Cappuccino Chronicle: One

“You don’t die with the dead.”
“You are so cheesy. Where did you come up with that lame lyric? I bet you heard it in a Spaghetti Western.”
“No it was not a Spaghetti Western. It was in some lame Turkish movie script I came across on the web.”
“Aha, so you admit it is lame.”
“No I don’t admit no such thing. Some of the lamest scripts have the best lines.”

Chucky transitioned into one of his forgettable imitations of Clint; “C’mon make my day!”
“C’mon snap out of it Chucky. I tell you that my dad died and you give me cheesy Clint imitations.”
“Wait a minute. Clint isn’t cheesy.”
“I know he isn’t; it’s you who is cheesy.”
“Sorry, Cappuccino I can be insensitive sometimes…. especially when I am so full of cinema…”

“How did he die?”
“I don’t know. I did not see him.”
“I was told that the Coroner declared it ‘death by attrition resulting in offensive decomposition of the body.’”
“They buried him in a mass grave at the municipal dump.”
“I have only one memento left from him; this tattered manuscript.”

“Hold it; hold it; wait one frocking Romero minute! Who are we talking about here?”
“They don’t bury people, not even mares, at the municipal dump; even if they are zombies.”
“Zombies are real people who happen to be dead.
“They rise from proper graves, you know… Not from garbage dumps.”
“Here you go again talking movie crap.”

“I’m talking about Kahve, you idiot. Dead; butchered by villainous treachery, I’m sure.”
“Look at the splatters of blood on this manuscript.”
“He must have been attacked viciously by an evil swashbuckler.”
Chucky snapped out of his zillionth moment of embarrassment and slid right into a Scaramouche imitation.
“You may turn your back on Scaramouche, my lord, but surely you will not run away from Andre Moreau!”

Then he snapped back to reality just as seamlessly; “Kahve was a four legged, wet nose. He was not your dad.”
“He was too.”
“No he was not.”
“Yes he was. He adopted me.” Chucky looked at me with that familiar gleam in his eye.
This was the telltale sign that he was to come up with a movie script line that fit the moment. So I cut him off.

’Kahve and I became very close after my mom and I were confronted by him, many moon ago.”
“You know canine are very sensitive to the full moon, so ‘dad’ and I always went by the lunar calendar.”
Before Chucky could even get a gleam in his eye, I continued.
“That day, I was wearing my neatest outfit and brand new leather sandals.”
“I can still remember the chickadee-clacks of my heels, my rosy cheeks and my taffeta skirt.”

“Then out of no where appeared Kahve.”
“I said to my mom ‘Mommy what’s wrong with that dog? It has crappy hair.’”
“My mom said ‘That is not hair dear, and she is not crappy.’”
“Then one thing led to another and Kahve growled at my mom … come to think of it was more like a slurp.”
“Then my mom took out her cell and Kahve high tailed it from there before she could say animal rescue.”
Chucky sounded puzzled. “That does not sound like an auspicious encounter. How come he adopted you?”

“I don’t know, why and how but the next time I saw him I was being harassed by Expres-son.”
“You mean Lard-ass Express.”
“Yes, that’s him. He added a “–son” after his name to make it sound chic.”
“Despite his pretentions, he was nothing but an obnoxious lard-ass. (I suppose he still is.)“
“He kept bothering me every time I had to walk to the bus stop alone.”
“Until that day when Kahve showed up.”
“He put his paws on Expres-son’s right shoulder and gave him a quick squeeze of the jaw.”
“You can never imagine the trepidation this caused him. At first he had no idea what had happened.”
“Then he turned around only to see this mangy mutt staring him down with two paws on the ground.”
“… his shoulders pushed way down and his wet nose savoring the fear emanating from the lard ass,”

“That was the last time Express-son bothered me and the first time Kahve rescued me from threats.”
“He was always there like, like Steward Granger or Errol Flynn …
Chucky continued “ .. Tyrone Power, Burt Lancaster, Basil Rathbone, Douglas Fairbanks, Sr. and Jr.,.. “
I had to stop him before he relapsed into his usual cinemalitis ailment: “yes, yes we get it.”
“So that’s how he adopted me.”

“You mean you never signed papers and such.”
I looked at him with marginally feigned incredulity; he got my point.
You see Chucky is a cinema buff. He can be dense when he is in a trans, but usually he is pretty smart.
He wants to be a film critic someday.
In order to advance his career opportunities he is even willing to call himself a “movie” critic.

Since 4th grade he has been spotted coming out of movie theaters at times when he should be at school.
Alone!
Some thought he was a perv. The reality is that he is a cinema-perv;
Once he convinced his mom that school was open on President’s Day.
Then he went to attend the premiere of “President’s Day,” since there was no school.

