Frosted Future

More thoughts, strung together ... no pattern. Snapshots from year 36.

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Black eyes. Clean floors. Pizza. A full glass of chianti. Cloudy days. Sunshine. Hurricanes, tornadoes and other natural disasters. The existence of god, or "God." Satanists. Demons. Werewolves. Babies. Lightning. Drowning. Skin cancer. Nine years. The end of something. Infinity. Dirty fingers. The Onion. Metallica's "Fade to Black." Naked breasts. Singles. Singles between naked breasts. The cruelty of zippers. Empty water bottles. The confidence to name one's son "Basil."

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The stupidity of horse racing. Animal carcasses on conveyor belts. Bloody hooks. A $30 steak. Sushi. Broccoli. "Chick'n." Refried beans. Infantile jokes. Poems. Poets. Haiku. Tabi shoes --- "Footwear for ninjas! Buy now!" People draped in shadow. 9/11. President Taft. Sea monsters. Skullcaps. Firecrackers. Sparklers. Shaggy blankets. Orgasms. Origami. Salami. John the Baptist's head on a silver platter. Third shift at the local 7-Eleven. This. Vinyl records. Mohawks. Safety pins. Orange cones in the road, knocked over. Blank stares. Hockey pucks. Shoelaces. Feathery branches. Podcasts. Learning Russian. "Vodku." Ivan Drago. Calendar pages turning too quickly. Bank accounts. An empty wallet. Living in a cardboard box.

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The definition of "future considerations." NPR. Trigonometry. Ira Glass. "All Things Considered." Signifying monkeys. Costa Rica. Elbows. Warts. Skin tags. Surgery ... "with no anesthesia / Feel the knife pierce you intensely." Not-yet-written books about charcoal. Kaiser Chiefs. Kaiser rolls. Cheesesteaks. Arteries. An early death. Fat men. Napkins. Cobblestone streets. Hanging gardens. Iraq. The letter "Q." Pleases and thank yous. Voodoo. Reticulated pythons. Stitches. Driftwood. Kicks to the groin.

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A broken orbital bone. Steve Larmer. Book signings. Wyoming. Cool breezes. The thrumming loudness of silence. (It exists.) "Teenagers from Mars." (And we don't care!) Guys named Tor and Oleg. Wasabi. Cartoons about barbarians. Giant spiders. IMdB. The fact that flies have to vomit on their food in order to eat it. The irrelevance of Marilyn Monroe ... or Marilyn Manson, for that matter. Kids named "Chicago." Surfing. Sunburn. Sand crabs. Barbecues on the beach. Scrimscaw. Graverobber telling me "Zydrate comes in a little glass vial / A little glass vial? / A little glass vial." The Oregon coast. Time.

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Piano lessons. Harvey Keitel. Piano lessons with a nude Harvey Keitel. Sorrow. Crying. Obituaries. "Falling Down" starring Michael Douglas. Thrash metal. Trash cans. Forearms. Receding hairlines. Bankers. BMWs. Biostatistics. Shrimp cocktail. Anything fried. Eastern newts in the "red eft" phase. Newspapers. "Rad" --- the best '80s movie ever made. Lavender. Vermont. Fried cheese. Mountains. Nepal. Freezing to death. Finding oneself. Conquering nature. Conquering fear. Conquering the self. Accomplishing something. Finding contentment.

The Wall

I had a dream about god last night. I don't remember exactly what message the dream was supposed to have for me, but I do know he was not happy with me. He stood over me, glowering. There were pine trees and a brook and a steep hill. That's all I recall.

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So I woke up this morning, considered my work load and took off for a walk in the woods, to High Rocks Vista near Point Pleasant, Pa. This is a haven for rock climbers year-round and ice climbers in the winter, and it's the only place I would refer to as "my sanctuary" within two hours of my front door --- especially now, as spring has officially taken hold. On this warm April day, I found a comfortable spot on a sheer bluff overlooking Tohickon Creek and listened to the creek pass by, its waters swollen with winter melt. I lay down on a slab of red rock and simply ... existed. I took a few minutes to dream up a short story about the grisly demise of a through-hiker styled after someone I know too well and then read from a book ("The Monsters of Templeton" by Lauren Groff) for two more hours.

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Vultures circled overhead. A red-headed woodpecker tapped on the bark of a tree whose branches stretched into the open space above the Tohickon. The sun warmed my stubbly face. My legs dangled over the wall of rock. All the stress of my life melted away. I had no problems. I had no responsibilities. Life was perfect. I was alone and unmolested. I could breathe again. And I smiled.

