique. That’s what Truman Garrison was thinking while he held Angel’s halter. The blacksmith was trimming Angel’s hooves in preparation for the coming summer season. Truman didn’t know what to expect when Doctor Lefebvre referred him to another veterinarian. Lefebvre was getting on in years and taking a step toward retirement by giving up his large animal practice to deal only with smaller animals, household pets and the like. The previous day she had been the veterinarian treating the horses. This morning she returned as a blacksmith and Truman Garrison was intrigued by her.

The vet to whom Garrison was referred bore the unusual name of Damia Zaa. Garrison trusted old Doc Lefebvre’s judgment and made an appointment with the new vet to come out to the Small ‘t’ Ranch to give his horses their shots and a check-up. It hadn’t occurred to Truman that the new vet might be a woman. The name Damia sounded male to him so he was surprised to see a woman step out of the green pickup truck. It was a solidly built mobile Veterinarian’s office, fitted with heavy, steel compartments all around the eight foot by six foot box in back. Truman, who was about fifty-five at the time, guessed the new vet was about thirty-five.

Truman Garrison paid close attention to the new vet’s technique as she focused on one horse after the other. Damia Zaa made the animals feel safe and calm by her easy, graceful demeanor. Truman took the animals’ behaviour as a sign that this lady vet was a confident professional. He began to look at her as a person. She was remarkably tall, perhaps six-feet-two-or-three. Her long legs showed excellent shape in the tight-fitting jeans. The cuffs were rolled up in narrow folds to the tops of her well-worn Kodiak boots that were laced only half way up so they splayed open at the top three eyelets.

Garrison was close to her as she plunged the long needle into each horse’s neck for its annual inoculation. The fragrance of her hair reached him with its subtle lilac scent as her straight blond tresses fell heavily about her shoulders and swayed with her movements. As Damia forced open each horse’s mouth to check its teeth, Truman was studying her profile. Her face was tanned in that way that outdoor workers get tanned as opposed to the tans acquired on a chaise around a pool. Her nose was fine and appeared straight from the front view of her face, but in profile it had a finely cut angle from the bridge down to the tip. It was unusual, and Truman found it very attractive.

He stood almost touching her as he held the horse steady by the halter while she checked the animal’s teeth. Truman was thinking about her fragrance. He was startled when she suddenly turned her face to him. He was almost as tall as she was and they were suddenly nose to nose.

“Y’know, Mister Garrison,” she said softly, with a warm, husky voice, “each of your horses need their teeth floated and their hooves trimmed.”

“I’ll call the blacksmith as soon as you’re done,” he said.

“If you’ve no objection,” she said, “I’ll do it while I’m here.”

“You’re a blacksmith and a veterinary?” he said.

“I’ll just trim their hooves right now,” she said. “I’ll come back tomorrow with my blacksmith trailer and make some proper shoes for them.”

Truman Garrison was new to country living alone, but very worldly in other environments. His success as a writer of novels and screenplays made for a very broad and intense education. All the same, Truman Garrison was almost confused by the woman and her uniqueness, physically and beyond. She declined his offer of coffee when she finished her work. Damia Zaa stated quite firmly that she’d return the next morning to shoe the horses.

“Keep them in the stable tonight so they’ll be ready for me as soon as I set up. We don’t want to waste the morning rounding them up from the forest that you have there beyond the pasture,” said Damia.

Truman just nodded hesitantly. He was looking at a stunning amazon twenty years his junior and it bothered him. He planned  to live like a hermit on this property so he could get on with his novel and he feared that Ms Zaa would cloud his vision.

Categories: Uncategorized, writing Tags: , ,

I’m Looking For My Unique Woman

February 5, 2015 Leave a comment

There are some amazing women in literature. I need to find a woman as fascinating and desirable as Lisbeth Salander is in Stieg Larsson’s ‘The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo’. To find a woman like her, in my reality or in my fiction would be exciting beyond imagination. I need to find a woman equally unique about whom I could write.

In ‘The First Deadly Sin’ by Lawrence Sanders, a bold, sensual woman named Celia Montfort was unlike any other woman I had ever met in a story. She was completely different from Lisbeth Salander and fascinating in different ways. Both characters had large parts of their lives hidden. Not out of fear of attack or anything like that. It just was more comfortable for them to keep themselves to themselves. There was not a lot of soul-searching and plotting to be as unique as they are – it was just the way they are.

All characters one creates must quite naturally be based on characters one has known in life. Usually, one takes characteristics from several acquaintances and weaves them together into one interesting character. I am pondering my unique woman as I begin to create her. I remember a time several decades ago, when I found myself in a huge rockabilly nightclub in Savanah, Georgia. Center stage there was a young blonde woman singing and shaking. There were two physical characteristics of that woman with which I will begin my search for my unique woman.

She was more than six feet tall with a gorgeous avalanche of lively, radiant, bouncing blonde hair flowing out from the ten-gallon straw hat she wore. Her shape was hidden behind her large bib overalls. The effect was enticing, because her large breasts, narrow waist and parts of her hips flashed creamy white skin through various openings in the overalls. Bare feet projected out of the long legs of the overalls.

I hope to use her as a framework for my uniquely exciting woman. If I can properly imbue her with unique characteristics, I might be able to write stories about her as a heroine or anti-heroine. I expect a challenge because of her unique size. Admittedly, it does give me an open opportunity to use her size to justify some of her unique characteristics. At the same time, it might go against my ability to make her sexy or intimately appealing. I will just have to start a story and let it lead me to answers.

Men are childish, women are women.

February 1, 2015 Leave a comment

There’s a big deal on television today. It’s called the Super Bowl. It gathers a vast amount of attention and costs people a vast amount of money. It doesn’t mean anything. The Super Bowl is meaningless, yet a great deal of false meaning has been injected into it. Fanatics pay thousands of dollars for seats that are worth thirty bucks. They could even watch it for no charge, in their own homes, with their own snacks and get a better view to boot.

Any sort of fanaticism is not a good idea. Things like Nazism, Aryan Brotherhood, Super Bowl and so on. This obviously doesn’t include harmless fan preferences like fans of Bruce Springsteen, The Beatles, Harrison Ford, Dolly Parton and so on. Not all Super Bowl fans are childish and some women do as some men do for the big game.

Although some people paint their faces and even their bodies in the colours of their preferred team, it is childish. It’s fun, it’s troublesome and it’s childish. There are women who cook and serve special snacks to be consumed during the game. It is a game, remember. It’s only a game that for some reason commands great attention and much money.

Well, not for some reason – for the reason that it’s a business enterprise. The people that own the teams, the stadium and the series of games, spend much money to hype up the interest in their business. Fanatical fans should remember that it is not really a game, as in a game people play for pleasure like bowling and poker. It is somebody’s business. The painted faces and heaps of snacks are all in celebration of someone’s very successful business promotion.

We all know that men are childish. It’s true that little boys grow up to be big boys with big toys. It’s true that little girls grow up to be women, and they take care of life more properly than do men. We have to mention that while men behave childishly, women also have their oddities.

Women prepare their faces like painting on a canvas. Black, lengthening material is applied to lashes. Colour is applied to upper lids, sometimes with sparkles in it. Dark lines are drawn around the eyes and beyond their corners. Skin is enhanced with skin coloured crème. Lips are enhanced with colour, sometimes two shades on one lip. Cheek bones are accentuated with highlights and shadows carefully applied.

There’s not room for all the hair and body enhancements to be described, so we’ll end here… except to say that women are odd too and should willingly forgive men for loving their trucks and painting their faces to show their fanaticism.