He asked me if he could look at the manuscript I inherited from Kahve.
He told me that I should try to turn some of these chronicles into movie scripts.
Coming from him, even though he is not a film critic yet, it felt good.
Having found several meters of discarded cellulose acetate among coke cups and popcorn boxes, earlier on…
We called it a day, as we quietly left the dumpster area behind the movie theater.

© All rights reserved by Sail A’non

Kahve Chronicles: Part -10

“Death by attrition is not the same as attrition by death.” I think I read this somewhere deservedly obscure.
All things start out by being alive, because they are formed by an unspoiled, pristine principle
The snow, before people and cars muck it up, is alive.
It covers everything based on the principle of gravitational projection – this is indeed a very grave topic.
Those surfaces that counter the direction of gravity are white, the rest are not.

Then little by little, motion, heat and chemicals transform it into a dead thing.
Tires smash it, Plows pile it. Sewer-line access covers melt circles in it. .Salt particles pepper it with holes.
Before you know it, it is an unrecognizable mess.
There is no rhyme, reason or overriding principle that can explain its unified form and existence, any longer.
Snow, invariably dies a thousand deaths before it vanishes and is reborn into another existence as water

My friend the Oak goes through the same process, only over a longer period of time, say a few centuries
Cardinals, roses, snails, ladybugs, and carnations all do the same thing within their own pace and pattern
Neither all animates are alive nor all inanimates dead.
Uranium 238 is not only alive but also fertile. Kim Jung Il, on the other hand, is as dead as a doorknob
– at the time of this writing, according to all indications, he was still running North Korea; a real feat for a corpse.

Even though with every passing quantum of time it tick-tocks closer and closer to its ultimate demise
The original constitution of 238 is in tact and readily recognizable, centuries later.
The original constitution of Kim Jung Il on the other hand is far gone
Not even his mom could figure it out anymore
He is dead and mummified for all intents

The sun is the most extraordinary of all living things
It lives a million lives and dies a million deaths every day
Every split second, it begins its cycle of birth on a new spot on our lonely planet
Just as it concludes its cycle of death at a different spot far far away
Its is a metaphor for all living things that continuously light up and fadeout on the timeline of existence

When I first began teaching at my department, I thought I belonged to a living thing
I perceived an order of knowledge acquisition and dissemination
The world was my repository from which I harvested
The students were my depository into which I planted
Little by little I lost it all

Kuhn convinced me that harvesting was a reenactment of an ancient Teutonic ritual
This is “embedded in our DNA and is a necessary part of a balanced life.
Through ritual we are able to keep our Physical, Spiritual, Emotional and Mental aspects in dynamic balance.”
We go through predetermined motions of presumed discovery and end up with fragments of ideas
Which are not alive even for a split second and; at best they are perfect candidates for a male menopausal purge

My protégé convinced me that he can imitate me and everyone else we knew
Better than I could
He succeeded at failure splendidly
He could think his way into deeper labyrinths of reasoning than anyone else I knew
He mastered attriting his original constitution better than any academician. This he died even before graduating

Little by little the constellation of lights that surrounded me got snuffed out by attrition
Each dying corpuscle of my being contributed in kind to this overall process
Until there was nothing left.
This is the tirade I engage in every time I start a new semester with a new bunch of students
I wait with bated breadth to see if someone – anyone – will stand up and yell ”bull hit!” But alas…

“Bullshit! “You know, I did it, you nincompoop!” It was René
I thought you read my biography carefully, since you pontificate about my intellectual rebellion, in your lectures.”
I must have been vocalizing my thoughts and he must have overheard.
I tried to change the subject: “If you are looking for slightly used cooler bottles you are out of luck, I already looked”.
He did not buy it; no wonder he is the father of Modern Philosophy, come to think of it, he does look like a hound dog

“Oedipus, Socrates, Occam!” he summoned the rest of the musketeers – he always fancied himself as D’Artagnan
Thus the sword, the debauchery, and the unwarranted aggression.
One by one my nemeses emerged from the shadows. They were wearing solemn faces in front of their usual masks
“I am bringing charges against this creature – Réne uttered with disdain – for corrupting the minds of the young”
This has an awfully familiar ring. Cicero; yes! he was charged with similar nonsense. At least I am in good company.

“I overhead him lament the fact that his students were not clever enough to recognize his lies and distortions”
“Here before you stands a confessed criminal of the worst kind, one who screws with innocent minds”
“A mind is a terrible thing to waste.” René was filling time now, he had ran out of original syllogisms a while ago
He was resorting to clichés and jingles.
And without any fallout since the triumvirate he summoned appeared indifferent to the informal proceedings.

Occam was preoccupied with occupying the least amount of space,
Socrates was counting invisible quantities.
Oedipus was staring into silence,
“Gentlemen!” Réne bellowed and drew his rusty sword as if to conceal his threat-full intent behind accentuation
“You are here to judge this individual, Son of Hounddog and cohort of persons with dubious origin and destination!”