Still Fighting

Drives to the mountains always afford lots of time to ponder the path I've taken to my current situation and the future path I am likely to take. I was fortunate enough to have the time this weekend, on my 36th birthday, for another extended hike to the mountains that overlook Pennsylvania's Lehigh Valley. I didn't like the direction I saw myself heading. Better put, I didn't like what the proverbial crystal ball showed me because right now it's so damn murky.
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There's nothing worse than uncertainty. Well, that's a lie. There are lots of things, millions of things worse than certainty --- cancer being one of them --- but uncertainty can be very stressful. I know I will eventually recover from my current funk and restart my life, but right now I am knee-deep in mud. I've read numerous self-help books. I've subjected myself --- and my bank account --- to psychotherapy for more than three years. I've gained the advice of people I trust and those who have been here before me. Some of it has been helpful, but here I sit: mired. I have grown very tired of the word "but." I must strike it from my vocabulary. A co-worker once spoke of the power of the word "and." So let me try that sentence again: Some of it has been helpful, and here I sit: mired. Wow. That felt almost cathartic. :)
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I had one question to answer during the hour-long drive to my mountain destination: What do I have to show for my first 36 years? I have four years till my 40th birthday and my list of achievements includes a 10-year-old Toyota I hope to one day push off a cliff, a house I'm embarrassed to live in, no job, few decent job prospects, etc. This is not self-pity; it's merely a realistic inventory. To my credit I have a nice blender, an avocado knife, an orange backpack I can't live without, and a growing book collection. (I have lots of other things, of course, but it's just stuff.) By society's standards, however, I am a failure. By that I mean I have no children. But that's all right; I've never wanted children and I can't imagine myself ever having children. Maybe that's because there's so much uncertainty in my own life. (Or maybe "Still Fighting It" from Ben Folds has had a more profound influence on me than I thought: It hurts to grow up / But everybody does.) I do have two dogs I love dearly, but they will most likely be dead within five to seven years. My other accomplishments seem rather ordinary, if not altogether forgettable. Again, this is not self-pity. This is fact.
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So where do I go from here? I don't seem to serve a purpose other than finding new ways to entertain myself. Even that is becoming difficult to do. Here's what I know: Everyone screws up, me included. And this, I am sure, is the valley in a life of uninspiring peaks. I am thankful for my health and my experiences and for who I am and for my place in this world. I'm thankful for countless things, to tell the truth. But I am not content. And I'm not afraid to say it: I want more.

No Hope

I wrote the following story for horror magazine Rue Morgue a few years ago, but it never found life there. It's about a small, quirky town I used to visit in my teen years, mainly to buy punk albums from indie record shops, feed ducks or simply walk across the spider-riddled bridge into Lambertville, N.J., because I had nothing else better to do. I returned there not too long ago, and it just didn't fit me anymore. It's funny how time alters things.

The Most Haunted Town in America

The wraith of a maligned vice president mingles with slaughtered pigs

and other restless spirits in New Hope, Pa.

