The Seventh Seal Of Debby Hanssen

Then the angel carried me away in the Spirit into a wilderness. There I saw a woman sitting on a scarlet beast that was covered with blasphemous names and had seven heads and ten horns. The woman was dressed in purple and scarlet, and was glittering with gold, precious stones and pearls. She held a golden cup in her hand, filled with abominable things and the filth of her adulteries.

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In a living room more concerned with the always lauded visitor over the human occupants of the abode, sat Debby Hanssen on a sofa comfortable and new. The over-sized TV screen flashed standard daytime fare. In the kitchen a crock-pot slowly simmered dinner for the household of four. But Debby did not hear the television or remember the cooking food. Only her body was in the house.

Debby was having one of those moments. "Shutdown Moments" she labeled them. Moments when she could not move or function or bear to engage the world in any way. Her eyes were blank, unable to see outside of herself. Her face held no expression. Later, the thought occurred to her how she must look at a time like that. She must keep it secret or the dreaded invaders would interfere.

Nor would she able to stop the so-called "well meaning" invaders.

Debby knew the type, she'd seen them in action. The busybodies, the do-gooding monsters who "just want to help". As long as they can hide behind that pretense they know no shame or gall. They become possessed, hacking online, digging into their victim's life like a fanatical mole hell-bent on control. The amount of damage those kind of people can do could be massive and sometimes irreversible. These clawing, scratching creatures were her greatest fear.

So Debby was very careful to be completely alone during her Shutdown Moments. Her fortress was formidable. A gated community, the power of affluence in a money-mad world and a lofty social standing buttressed her like high castle walls. Even so, she never felt safe from her insides.

The Moments terrified her to the core. It was if her memory were slowly being erased, deleting thoughts she could no longer tolerate. Her children were spreading their own wings now, behind their needs she had long hidden her decay. The carrion of her soul lay prey to the vultures of hopelessness who come pecking her mind out with abandon. She wondered: is this how Alzheimer's starts?

Mentally, she pictured herself running into the street, screaming and pleading for help. But how can anyone bring her dreams back? And to show weakness to the busybodies would be fatal. No, Debby could only sit in silence during these Moments while she lost her mind in God's disdain. She could almost feel the turning of her hair white.

She recalled the line from Revelation: 'They will pray for death but death will not come.' How could anyone in her privileged position ever justify such a horrid fate? But in order to maintain that position, over the years she had opened the seals of doom to her life to "keep things going." "There's always another seal," she told herself as the hole dug ever deeper. But with the appearance of the overwhelming Moments, she knew she could unleash no more destruction.

Only the Seventh seal remained, containing the last remaining purity of her soul.

Sex had lost its pleasure, Debby squeezed dry like a lemon. Food the new refuge, yet untenable in its ill health. Everywhere she turned Debby found another dead end. All the tricks she'd used over the years to avoid facing the truth had stopped working. She was trapped like a crippled stray dog nobody wanted. Where had she to go? The truth could only leave her to die in the street.

But if I erase my mind there is no truth and there is no lie, just the safety of the void. Who can blame me then? My sins will never be exposed. There is no way out.

Because she had so deeply withdrawn from the world, Debby did not hear the initial ringing of the door bell. Had the devil come calling at last?

Feeling as if lifting an elephant she got up from the leather couch when panic struck her in the worst way. Who could it be this time of day? Unexpected news is never good, it could expose the truth of her life. Had the soul-stealing "saviors" caught onto her already? Would they drag her away to a home in a straight jacket, doped up and left to die? The door bell rang again. Debby ran her fingers through her long brown hair, searching the room for nonexistant answers.

With the return of her heart pumping also returned the pain. Maybe it is better just to die, she mused. Get the nightmare over with. God has sent his final wrath to end her wicked, wicked ways. How could she say she did not deserve it? She'd always prided herself on knowing her failures (but not her successes).

Debby approached the heavy wooden front door like the gates of hell. Here she'd face her final fate. A small, tiny voice told her not to panic but a louder one screeched hysterics. Her instincts knew something was out of the ordinary, a messenger of doom at the door. Finally, she opened it.

"Registered letter for Debby Hanssen. Will you sign for it?"

Registered letter!? Divorce papers? No. Then what? What had she'd done? The whole thing reeked of something very public and very gossip worthy. She'd been right: death awaited her on the front porch. Dare she take the bait? She must. Can't blow her cover to the mail man or he'd spread it like wild fire. "That Hanssen lady refused the letter! What's wrong with her?"