“Let the proceedings begin!”
As if waiting for this cue Socrates joined the fray: “Once he questioned my questionings.”
“He disproved my … I mean tried to disprove my method of questioning, whilst he was questioning himself.,”
“See the contradiction in his ways, devious, questionably devious, I say.”
“Of course, in principle all of this is questionable…” He started to mumble to himself and continue with counting

Clearing his throat as loudly as he can, as if to try to override the last waves of speech that left Socrates throat
Réne exhorted: “There you have it! Deviousness at work! Confusing young minds beyond a chance for redemption”
Occam was raising his right finger but the gesture was so faint that Réne called on Oedipus instead
“Well, I always thought the fellow was troubled. Let me tell you. I should know!
“He was disguising himself as a superhero to slay his own father. Fratricide! I say, by way of villainous murder!”

“Ok, there you have it! If this is not an open and shut case I do not know what is.”
“Does anyone have anything more to add?”
“Yes” said Occam, from behind the shadows.
“Speak ma’man, don’t be bashful, what is taking you so long?
Oh Occam! I forget; come forward; say what’s on your mind”

“Was he read his rights? He has a right to representation.”
“C’mon man! Do you have to bring this up now?”
Bemused by the antiques of my dumpster chums, I was quietly observing the shenanigans
“I agree, I have not been read my Miranda rights that I have a right to remain silent, and a right to representation.”
“I want Cicero; summon Cicero!” I exclaimed.

Réne was visibly annoyed by the prolongation of these proceedings.
“First of all, you betrayed your own demand, thanks to your menopausal-mouth shooting off when it should shut up.”
“You seem to know your rights by heart. That is why we did not recite them to you.”
“It was Occam. He said ‘Why repeat the obvious? ‘Isn’t that right Occam? Isn’t that right?”
Struggling to make his nod visible from his dark corner, Occam uttered a faint breadth of air that sounded like “hum.”

“Secondly, your demand for representation is an exercise in futility.”
“Cicero. Let me think, if my history classes bear any witness, a lawyer who failed in his own defense.”
“One who had to forfeit all to save his life by fleeing Rome with only the shirt on his back in the dark of the night.”
“You want him to defend you? I would gladly let you suffer the consequences of your own demand,”
“Only If it weren’t for our preference for brevity and expediency – Occam what do you say? “

By this time Occam had decided that he had done all he could and left the proceedings
Oedipus spoke on everyone’s behalf “Cicero, I’m summoning Cicero!”
Out of the garbage dumpster emerged a disheveled old, diminutive man, wearing rags that used to be a toga.
“Thank god, someone called me out of hiding. I hope that villainous Caesar did not hear my name being called.”
“If he finds out, he is likely to chase me around with his sword.”

“Do you want to represent this man in these proceedings? He demanded your representation.”
Cicero turned around to see who was speaking.
Seeing Rene in his getups with drawn sword in hand he jumped back a few feet before collecting himself.
“Sure, I will. I am a little rusty but I’ll do it. Who is the defendant, what is the charge?”
Cicero and I bonded in no time. I think he empathized with me owing to the sorry state of my fur and sad eyes.

“Senators, citizens and slaves!” Since the passage of civil rights act he seems to have revised his address.
“I submit to you that these are trumped up charges. I know; been there; done that.
“In the first place, let us examine the credentials of the accusers.”
“A murderous, incestuous, mythological character brought before our lime lights through Shakespearean fiction”
“No doubt, he has been motivated by guilt, envy, and a deep desire for parity with others. Need I say more?”

“A so called Greek Philosopher who is unsure of everything lest he may be slightly mistaken about their truth.”
“What business does this man have accusing anyone of any thing?”
“Why should we believe anything he says when he can say nothing that he believes?”
“Sigmund Freud, personally, would have a field day with the source of his insecurities.”
“And about the other protagonist called Occam, there can be, by definition, little to nothing to say.”

“Réne is a bit more complex. Unlike the others, chronologically speaking, he succeeds me,.”
“So I have not had a chance to learn about him or his singular god.”
“His god was invented before my time; and I must reserve judgment on these matters as well as his true motivation.”
“However, it seems to me that he is a scavenger of information morsels and a manipulator of their composition.”
“Anyone who can go from ‘I think.’ to ‘There is god.’ needs to be credited with slight of hand and derision of thought.”

Cicero, had resorted to his old ways in the Senate and the Consulship he held.
His accusations were not only weak but also so subtle that even I, a professor, found them to be esoteric
“What about his debaucherous ways? What about seducing married women, consorting with prostitutes?” I yelled.
“How about drinking, gambling, fornicating and his mercenary ways?”
“How about denouncing the teachings of his mentors?