Within an hour's drive of Philadelphia, along the chocolaty seam known as the Delaware River, lies the once-sleepy Bucks County borough called New Hope. Dubbed "No Hope" by sour locals, New Hope is also known in some circles as the most haunted town in America.
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New Hope's rich history, quirkiness and artistic nobility have begun to butt heads with Wal-Mart-era consumerism. (For example, Starbucks has snatched up a prime corner in a shuttered bank-cum-fallout shelter.) While corporate tenants have driven out a few independent retailers and residents tiring of weekend bottlenecks, New Hope's longest-tenured inhabitants --- a diverse cast of graveyard spooks --- aren't going anywhere anytime soon.
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"This area is so rich in history," says Adele Gamble, proprietor of Ghost Tours, a local firm that conducts lantern-lit tours of New Hope's most famous haunts. "George Washington's troops endured so much hardship here; many of them froze to death. Plus, New Hope has always attracted actors and artists. You have all these tortured, sensitive souls in one concentrated area."
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The storied Logan Inn along New Hope's main drag sits at the town's supernatural epicenter. During America's Revolutionary War, Washington's troops used the inn's basement as a makeshift morgue and crematorium; Gamble says the cellar's spiritual energy is strong enough to raise her hackles. Visitors continue to report sightings of soldier spirits --- some headless --- guarding the inn, which went up in the 1720s. Unexplained phenomena have sent some guests unexpectedly packing in the middle of their stay, while some thrill-seekers overnight at the Logan thirsting for an otherworldly encounter.
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A ghost that leaves traces of tobacco smoke or the scent of lavender haunts at least one of the inn's 16 guestrooms, according to reports from past visitors. The inn also has a famous phantom: Aaron Burr, vice president to Thomas Jefferson in the early 1800s. In 1804, Burr absconded to New Hope and stayed at the Logan after murdering political rival Alexander Hamilton in a duel. What has been described as Burr's ghost sometimes appears in the halls of the inn or along a mule-tramped towpath that runs behind it.
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Gamble, who runs Ghost Tours apart from her full-time job, has been soaking in New Hope's spiritual energy for the better part of 25 years. One of her most memorable encounters occurred during her "initiation." The late Adi-Kent Thomas Jeffrey, an author and ghost expert who modeled her own tours after those in England, had been holding a seance one Halloween night. The location: a house formerly occupied by a late-19th century primitive artist, butcher and reformed carnie named Joseph Pickett.
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She recalls sitting by the window next to an antique hutch, away from the seance's other participants. An unseen force grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked back her head. She screamed, "Something has me!" And something --- or someone --- definitely did. In the room with them hovered the apparition of a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair, a handlebar mustache, a white shirt and suspenders: Joseph Pickett's specter. She has had at least one other dust-up with Pickett in the time since.
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An unassuming multistory house near a bridge that overlooks the towpath has served Gamble as another reliable source of ghost sightings. During her tours she likes to recite the tale of a rock band that once tried to use the house as rehearsal space. But when the musicians plugged in their amplifiers, an ungodly squealing belched from the speakers; the amplifiers worked just fine everywhere else. The problem persisted, ultimately driving the band from the building. Gamble says the property had been used long ago as a slaughterhouse, and "little piggies" slain there must have channeled their cries through the band's equipment.
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She has plenty of other stories about that particular building, which housed a fencing academy in the late 1990s. One tale has to do with a girl visiting friends who lived in a converted apartment there. While sitting in a chair, the girl felt a cat's tongue rake her skin. But as she bent to pet the cat, she saw a ghostly piglet licking her hand instead.
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Other notable New Hope ghosts include a blond hitchhiker with crystal-blue eyes who was killed while thumbing for a ride late one night; a stately woman in a long, high-collared dress; sobbing children; and an impish phantasm that, according to Gamble, once pulled a man off a ladder. Despite the mischief, Gamble likens most ghosts --- at least the ones on her tours --- to Casper: harmless and well behaved.
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"I'm not afraid of them because I believe you attract what you are, and I won't let myself be affected by negative energy," she insists. "But I always ask permission from the ghosts. They were here before I was, and they'll be here when I'm gone."

Backup Plan

I don't know what to do. Honestly, I am genuinely perplexed. I'm talking, of course, about the 2009 Stanley Cup Playoffs, which begin tonight. I picked the Chicago Blackhawks and the Calgary Flames to meet in the Western Conference Finals, yet here they are, going after each other's throats in the opening round.

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In the Eastern Conference, things are looking a bit more palatable. I've picked the Carolina Hurricanes to match up against the Boston Bruins in the Conference Finals. But honestly, as long as the Philadelphia Flyers lose horribly -- preferably in a four-game sweep in the opening round, courtesy of cross-state rivals the Pittsburgh Penguins -- I will be more than happy. My distaste for the Flyers dates back more than two decades, when they inexplicably traded defencemen Brad McCrimmon to the Calgary Flames. His trade led to the slow but sure demise of what had been a close-to-unstoppable franchise in the late 1980s.

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But back to the West. Calgary has had its share of success; in 2004 it made it to the Finals only to lose in seven lousy games to the lowly Tampa Bay Lightning. (I thought for sure, by the way, that such an event was a clear sign of an impending apocalypse.) The Flames also won the Cup in 1989 ... thanks, in part, to the defensive prowess of McCrimmon. Chicago, on the other hand, hasn't been to the playoffs since 2002 and hasn't won a Cup in more than fifty years. They've got a good, young, exciting team. And they crushed Detroit in the final two games of the season. So I'm going with Chicago to make it to the Finals, versus, say, the Hurricanes. From there, whatever happens is all right with me.

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As 20th-century bard Jim Morrison once said, "I don't know what's gonna happen, man, but I'm gonna get my kicks before the whole shithouse goes up in flames."