Safely inside, Debby noticed the return address was from an out of state law firm. Why did that excite her? A flicker of something long lost sprouted within her. "No, no. I must be dreaming. I haven't even read it and I feel alive like I haven't in years and years." She hesitated to open it, wanting to stay in that magical moment forever. What she found was the Seventh Seal.

She'd been bequeathed a cashier's check for $6,827,483. The law firm was not allowed to say who it was who'd made the donation. "Was it him?" Debby instantly wondered of her long lost love. Was he dead now and this a gift from beyond the grave? Oh no! Can't be! It's only his life I've been holding onto all these years. I've nothing truly! Nothing at all!

Swirling emotions left her stranded as if in a river's eddy while the main current rushed past. Yes, this money is a way out. But no, it's too late too mean anything. How could she ever explain abandoning her life? She was supposed to be happy! Taking the money and running meant admitting her entire life a lie. But how many times had she told herself: "If only I had the money I could leave. I could start all over, a free person. See, God? I could make something of my life if You'd only fund it!"

God called her bluff. Despite being a very devoted churchgoer, Debby never expected God to still love her after turning her back on love. She always promised to turn to love one day if she got the chance. With the millions now in her hands, all the excuses were gone. Shit!

Though thoroughly alone, she anxiously scanned the room for unwanted witnesses. Feeling safe, Debby considered her options (though some very forbidden!). I must share this with my family, of course. What else could I do? But having asked the question, the answers she got did not please her. No! I can't do that! I can't leave and be free. That would be so...immoral. Please stop saying it!

But her pleading soul ached for the life she'd lost, to finally avenge a lifetime of regrets! But the voices of guilt stood accusing and angry, blowing back in gale force fury. Leaving would be selfish. Who did she think she was anyway? With her track record how could she ever believe she'd amount to anything? And worst of all, leaving meant exposing herself forever as a fraud.

And what a grand lie to stay! Yes, what more proof could anyone ask than to stay when one has the chance to fly away forever? Debby was staring down 6 million points of propaganda of her integrity, a lifetime's worth. Everyone in her circle would smile and curtsey in her presence, she the unquestionable queen. What kind of fool throws away approval like that?

Debby plopped down on the sofa, torn in her decision. And feeling torn gave her the urge to rip the confounding piece of paper in two as well. But could she carry that secret to her grave? It did offer the best of both worlds: not having to face herself and not having to acknowledge freedom's choice. But that was no answer either to her swirling head.

"God damn him! He sent this to destroy me! He's that damn smart thinking I'd be too weak to ever leave." Debby bent over clutching her sides, her chest heaving under the pressure. She had to make a decision before anyone came home. Hell, she had to make a decision soon or explain why she didn't instantly call to tell the big news.

"Who am I?"

***

Year after year she had gotten by, rotting away, selling pieces of her soul to buy precious time to elude revelation. When voices of truth told her she couldn't keep it up and survive, she knocked them back with the science of prescription medication. For years she prayed to escape her prison but once handed the keys she must inescapably face how much she was in fact her own jailor.

She knew what she wanted to do. But doing what she wanted turned out to be the hardest thing she'd ever done in her life, to finally step out of the shadows. How easy to claim faith in a faraway God, but having faith in herself? In this Debby faced the seventh and final seal of her life's fate, never to be the same.

How To Be A Good Capitalist

"There's room at the top
"they're telling you still;
"But first you must learn
"how to smile as you kill."

-John Lennon

Doesn't matter where you put me, I'll always be an outcast. Whether it's the mean streets of Oak Cliff or the lush landscapes of Plano I just don't belong. This makes my cage rather small. Having no money restricts me to Oak Cliff. And being an outcast there dumps me in with the equally disfavored: the Koreans. Naturally, I didn't particularly fit in with them well either.

I've done jobs before that would rip the heart out of Jesus, leaving him begging for the release of crucifixion. So I've had practice at staring down the gates of hell our savior escaped. Mentally, one battens down the hatches and reverts to survival mode. It's all about making it through the next hour - while watching mobile phone commercials of teenage girls giggling and talking to their father in London. Man, hard to believe those people are even on the same planet I am.