Now I had found the foundation of my litigation: “Isn’t that motive enough?
“He is denouncing those who are able to convince their students of the truth of their teaching?”
I could see, with a gleam in my eye that Réne was getting flustered by the second.
I decided to put the nail in his coffin: “He thinks he is D’Artagnan; he is a delusional impostor; he is a fake”
“Dumas! You created a monster, who is not even a part of your fiction.”

René did not take my sarcasm sitting down.
In fact, he leaped up; yelled ‘En garde!;” and stabbed me with his rusty sword right through my ribs.
I was stunned.
Now I know what it is like to watch something dramatic happen to you as you watch it as a third-party spectator
René withdrew his sword. Wiped it with some rotten banana peels and placed it back in its shield.

One by one, all of the protagonists dissolved into the dark corners of the Starbucks loading dock.
As he scurried out, Cicero said: “Too bad, just when all was going so well; I better get lost before Caesar shows up.”
Oedipus articulated “’To be or not to be, that is…” He paused before continuing ”…not supposed to be overused.”
Occam walked in, nodded and walked out without saying a word.
Socrates mumbled “We need to reexamine the facts here; where as we think he is stabbed in the heart…”
His voice trailed off and disappeared as he walked away and disappeared, himself.

Kahve, propelled by some power outside of thoughts emanating from any specific part of his physical being
Crawled to the back of the dumpster where he kept his unpublished notes about his menopausal brain
He clutched them against his bloodied body
His final thoughts were; “the world is never the way it’s supposed to be”
They found him days later.

The Coroner declared: “death by attrition, causing an offensively pungent decomposition of the body.”
They buried his body in a mass grave near the municipal dump.
His brat, Cappuccino inherited the bloodied manuscript of menopausal notes Kahve left behind
His mom was not interested in notes of a bloodied sort. She is a clean freak.
His dad could not be reached on account of an Elvis sighting that was reported on National Public Radio.

© All rights reserved by Sail Anon

Kahve Chronicles Part-9

Thinking is risky business.
I was good at many things, before my encounter with René -the-I-think-therefore-I-am syllogism freak
Since then, my life has been an unmitigated series of failures that landed me in my present evocation
A Full Professor with tenure at a prestigious university.
I will protect the innocent by not naming any names

Once I was really good at ping pong, at least for my age
Soon I figured, my three older brothers did not think so
I always ended up being the last to pickup the rackets and the first to set them down
One day, I got so mad that I threw the rackets at them and their fem companions.
I needed to move on

This was just one of my well-meaning demonstrations of skill, many of which bore similar fruit
Therefore, I decided to become good at making things rather than breaking them.
I cut branches off of trees in our yard and made bows, arrows, and sling shots
I did not know what else to do with a pocket knife, twine, and an old inner tube of my dysfunctional bicycle tire
I could have played S&M games with my pet dog, Kopek, but unexpectedly she was poisoned by animal “rescue”

My indulgence in bows-arrows and slingshots also came to an unceremonious end
Despite my mother’s heroic efforts, my father discovered the use I got out of my craftsmanship
With an arrow, I had almost poked the eye off of my best friend
Further, I had distressed countless innocent birds with rocks slung from my sling.
So, I moved on.

When I became a father, I wanted to prove to my father that not all craftsmanship was harmful.
On my basement workbench, I built two sleds from recycled wood planks using only hand held tools
I was proud of my achievement.
However, my children, not jaded by deep thought as I was, saw clearly what I had done.
They were too embarrassed even to come anywhere close to my crafty creations

So we drove to Home Depot
Purchased sleds made out of polymers engineered in some chemical plant in China
All for a fraction of the cost of the paint I would have had to use on my wooden sleds
My father never got to observe that craftsmanship can be rewarding at least for China and Home Depot
Since, at the time, he was too preoccupied with the latest Elvis gig.

I moved on and became an architect, believing like everyone else that it is a most fulfilling profession
Becoming a doctor was far too time consuming and costly
And as one of my acquaintances said about his father’s legal profession
“The difference between Lawyer and liar is a mere nuance in the art of pronunciation”
I earned two masters and a PhD that, as I learned afterwards, were unnecessary for practicing architecture

As a practitioner I felt that architects were underpaid, overworked, and poorly treated
Respectively, developers and contractors had the first and the last say
Architects, stuck somewhere in the middle, were squeezed into the realm of the insignificant
With compromised designs, mounting insurance costs, and increasing risks of litigation.
Once again, I had to move on

So what’s a guy – or a canine – to do?
At each turn, I had to abandon my evocations because I thought too much about them
I figured out what I was doing wrong; better yet, what was wrong with the world
I had failed utterly in the “real” world, what ever that means
And, consequently, I was perfectly primed for a career in academia.