Recovering Days

Someone once told me, "Don't let your days pass as if they don't mean anything." But that's exactly what I have let myself do. I have become a hermit, an island. At least I realize it, and that means I can change it.

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I recently had a conversation with my neighbor, who looks about as happy as I feel these days. He was lamenting the death of his childhood, rather the fact that he is so far removed from the joy and wonder he experienced as a child. He now has to settle for the experience of seeing such joy only in the face of his son. I imagine that's a great feeling, but it's one step removed, so I can't imagine it's nearly as fulfilling. But I've been wrong before.

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Out of the two of us, I think I'm the lucky one. I still experience such joy, the joy of a child, though it is fleeting. I still know how to play. I still know how to get lost in myself. I still know how to tap into that sense of discovery. I still know how to find happiness in silly things, simple things. I too lament the lack of joy in my life, but I know it's still within me. I just have to figure out a way to unlock whatever box I've stored it in.

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I awoke yesterday morning to rays of brilliant sunlight filling the room. I had work to do, but life is indeed too short to be wasted solely on productivity. I decided to go hiking, to enjoy the sunshine and burn some calories. So I loaded my backpack and headed for Pulpit Rock, west of Hamburg, Pa. On the way there, along the Pennsylvania Turnpike, the sunshine went in hiding and it began to snow. Part of me was disappointed. Another part of me was happy -- joyous -- that winter was not yet ready to relinquish its grip.

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It took me about an hour to reach the top of Pulpit Rock from the trailhead. I saw only one person along the way. Streams overflowed with winter meltwater. Trees flowered with buds. Egg sacs cradling unborn frog or newt larvae floated in cloudy masses at the edge of a small pond. Signs of change were everywhere, warning me that much time had passed and life was getting on with itself, whether I had anything to say about it or not. I climbed along the edges of large boulders at the lip of Pulpit Rock, then settled into a nook at the top to rest my ailing right knee. Gray clouds sent long shadows across the greening pastures and rolling hills of the Lehigh Valley (pictured). The sun showed its face every few minutes, then yielded to more clouds that sprinkled snow.

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This, to me, meant the seasons hadn't yet turned, no matter what the calendar suggested, which meant I hadn't wasted a full season of days, which meant I still have time to stop listing and turn around this warship.

Clocks and Demonology

Sleep comes when it comes. It doesn't come much at all anymore, due to the confluence of boredom, worry, caffeine, the lack of consequences and cravings for entertainment and intelligence.
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In the past few years my sleeping schedule has become a strange sort of creature. I can subsist on a few hours of sleep per night until I crash at the end of the week. It's not uncommon for me to be awake at 4 a.m., watching Extenze infomercials and reruns of "King of Queens," or trolling the city's neighborhoods by car with a cup of coffee in hand. But I must admit I am always filled with dread, or at least a sense of heightened awareness, during the three o'clock hour.
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A few years ago I made the mistake of seeing "The Exorcism of Emily Rose," an odd film starring Laura Linney that somewhat successfully blends horror with elements of courtroom drama. What I remember most about it is the idea of the "witching hour." Of course we've all heard of this. The witching hour is another name for 3 a.m. and the sixty minutes that follow, named so because it's the supposed inverse of the hour Christ died on the cross, and it's when the demons get to come out and tear things up.
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The film reminded me of a story my sister's friend told me when I was probably no older than six. Every Halloween, she said, Satan comes out to play. Any trick-or-treaters left on the streets past a reasonable hour -- say, 9:00 p.m. -- would be collected by Satan and his minions, never to be heard from again. This story has stuck with me all these years. During college I worked as a solo nighttime janitor for a kitchen facility. It was more than a little unnerving to be swabbing the floors on Halloween night, especially as midnight approached. I ran out of there after I finished my work for the night but fully expected to see Satan waiting for me at my car: arms crossed, cloven hoofs clopping against the asphalt, smoking a cigarette and checking his watch as if to suggest, "Where you been all my life, Billy boy?"
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All the bad things that happened to the title character in "Emily Rose" occurred between 3 a.m. and 4 a.m. I'm paranoid to begin with, and despite all the "satan metal" I've been listening to for the last twenty years, I must admit a deep, nagging fear of demons. I believe they are real, and not just in the alcoholism sense. (I also believe in werewolves and "devil deer," if that means anything.) It must be the Catholic upbringing, made worse by my purposeful straying from Christian territory.
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So if I'm already awake at 3 a.m., I flick on an extra light or two, and I always turn the TV to something uplifting ... or at least something not about demonic possession, ritual sacrifice or methods for inviting evil forces into one's place of residence. If I'm asleep and wake up anytime between 3 and 4 in the morning, I do one of two things: Sink deeper beneath the protective veneer of my blanket (because such subterfuge always fools a demon) or curl up a little closer to my trusty dog, Moose. This may sound silly, but I breathe a little easier when 3:59 turns to 4:00.
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Still the notion raises a few questions: Do demons recognize Daylight Saving Time? Are they bound by it? What about time zones? And, of course, what befalls the poor soul whose house sits on the line between the Eastern and Central time zones? Does he have to deal with witching hours, plural? Perhaps, instead of wrestling with such ideas, I should simply take a swig off a bottle of NyQuil and let the mind take a break from itself. But where's the fun in that?