Back in the day, an emotionally disturbed homeless man grabbed a cop's gun and held him at gun point. His peers taunted him, urging him to shoot the cop down. Years of frustration boiled over at the uniform they saw as a tool of oppression for the rich and a system that killed them off slowly one by one. These kind of people are immune to our daily propaganda of "how great America is". Pain, misery and fear have a way of speaking louder. In the end, the cop was shot and the police hunted that crowd for years. Everyone believed they had the right to do what they did.

Mean Streets of Sesame

So it wasn't far for me to fall in with the Korean gun runners. What intrigued me at first was their frank speech, mocking the hypocrisy of the world. Only "good" countries should have weapons declared the hypocrites. But just as with the hypocritical drug laws, where there is willful blindness there is money to be made. Serious money. People think of North Korea as the savagely poor country that it is but a large part of that is due to the amount of resources detoured to the military. And the U.N resolution banning the importation of weaponry only made them want it all the more.

Men who make "moral" resolutions like this are fanatical in keeping up the facade of godliness. They have built their lives and reputations and families on it. If it were to come to light they weren't one of the "good guys" (Never trust anyone who speaks in terms of "good guys" and "bad guys") they would lose everything. So what they mean when they speak of "making the world safe" is making their lies and hypocrisy safe from exposure.

The idea of exposing that very much appealed to me. Not that I had any delusions about my cohorts. They were just this side of animals, modern pirates leading desperate lives. But they had no pretty lies to sell and more importantly they had a sense of us outcasts all being in the same boat and that meant acknowledging the need to band together as one - which is more than I ever had in the streets. And from there, I flew halfway across the world but it felt like crossing the entire universe.

The Russians were our suppliers and the waypoint was Cavite City in the Philippines. Do you want to know the mind fuck of a lifetime? Try traveling from living day to day in a homeless shelter to landing in Manila on your way to meet Russian gangsters. Getting my head wrapped around that almost drove me to the breaking point. All my life I never doubted for one second God would never ever let me leave the streets. In a way, these gun runners now seemed more powerful to me than God.

Looking at the sights along the way to the meeting point is a surreal trip imprinted on my brain till the day I die. What would they think if they knew a homeless American was traveling past them on his way to an illegal gun deal? What a reversal of fortune to see the poverty bound souls walking past me just as I had for so many years before the passing cars and buses of Dallas. I heard stories of children sold into slavery either as prostitutes or at hard labor. My cohorts laughed at those stories.

I was mostly quiet at the exchange but I stuck out like a cue ball in Harlem with my white, homeless aura and that spooked the Russians. "Don't worry about my goddam ass!" I snapped back, ready to rip their throats out if they dare question me one inch further. No way was I going back to the streets. They liked me after that, offering me drinks as we all gathered at a bar afterwards. These Russians gangsters weren't so tough after all - thank God. It almost felt as if coworkers were gathering after a day at the office.

There's a line from The Godfather Part II that I've always held dear even before I heard it: "Always try to think the way others around you think." How far could I trust these guys? It was the next part that had me worried. The Russians were dumping their massive overstock of AK-47s but if we were going to make any real money we needed the heavy stuff and that was guarded in a warehouse back in Manila. That's where I made my first kill.

The fence was 15 feet high with double rolls of razor wire at the top. The warehouse was a good 30 feet in all directions from the fence. The guard carried a remote signaling device that he could push at the first sign of trouble. He pushes that button and it's all over for us. The only solution was to shoot him from a far distance, before he could spot us. I told the gang I would do this. Partly to prove myself to them - and partly to prove myself to myself. We'd been practicing for a week in the jungle until finally the guys decided I was ready.

Problem was on the night in question a high wind had kicked up, the beginnings of a typhoon. But when I complained I got no mercy. "Just shoot the fucker - and don't miss!" I knew if I did miss the guard would raise the alarm and we'd be out a small fortune. I decided to suck it up. Picturing in my mind how the bullet would curve and travel through the wind, I aimed at a spot to the right of the shadow that had stopped to eat a snack. Time to find out of these men really were bigger than God.

With divine guidance the bullet reached its target dead center, the figure dropping to the ground. In quiet celebration the men congratulated me. At last I was a hero to the world! "L" (we all went by first initials) was the first to reach the body. "Great shot, H!" The fallen guard was just a kid and I expected to feel remorse or guilt or something bad. But all I felt was contempt.

Did he really have such disregard for his life to risk it for so little? If he'd grown to be older he'd never be so foolish to take such a job, I remember thinking. Doesn't matter what anybody says, there's only one rule in this world and that is 'money rules'. No one mourned Vinnie when they found his dead body in a dumpster after an overnight freeze. The world does not believe in love.