I talked eloquently about failure, fiction, and fiasco as the very best lessons from which to learn
Students followed my impassioned admonition like the bear-children following those of Papa Bear
My colleagues’ tales of failure outdid mine with spectacular success, which is a topic for another chronicle.
I earned my tenure and promotion gratefully
Thus, choosing thought, failure, and academia over action, success, and reality

Now, I have a lot of time to teach, fail, and think
I rarely play ping pong or make sling shots any more
I talk a lot about the pleasures and perils of doing so
I have the full attention of innocent minds attached to ears that suck up my words
Like so many automaton rolling through reels of cellulose acetate

© All rights reserved by Sail Anon

Kahve Chronicles – 8

Thinking is dangerous business.
I was good at many things, before my encounter with Réne-the-I-think-therefore-I-am-syllogism freak
Since then, my life has been an unmitigated series of failures that landed me in my present vocation
A Full Professor with tenure at a prestigious university – I will protect the innocent by naming no names

Once I was really good at ping pong, at least for my age
Soon I figured, my three older brothers did not think so
I always ended up being the last to pickup the rackets and the first to set them down
One day, I got so mad that I threw the rackets at them and their fem companions, I needed to move on

This was just one of my well-meaning demonstrations of skill, many of which bore similar fruit
Therefore, I decided to become good at making things rather than breaking them.
I cut branches off of trees in our yard and made bows, arrows, and sling shots
I did not know what else to do with a pocket knife, twine, and an old inner tube of my bicycle tire

This vocation also came to an unceremonious end
Despite my mother’s heroic efforts, my father discovered the use I got out of my craftsmanship
With an arrow, I had almost poked the eye off of my best friend
Further, I had distressed countless innocent birds with rocks slung from my sling. So, I moved on.

When I became a father, I had to prove to my father that not all craftsmanship was harmful.
On my basement workbench, I built two sleds from recycled wood planks using only hand held tools
I was proud of my achievement; my children, not jaded by deep thought, saw clearly what I had done.
They were too embarrassed even to come anywhere near my crafty creations

So we drove to Home Depot
Purchased sleds made out of a polymer engineered in some chemical plant
All for a fraction of the cost of the paint I would have had to use on my wooden sleds
My father never got to observe my demonstration that craftsmanship can be rewarding for Home Depot

I moved on and became an architect believing like everyone else that it is a most fulfilling profession
Becoming a doctor was far too time consuming and costly
And as one of my acquaintances said about his father’s legal profession
“The difference between Lawyer and liar is a mere nuance in the art of pronunciation”

I soon discovered that architects are underpaid, overworked, and poorly treated
Respectively, developers and contractors have the first and the last say
Architects, somewhere in the middle, are squeezed into the realm of the insignificant
With compromised designs, mounting insurance costs, and increasing risks of litigation.

So what’s a guy – or a canine – to do?
At each turn I abandoned my evocations because I thought too much about them
I figured out what I was doing wrong; better yet, what was wrong with the world
Thus, I had failed utterly in the real world and I was perfectly primed for a career in academia.

I talked eloquently about failure, fiction, and fiasco as the very best lessons from which to learn
Students followed my impassioned admonition like the bear-children following those of Papa Bear
My colleagues’ tales of failure outdid mine with spectacular success – a topic for another chronicle.
I earned my tenure and promotion gratefully, placing a permanent distance between thought and action

Now, I have a lot of time to think
I rarely play ping pong or make sling shots any more
I talk a lot about the pleasures and perils of doing so, and have the full attention of innocent minds
Attached to ears that suck up my words like movie projectors going through rolls of cellulose acetate

Kahve Chronicles – 7

It must be human nature to go against its own nature
Most addictive behavior and self-destructive diseases are like that
Auto immune diseases, cancer, and a myriad of debilitating systemic diseases result in death
Obesity, drugs, gambling, anorexia, alcoholism, hoarding – yes, hoarding – can cause destruction

Personally I like hoarding; what’s a dog without a stash of bones?
However, I can never recall where they are, which means that harmless versions of hoarding do exist
As opposed to when getting rid of that which is useless, redundant, and too far gone is impossible
In spite of the fact that human biology is designed to discard the old, the broken, the dysfunctional

It is called menopause or aging
A woman’s reproductive system ruthlessly sheds its eggs when they are past their prime
Men’s cognitive system ruthlessly sheds its ideas when they are past their prime
Unlike women, ideas are men’s only productive contribution to their species.

“Tell me René it ain’t so.” During his mercenary days, Descartes was a frequent visitor at the dumpster
“M”afraid, it is so; either that or you have diarrhea of the mouth.”
He spoke with a convincing tone even when his articulation was slurred by his drunken stupor.
“You mean I have too many ideas?” He had passed out before hearing my attempt at a silver lining.