Serpent's Tale

It is officially spring here in Philadelphia's outer rim, though you wouldn't know it by looking out the window this very second. I was walking to the gym the other day and saw my first garter snake of the season. (This is not an actual photo of the snake I saw, by the way; thank you, Internet.) Much like seeing the first robin of spring, catching a glimpse of a snake outdoors in the Northeast this time of year means one of two things: a.) The weather is officially about to turn to the warmer side; or b.) The bugger escaped his human captors and is willing to risk death over being caged for the rest of his life. Considering the 67-degree weather, I think it was the former. More snakes and warm weather to come!

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Learning to Walk Again

"Everything in life is a compromise. You deal with it and move on."
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Life is too strange for it to be one random coincidence after another. About two months ago I got to know a man named Fred. He's about 65 years old, maybe 70. A full beard and head of gray hair. Strong Southern accent, from a part of Texas not far from San Antonio. He walks slowly and with a slight limp. Reason is last year he had a stroke that debilitated the left side of his body. He still has no strength in his left arm.
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I spent one of the most depressing afternoons of my life with Fred, at a Chinese buffet directly across from my high school in Warminster, Pa. Sitting there in that restaurant, as I stared at the brick face of my alma mater, all I could think was, "My life has gone nowhere since graduation day, nearly 18 years ago." Across from us sat an old married couple; the wife was severely overweight and could barely walk. She didn't seem able to chew her food normally, not even Jell-O. Husband and wife both looked miserable. In fact, everyone in the restaurant looked miserable and invariably unsuccessful. After we left the restaurant I stopped at the wine store to buy a few bottles of red and then went home to break a knuckle on a stubborn piece of furniture.
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I've seen Fred three times since that day in early January. He's got me doing some freelance work for him, writing about things such as alternative energy sources: algae, wind, biochar, etc. It reminds me of work I did 10 years ago when I was PR director for an advertising agency in the Philadelphia suburbs. Traveling in circles that seemed a bit too familiar further reinforced the feeling that life had taken me nowhere ... or I let it take me nowhere. But I've come to look past those feelings and actually learn something.
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Getting to know Fred has reminded me of the Mitch Albom book, "Tuesdays with Morrie." He tells me about his many inventions, about how complicated things work, about engineering and physics principles I am supposed to understand and then craft into paragraphs of dumbed-down prose. He's also teaching me about things I never knew I cared about. The quote at the top of the page, for instance -- "Everything in life is a compromise ..." -- is one of his.
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He's a brilliant man, so he's smart enough to not let "speed bumps" bother him or keep him from reaching his goals. He is a winner, despite all the hurdles that have been placed in front of him. For example, he never planned on losing a child but he did almost 20 years ago, and he never planned on having a stroke that would rob him of his mobility. He has recovered from surviving one his own children and has also learned to manage the aftereffects of his stroke -- yet another compromise. He's driving again. His steps are much surer. He's slowly regaining the use of his left hand so he can get back to tinkering in the metal shop and doing something as simple as turning the pages of a book he's reading. Clearly, he's a highly adaptable survivor.
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Funny thing about Fred: He may be brilliant, but he's also a child in that he hasn't lost the sense of wonder that abandons so many of us once we hit high school. He still likes to learn new things. He still takes things apart to see how they work. Age hasn't stopped him from growing and challenging himself and getting dirty, even with hurdles that might seem insurmountable to other people.
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The first time I met Fred, I honestly wasn't sure I wanted to meet him a second time because I thought working with him meant taking a step or two backward in my life. Now I see he's forcing me to move forward.