Certainly my band of brothers understood that as we efficiently carted off the goods on our way to the North Korean coastline. Aboard the ship, I examined the new Harry. How many pretty lies of my own had I sold? Once I had railed for social justice amid the mafia that is the world, tying my fate to the deaf ears of luxuriating criminals. What would my death had proven? Would they have woken up and said, "See who we have destroyed? We must change our wicked, wicked ways!" Good luck with that!

Our exploits made the paper. Now I was news of the world. I remembered seeing a cartoon once of American soldiers decked out Nascar style with Exxon and Haliburton badges and whatnot sponsoring their uniforms. It was their pretty little lie to believe they served their country. Killing for profit is certainly a growth industry as the world goes through its death throes. No wonder so many soldier's heads came back as mush as reality collided with their religion. Sorry, Mr. Afghan, it's nothing personal, just business.

That's all I felt too. Like a CEO laying off employees to their doom I claim there is no other way. One simply cannot get in the way of a dollar and expect to survive. Yes, my killing of the guard was considered unsanctioned by the powers-that-be but I knew my crime was no different than the sanctioned killings I saw praised each and every day. Stockholders cheer the death of the homeless and suburban warriors cheer the death of those who stand in the way of the oil god. It's all a scam as we pretend to honor one another's holy mask.

The world is a criminal enterprise. And that's why for seven years I was able to successfully run munitions to North Korea. What they do with those weapons is on them. Eventually, my intelligence was recognized by the gang and I became a leader of sorts, reducing our work to a science, never to romanticize our endeavors. Keep your eye on the prize and you'll always make out, I preached. Difference with me was once I had my "out" money I was gone with the wind. Them other guys just didn't know how to quit.

I'm dictating this story to my miniature recording device as I drive back from the Belgian Grand Prix (my favorite track!). My Audi A8 is a blast to drive as I head back south to my out-of-the-way Switzerland villa. It's the dream life for me. I'm welcomed wherever I go, I'm a pope of the monetary religion. Kiss my ring - it's a Cartier. Hard to imagine the days of old when I feared not being able to get a tetanus shot after a rusty nail gouged me on a day labor job.

Now I have no healthcare worries or straining for shelter and food. My skin has cleared up and my overall condition improved dramatically. Like a Greek god on Mount Olympus I look down through the clouds at the deceived masses vainly struggling against the inevitable weight of self-contrived misfortune. Scared rabbits ask only for a job and nothing more. Never questioning, never asking for change, "respecting" the abuse given to them so that they too may be called responsible. What a farce.

In the end, who is not an obliging killer? From President to peasant collude the voices that crucify. Those who hammer the nails do good by "just doing what we're told." Those who give the orders do good by saying "never have I held the hammer." All these bodies crucified but no one is responsible! I sit back and marvel as death by pretence slaughters millions in its guilt and shame. Each day I thank Truth I breathe the free air. It's not a matter of right and wrong. It's a matter of facing facts, of facing that which we really do.

Walking Down The Road With That Compton Feeling

Walking down the road
with that Compton feeling

Nigger done laugh
cuz his inside bleeding

Pretty little pig
with his donut eating

White dog angry
when bitches breeding

Shiny shoes stepping
from the Asian meeting

Walking down the road
with that Compton feeling!

Thumb of the sun
got the concrete peeling

Nigger in a suit
on my back feeding

Take away your life
for good time weeding

Hollywood slick
got his Rolls wheeling

Walking down the road
with that Compton feeling!

Brother throws a rock
cuz I ain't crack dealing

They shoot Korean
cuz the kitty screaming

I tell you this boy
not 'merican dreaming

Just another jail
where fries are steaming

Walking down the road
with that Compton feeling!

Blue hair granny
got her pistol gleaming

Summertime shits
like a river streaming

Gotta learn to row
when the ships is keeling

But there ain't no school
for the hell I'm feeling

Walking down the road
with that Compton feeling!

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It's 6:12 AM And I Don't Know Who I am

Do you know what it's like to wake up on a one-size-fits-all cot beneath the sterile glow of a futureless room of impersonable fluorescent lights beaming down expectantly to start your day to be processed as human cattle?

War is hell, yes. But casualties of the class wars are only derided, not hailed as heroes dying for a worthy cause.