The business of thinking or thoughtfulness is hard.
It took me the better part of my adult life to figure it out
I went through my childhood and adolescence like an old fashioned movie projector
Sensations went through my mind like so many reels of cellulose acetate, hardly leaving an impression

I did many thoughtless things;
I spoke when I had no cause. I kept silent when I had something to say
I rolled my eyes as if I had an opinion; I was fearful of falling out of the norm
Twiddled my thumbs knowingly; scratched my head in denial; I made no difference for a very long time

One day, the acetate got stuck in the projector mechanism and the lens burned an impression into it
The acetate caught fire in turn; and burned an impression on the lens of the proxemic accoutrement
Here I indulge in my impressionistic French because René is the culprit.
“I think therefore I am!” he declared.

“Get real, René. Do you mean you are but I ain’t? I don’ even know what ‘think’ is.””
“It is what you’re doing now.” “C’mon man!” – I heard this while going tough another reel years ago
“You mean I’ve been thinking all along and I didn’t even know it?
How thoughtless of me!”

The puzzlement in René’s face started at one point, just about the tip of his nose – as if smelling a rat
Then it grew from there, in concentric circles, to cover is entire face, and being.
Then he exploded into a rage “I heard about your mangy ways from Socrates, you Fing Ahole”
“Are you trying to disprove my theory?”

I let you know that “I think therefore I am.” is the beginning of my syllogism that concludes with
“Therefore there is God.” “Now top that, you blasphemous Duck! – a clear insult for a male canine.”
With these words he drew his sword; attempting to injure me before falling face first into the dumpster
I learned that day that while I was being thoughtless, I was indeed mastering the art of thinking.

© All rights reserved by Sail Anon

Kahve Chronicles – 6

I have a framed view of everything from where I sit.
In the foreground, big, fat old lady ankles wearing thick, mat stockings and puffy, homey slippers
In the background, the bed decked out with the fancy taffeta and embroidered bed covers and pillows
Women scurrying back and fourth between the bed and the chamber door, in the middle

There is a subdued commotion in the room
Some sound as if they are having an emphysema attack: right address but not enough postage
While others are whispering with force, as if in a movie theatre
“Poor dear; I wish it was over; she suffered enough; it’s not her first either…”

I hold my breadth; the tension is too high for me; at times like this, I wish I were a cat.
They are cool and collected; they do not care, except for the fur they incessantly lick
Only to cause their gastronomy to reject the unintended collection as a furry mess
“It’s a girl!” I open my eyes. “Full head of hair, chubby cheeks, coal black eyes”

“Of all the years I have been a midwife never have I seen such beauty!”
I begin to stick my nose out — or should I say in – from my stealthy location
I need to get a peek at the bundle, bundled in white linen, being passed around from lap to lap
Someone slaps my face with a deformed, odorous, furry slipper, which gives me uncouth pleasures

This is when I really want to be a cat.
I could gracefully strut through the room drawing figure-eights around thick ankles
Even sniff a few here an there, attracting only mild curiosity if not affectionate admiration
They might even let me take a look at her up close

Wait, I can see her now; she is decked out in her weekend clothes
Her hair is in a ponytail down to her waist; cheeks in springtime splendor; deep dark eyes aglow
She is strutting besides her momma clicking the leather soles of brand new shoes as if she is Ginger
In the foreground, I see an indifferent boy; in the background a “different” boy

She likes to hold her cigarette just so swirling smoke around the necks of passers by
You can inhale some but not so much, lest you want to be forever longing for it
With a firm stab of her silken scarf fluttering in the air, she likes to impale herself into your memories
The different boy in the background has no chance as she passes by without a note

I see her in the middle; little ones in the foreground and a big one in the back
They make her happy, hoppy, hippy, and glad
They make her sad, bad, mad, and snappy
She is them

Arrange, caress, clean, comfort, cook, cry, cuddle, despair, dice, draw, dress, dye
Feed, fix, fold, hate, knit, knot, laugh, love, mend
Paint, print, regret, sell, sign, snap, spin, string, tap, throw, tidy, tuck, twirl, wash, and weep
Now, her hair, cheeks, and eyes are second fiddle to her hands

She is lying in the big decorated bed like Freda with her health intact
Men and women surround the bed like so many admirers
Her hands are busy bandaging, mending, and massaging a wounded albatross
Hope against hope that mirth will follow rebirth

Such is the ways of men
They are yet to discover the joys of pissing on fire hydrants,
Pretending to be a Rottweiler, chowing down on dung or
Chewing on discarded coffee grounds while having a conversation with Socrates or Occam

© All rights reserved by Sail Anon

Kahve Chronicles – 5

Someone brought an oak tree into the sitting room

With massive branches and colorful foliage and all

In a spiteful move, they placed her inside a measured frame, right above the flat screen TV

The plane of the frame is turned a few degrees to the right to accentuate distinctions

As if it is necessary.

The morning sun reflecting off of the glucose debris in each leaf lights it up Christmas-like

Festooned with so many tiny lanterns of crimson, gold and all that is in between

The bark on the branches glow in greens, yellows and blacks against the foliage

Like a sentry’s gentle instruments both protecting and nourishing the tree

She’s a sight to behold whether you are man or beast.

A designer, a carpenter, and a gardener have had a hand in our accidental, sitting-room guest

No doubt the gardener wished to shade the sidewalk and the houses

The carpenter wanted a perfect frame and a well-crafted trim

The architect positioned it just so, to suit the room’s occupants and the façade to passers by

Humans are usually not this clever; unless their tacit instincts get the better of them.

As the morning colors assume an evening’s solemn intensities

As the fall composition becomes an esquisse of crisscrossing limbs

As wind songs make you aware of the gentle giant

As the aroma of the blossoms, or the decaying leaves, fill the air

The tree tells you a story of another hand in its making.

I decide to learn more about this story: “How come you always stand there?”

“Why not? Besides I sway in the wind every now and then, which suits me just fine.”

“How do you sustain yourself, by just standing there? Humans work to earn their needful things.

They store, prepare and consume food. They discard waste.

They do this by running thus a fro, hiding in rooms and houses, spilling refuse all over.

“I move as well, but very slowly: by twisting and turning, bending and swaying,

Extracting from the soil and giving more back to it,

Extracting from the air and giving more back to it

Extracting from the sun and giving more back to it

… so as to preserve my good standing without disturbing more places than I need to.”

“And you do all of this by just standing where you are? Holly molly!

Did you ever meet my friend Occam? You have the walk and he has the talk!

He is usually behind Starbucks where I once met Socrates. But I forgot; you cannot go there, or anywhere.

Occam is about ‘doing the same with less’

The other day, I heard some whippersnapper call him a ‘minimalist.’”

“Occam the Greek Philosopher can never find anything in the garbage dumpster

When he does, he usually eats just a crumb.

The guy looks sickly like a razor.

I heard another whippersnapper call him ‘anorexic.’ I still have to look into this.”

My tree friend is in quiet repose; Occam can learn a lesson or two from her.

Being the inquisitive canine that I am, I return to my inquiry

“But don’t you get bored standing where you are? “

“I have the best view in the street; have you ever been up here with a thousand eyes?”

“Aren’t you curious about other places, countries, planets?”

“I have travelled the world a few times over, and then some more; the wind is my conduit.”

“What about, reading books or walking dogs?”

She looked at me in pain and contempt. Ouch! I can be thoughtless; I’ve been too close to humans.

“Doing experiments? Creating new things?”

“What do you think I do all day? Have you ever heard of chlorophyll?”

Doing all this from where she stand is quite a feat.

Our family room is endowed with a spectacle that is ever changing.

One that is deeply moving, broadly connected, and life regulating.

Always present without being indulgent.

Informative and interactive without monthly fees or annual contracts

Not even a remote.

I look at the TV and ask what it has to say for itself.

It directs me to the remote, on which I have been chewing rather nervously for the last 30 minutes

Most of the buttons are gnawed down flush with the surface of the instrument

I have to use my nails to dig into them

Occam’s Razor takes over and I decide to dose off into a dream about photosynthesis.

© All rights reserved by Sail Anon

 

Kahve Chronicles – 4

They say Socrates does not believe in anything.

I started looking for him

One day, I saw him behind Starbucks — he was digging for leftover donuts.

I led him to the dumpster behind Dunkin Donuts,

Where the coffee grounds are tasteless but the donuts are above average

 

He satisfied his sugar rush and I pumped on some adrenalin

We started exchanging words like two junkies on a good trip

+ So I hear you do not believe in anything

- Sure

+ Really! That is fascinating (What a fascinating Greek philosopher?)

 

+ What about god or God?

- What about him or Him?

+ Aha!. a trick answer – is this how you got away with it, all these years?

- With what?

+ I used to do this when I was a toddler and no one called me a Greek Philosopher.

 

+ So tell me your secret Socrates, how do you do what you do?

- It is very simple, you keep questioning everything

+ But that is childish and moronic; I used to ask why about every thing when I was little

- Then what happened?

+ I got a beating from dad (or maybe it was a biting) and then I stopped.

 

- Too bad; a burgeoning Greek philosopher, nipped in the bud

+ Why do you always say Greek before philosopher

- Why not; is there any other kind?