Of course, money has never been a worthy cause for anything, much less dying.

I don't think I can feel anymore. What was I put here to do? My life means nothing more than spending the night next to a man who farts his way to sleep and doesn't think twice about it. In a movie it's funny. In real life it's suicide inducing.

Who am I?

It's 6:12 AM and my life has ended. What is there to life in the American gulag but to do your body's time and die? God's purpose for you means nothing in this world. Takes a truly deceived human to declare being human impractical - but I hear it claimed every day.

I know lifers without hope who can sleep like a baby in this rot hole. They don't track the daily news nor inform their worldly views. They never see beyond the present moment. I envy them but they snore like hell.

And then there's the guy in the cot next to me last night: Frankenfarter. Jesus fucking Christ you know your life is over when that guy is stinking up your personal space like a bean-fed pig farm. "It helps me relax." It helps me relax, big fucking deal! Stuffing you in the nearest janitor's closet would help me relax. You people who get to sleep in your own bed and own room at night have it made.

My chest wakes up racing as always, tight and clenched. From past experience I know to hide the look of terror on my face lest I get a barrage of questions that no one can answer.

My head is like a radio in continual scan mode, constantly changing the frequencies. "I wonder, wonder who wrote the Book of Love?" Just one random snippet after another squelching out my true thoughts. Radio gaga.

Last night I hear a car salesman engaging a customer while I was mopping the dealership floor just before close. I don't want to be nice and friendly to every fucker I meet, I think to myself. Can I sell cars for a living? I don't know. I don't know! It's 6:18 AM and I still don't know who the hell I am.

If any of my thoughts bleed through the radio interference I can't play the game. I can no longer pretend to be interested in words that don't pertain to my life. Who does my life benefit? I see rumblings of life in the room around me as we all prepare for the daily dance. The dance of death.

The dream partner on the dance card is a dead end job I graciously greet as a glorious gift. This pleases our host, the god of lies. The class warlords pretend to give us a gift, we pretend to be happy about it - and Jesus weeps.

Cops pretend to enforce the laws of nature, arresting Adam for vagrancy. Papal politicians pretend piety perpetrated on perfidious people. All the true believers have been killed, shot by self-appointed cops doing the lying god's bidding.

I am the devil's marionette. Which string will be pulled next on my dance of death? Soulless beasts come down from the mountain looking for prey. They have no song in them and tolerate none in others. These instruments no longer fight the strings' pull - the fate of all who fail to cut them.

The class warlords get angry if you show you're hurt. Really angry. Junk yard dog angry. Killing angry. Start-a-war-to-end-the-world angry. I brush my teeth to put on my game face. I leave my killer face under the pillow, hoping no one finds it.

It's 6:38. I still don't know who I am.

I feel the morning knife in my back and wonder how long it will be before it wounds me in a way I cannot ignore. In the battlefield of open war life is so much easier. When you get wounded there no one asks you for an insurance card or despises you for "sponging off the system" or tells you how your life could never be more important than money. On the battlefield of class warfare they spit on the wounded and pray for them to conveniently die.

That's why you can always spot the hunter-killers by just saying two words: "I'm hurting." They go all crazy saying how they aren't responsible, denying they caused any part of your pain. All that when you haven't even accused them of anything.

So who am I? Successful janitor of the night? The "super smart guy" Julie says I am? The "good pupil" in therapy who flunks in real life? A dreamer who never chose to live? An enemy of the state? A prophet of love? A broken child in a world of wolves? Is there a career in any of this shit?

I've tried on all the shoes - none of them fit.

Looking around the room I see decrepit bodies unwelcome in the halls of power and beautiful people. The state of their being brings too much news of the world. (The State Of The Union should always be held in a homeless shelter). Today I will laugh in wry observation at the forced socialization of my fellow man. Many will happily say it's raining as the powers that be piss on them. And then they in turn will "help" others by pissing on them.

It's all about the lies we can sell ourselves isn't it?

The facade of normalcy takes hold as the smell of morning brew spreads across the stale air of worn blankets and soiled sheets. What a sad dance as we pretend our lives are like any other. Soldier boy wears his backpack like he's hitchhiking across Europe. Mrs. Johnstone puts on makeup for the charity ball she once attended. Some think homelessness is my career but it's just my situation.

Each of us denies the night's nightmares as we wake to find reality's horror unchanged by our grasping dreams of hope. Some deny it, some wrestle with it, a few embrace it. But we're all looking for the times where we don't have to lie, and the devil's strings are cut forever more.