+ Of course Spinoza .. he was not Greek, I don’t know what he was but he sure does not sound Greek

- Maybe his mother was Greek. There you see everything can be challenged and proven false

 

+ That is hardly a proof; even a canine knows the difference

- What difference?

+ One between a proof and not a proof

- Okay then give me a proof and show me that you know the difference

+ Hmm, let me think. I learned how to think you know. I am a professor.

 

+ Ok here it goes: Socrates does not believe in anything.

+ When you state a preposition he questions its veracity

+ Why does he do this?

+ Because he is convinced that every proposition can be shown to be false

+ Thus he believes in something; he believes that everything can be shown to be false

 

- Okay you know how to construct a syllogistic proof

- Pretty good for a dog

- But did you have to disprove my method? It sucks to be outdone by a DOG!

- Now what will happen to Plato; and oh! Aristo! my poor Aristotle!

- He has the most to lose!

 

Socrates got up; shedding crocodile tears

Kicked me in the shin

And left, with a bunch of stale donuts tucked under his toga.

Greek philosophers can be mean

Too bad! I was just beginning to like them.

 

© All rights reserved by Sail Anon

Kahve Chronicles -3

Kahve Chronicles: part tree

What do you mean “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

First of all you did not help me with anything so far.

How can you say “else” in good conscience?

Also, you do not end a sentence with a preposition.

You all say the same thing anyway, which reveals your unintentional helpfulness

I may be a dog but I can see through things better than most humans

They are preoccupied with validating their own thoughts; where as I have to work at thoughts of my own

They take a look at me and compare me only to things they have seen before

Four legs, beady eyes, hair/fur/whatever… equals a dog?

For god’s sake! They might as well call me John McCain – not that I wish it

Once I tried to run for office only because of this similarity

– shall I say syllogism, to display my erudition, to inflate my ego? –

“If Sarah and John can do it, so can I”

Yes (I and the dog) we can!

Obama knows: easier said then done

To succeed you need bad opponents and corporate sponsors

Both are plentiful but not for the canine world

What foe could be worse than a grumpy, euphemistically aging, mangy dog?

And who would sponsor one other than Purina

I tried to convince Starbucks on account of the trash cleaning I do for them, but they called animal rescue on me

© All rights reserved by Sail A’non

Kahve Chronicles – 2

Kahve Chronicles: part two

My name is an outer thing not an inner one.

Before this malady I developed, I had silky brown fur. In reference to this, even though I personally prefer tea…

My owner, having read a Turkish novel in his youth, named me KAHVE

May he rest in peace. I bit his leg off and he died of gangrene and amputation complications

I was going to be euthanized; I got off easy – but that is another story

Names are prophetic

Mr Elm the carpenter, Ms Oral the dentist, Mr Richardson the son of our circumciser

I rest my case

For me it manifests as a compulsion in coffee grounds

Every Friday, Sabbath day for most Turks, I sneak into the Starbuck trash bin and slurp up discarded grounds

Last Friday, as I was making my way to the trash I wondered why I do this

Was it in my genes before I ever laid eyes on that unkind master of mine?

Did it become a compulsion after it entered my consciousness?

Coffee, kahve, café, …..

Or am I merely predisposed to garbage digging due to my mother’s bad habits?

As I was walking towards Starbucks, absorbed in my thoughts

– and this though business is a hard one to learn

It took me two Masters degrees, a PhD and a faculty position at a prestigious university to get it down –

Yes I did put in the time but here I am strutting down the street in my partially shiny get ups

I feel a sense of ease

Call me peppy, call me pretty, call me Professor

But do not call me a curmudgeon

“Mommy what’s wrong with that dog?” the little girl said “it has crappy hair”

“That is not hair dear, and she is not crappy”

My self confidence was shattered by this last remark.

She is wrong on all counts

I am not a she – where did you hear a girl answer to the name Kahve

My fur is crappy — and I like to think of it as hair not fur

My id is in jeopardy

I have been taking too many unnatural excursions into the world of the human

I cannot help it; It happens by itself

I try to mind my own business and a little girl’s mother calls me a “she”  – she might as well call me a “bitch.”

I lunged towards her and revealed my canines with a nasty slurping sound

She backed off and called animal rescue on her cell

Cell phones and PDAs of all kinds make my life difficult

This is one reason I do not carry one

I bought a few but never managed to develop the habit of hanging on to them

As a result I rely on old fashioned modes of interaction

I walk, I run, I talk (mostly to myself since talking to anyone else seems to require a cell phone)

I growl (mostly at people), I bite (mostly food), and I chew (mostly coffee grinds)

I was out of there before animal rescue – a misnomer for animal misery – arrived

Compulsively, I helped myself to an unusual amount of coffee particles

It had a soothing effect going down, but soon agitated my metabolism into a frenzy

Adrenalin, my friend and nemesis kicked in

Now I am a mad dog

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