The Moral Banker

Hey, Joe, where you going
with that bum in your hand?

"Just because one is a banker doesn't mean one stands for greed."

It was an admonishment Joe had lectured many times over the years to skeptical doubters. Joe was for responsibility, an honest day's work and an allegiance to social justice. His trips to church were not ego trips but sincere expressions of wishing to do the right thing. He'd married his prom queen wife from college and with two lovely children lived the life of the upper class twit in a three quarters of a million dollar home in the "old money" section of town.

"Yes, I'm materially successful but that doesn't mean I'm inherently corrupt."

It was the best of both worlds: morals and materials. Now in his mid thirties he'd lost any idea of a painful life of impoverishment. Was he not supposed to provide as best as possible for his family? And Joe took great pains each dollar acquired was an ethical one. He religiously tithed his ten percent and taught his children the same. The gift is in the giving, he alleged. The loan he'd made to the maid to get her car fixed he granted with no interest.

"I despise those right-wingers I work with. They only care about getting the next dollar!"

Joe called them "the conservative beast". One-dimensional, single-tracked, blind faith capitalist cannibals without compunction. Joe hated these creatures bragging of their every cent like mindless animals dragging a carcass to feast. Petty little fiends they be, profiting from human misery. To those urchins it was a science without nuance or question: worship money or die. Not even the rich escape that rule.

"Sunbelt Bank is an honorable institution. I picked them for a reason. Won't catch me working for some lowlife corporation!"

In finance, like any murky and complicated subject, a million tricks of the trade can be applied to an unknowing consumer. Unnecessary fees, inflated interest rates based on useless information, and a myriad of other small manipulations to compound the bottom line banks know can be sold as legitimate practices to the average eye. But Sunbelt Bank did not operate on those terms. They had a culture of honesty that appealed to Joe. It felt good to do the right thing the right way.

"Hey, Paul, enjoying those subprime loans!?"

Joe was nearly giddy when the crash of 2008 surfaced. Finally, all the discipline, the belly crawling, the bending of his will to maintain integrity paid off. He'd read aloud articles in the paper to his wife, smirking of his and his company's superiority. Joe played by the rules and now he waved his finger in the face of whomever he could, bragging on his responsible behavior and laudable commitment. He'd waited all his life for this moment: to be unquestionable.

"Those guys are getting what they deserve. Playing fast and loose like that, what did they expect to happen?"

In the well heeled club locker room Joe pontificated to a miserably captivated audience. But what could they say? Joe was still standing tall as other bankers fell. But Desmond, the gray haired attendant had seen it all before. As a young pup he'd marched the streets with Dr. King and that feeling he never forgot. With his life winding down one dirty towel at a time, he could contain himself no longer, unleashing his frustrations once Joe was alone.

"Them other folks is greedy and they be going down good, yes they is! But least they honest about it. They ain't lyin' like they got morals they ain't got!"

"I'm sorry. I'm not sure I understand," queried Joe, afraid he was understanding.

"You gonna get an education. An education, yes sir. You gonna find out what's what. There ain't no moral greed, no responsible greed. I'm ending my life in this shit hole and there ain't a bone in my fingers that don't ache like hellfire. You know what's like? It's a like a prison you can never leave. Just ain't no place for honest folks in this world. But I say it better to be executed than be the executioner." Desmond turned away, returning to his duties lest the pain swallow him whole, not caring of Joe's reaction one way or the other.

Joe for his part remained rigid, stumped like a politician publicly cornered by an unanticipated question. "I'm not like that," he weakly protested, clinging to what he still deemed a politically defensible position.

State of the human heart

Daily News: SUNBELT BANKS BOUGHT OUT BY MEGAWHALE BANK

With the economic crisis falling all around, the stability of Sunbelt became such a valuable commodity the board of directors sold out very profitably to the highest bidder. Joe was quick to find out their corporate culture was sold as well. The new motto: In for a dollar, out for a dollar. Anything that came between the company and a dollar was eliminated. No pretense, no pride, no preservation. Ethics a fool's game.

"If I don't do what they say I'll lose my job. All they want to do is leverage everything out the wazoo. I've never felt so lost in my life."

The ice had melted below Joe's feet and he a man not knowing how to swim. To expose his greed was unthinkable. He'd built his whole life on his morality! His wife, his children, his mirror - they'd see him in a new and unbearable light: an animal no better than the rest. Only animal Joe had the further indignity of having to admit his dishonesty for lo these many years. This was worse than any jail sentence. Old Desmond was right all along. Damn!

"Just shut it, OK? What do you want me to do? Quit? I've got no place else to go!"

Joe's wife didn't want him to quit either but she had to make the public protest to protect her own moral ego. Here they both were, stripped of their veneer, committing every crime they swore to be above. What a bitter cup from which to drink! The banks would never become un-greedy. The glum pair to be whored oafs till death. Oh, the indignity! Even of the maid was Joe's wife jealous: who knew the more honest life? The marriage, the authority, the passion, all drained empty by a drowning daily demise.

***

Joe hung his head in the club locker room, his mouth firmly shut. Spotting Desmond, Joe suddenly realized this man he'd so hated for his initial outburst was now the only man in the world he trusted. Joe looked him dead in the eye. "No place for honest folks in this world." The statement was resigned in its agony, spoken from the depths of hopeless hell. Too moral to cheat, too weak to go straight was Joe. Desmond understood, long friends with the desperate voice he'd heard in Joe.

"Congratulations! You done been educated." Desmond smiled in the joy of natural human living, and in that smile Joe's heart leapt as he saw every dream he'd ever lost - and wondered...

Sing for the laugh, sing for the tear

The Sounds Of Japan, FW Gardens (Video)

In early December of last year I took an early morning stroll through the Fort Worth Japanese gardens, videotaping my entire tour of the facility. (Click here to view part 1). The Autumn colors seemed to have a particular serenity at a time when the gardens were so undisturbed by either man or nature. In the first part, I overlayed the journey with a Japanese flute ballad. In this part, I have the actual sounds of Japan.

Santa visited me in July this year, bringing me the "Natural Sounds Of Japan", described as thus:

Film and television sound designer Andrew Roth presents an exciting journey through the islands, seasons, and soundscapes of Japan. Travel from the tropical nights of Amami Oshima in the far south to the lonely, snow filled landscapes of Hokkaido in the remote north. Experience the ghostly sounds of a mysterious bamboo forest, immerse yourself in the stunning amphitheater of a crater lake, and dive beneath crackling sea ice.

Yes, Andrew Roth takes his sound equipment into the wilds of the Japans, retrieving audio artifacts for a true taste of magical Nippon. Inspired by my gift, I wondered what would happen if I coupled those sounds with my garden tour. Below is the answer to that question.

(This picks up exactly where part one ends, leaving a zoom on the waterfall)

Horton Hates A Who

"I hate Jews. They ruin everything!"

"Lots of people say that."

"There's this real stuck up bitch I know. She's a Jew."

"That's always a good reason to hate an entire race of people."

"Yeah, well, you should see her!"

"What's she like?"

"She's smart and funny and really pretty."

"How awful!"

"But she's like that all the time."

"The nerve! She must have been horrible to you."

"No, she was really friendly and gave me a golden flower."

"So when do we get to the 'stuck up' part?"

"Well, not really stuck up. It's just that everybody wants her."

"But you got a flower from her."

"I think she thought I was somebody else."

"Why would she think that?"

"Because I told her I was."

"Why did you do that?"

"Because she's smart and funny and really pretty."

"You couldn't have just been honest?"

"No! Never! She's too stuck up!"

"But maybe she wasn't mistaken."

"She had to of been. The flower's dead now."

"What happened to it?"

"I was too scared to take care of it. When you've got something beautiful to take care of people can then see how you really are. I'd never had a golden flower before."

"So you were mad to get the flower?"

"No, I was really, really happy to get it. I was singing every day it was alive."

"So it was you who ruined everything."

"Not really...I don't know...maybe...she must have done something wrong!"

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I hate her!"

"Sounds like you hate you."

"Well, yeah, but - "

"But what?"

"OK, what I really hate is her knowing what a loser I am. I can't believe I destroyed the flower..."

"So that's how the Jews ruined everything and now you hate them?"

"Yes, if she had been shitty to me everything would be fine and I could sleep at night!"

"I understand now. Next time I hear someone say "I hate the Jews" I'll think to myself: he really hates himself."

"You're not going to tell anyone that, are you?"

"I'm going to tell the whole world and set you free!"

"You know what?"

"I know 'who'."

"I hate therapists. They ruin everything!"

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