DC Comics The House of Secrets: # 141 September 1976

By Craig: I spend a good portion of my everyday life doing the same mundane tasks that most other people have a habit of doing. I get up in the morning and brush my teeth, wake up in the shower, and fill a travel mug full of piping hot coffee for the road. I am never late for work. In fact, I am always at least a half an hour early. I have never been late to work in the 30 or so years that I have been a card carrying, tax paying member of the work force. I cannot understand how someone can be late. Of course, I do not go out late at night and party, or even stay up watching television until after midnight like some folks that I know. I wake up at 0500 every morning when it is still dark and one can still see shadows, real or unreal, dancing along the street lit walls of city buildings... the ghosts and spirits of yore. It is still dark when I get to work. I usually sit around sipping my coffee and watch the eastern sky come to life and the stars and planets lose their brightness as daylight takes hold of this side of the Earth. It is during this time of the day that I am able to contemplate the realities of existence and attempt to solve the world's problems. It is in this short meditative time allotted to me before the grind of production that I become philosophical. Sometimes my thoughts are truly Earth shattering...at least they are to me in my reality. I think of ways that just might be able to solve world peace...or a means to prevent cancer by some radical dietary measures. Usually, however, these meaningful thoughts are pushed aside...or better put, are "trumped" by fleeting thoughts that lay on the periphery of my consciousness. The meaningful thoughts are bullshit anyway. There will never be "world peace" and "I" will never find the cure for cancer. That is why the intellectual part of the mind is soon pushed aside by the mindless bunk that sits there on the periphery always ready to invade. For instance, the other morning I was thinking of a way to contain the Ebola virus when suddenly my mind said fuck it and I started to think of a comic book that I read when I was 8 years old. First it was EBOLA and then suddenly it was "Matt! Look out! He's got a knife!"

      I think that a good portion of my being was influenced by the comic books that I read as a child. I have a warped sense of humor which adds to my warped sense of reality which of course is my distinctive reality. How Ebola evolved into a 38 year old comic book goes beyond the realm of linking two events together. Was it because I somehow associate a certain comic book that I was reading with "Legionnaire's disease" which just so happened to take place the summer that the comic book was published? I don't know...I can only conjecture. Not that it matters anyway. The comic book in question is the DC published issue of House of Secrets # 141 from September 1976. One of the stories in that issue (which I still own a copy) is called "Exit Laughing" It basically tells the tale of a nerdy college student who reluctantly agrees to a bet with some fraternity brothers to sleep in an old haunted house. The nerdy student, whose name is Ernie Cass is terrified by the experience after being confronted by a ghost, who was really just the leader of the fraternity named Matt Sawyer dressed up in a costume. Ernie ends up fleeing in terror from the house much to the amusement of Matt and his fraternity brothers. Years later at a class reunion Matt and his wife stumble upon the introverted Ernie and Matt recounts the events of that night long ago. Ernie, however is shocked by the revelation. He had always believed that he had really saw a ghost that night and as Matt laughs once again at Ernie's naivety Ernie gets angry and pulls out a knife and stabs Matt to death. The last caption shows the police walking off with a crazed looking Ernie. One of them mentions his escape from a lunatic asylum the day before.

      Why I remember this story 38 years after first reading it I cannot say, but I can recall countless stories written in these comic books from that impressionable time of my life. I now sit in my bedroom and flip back the eerie cover of the comic which shows a ghost advancing on a man who is trying to get away. I am immediately brought back to the year of the American Bicentennial. There is an add for Hostess Snack Cakes. "3 Free Baseball Cards On Specially Marked Boxes Of Hostess Snack Cakes!!!" Three players capture the limelight in this add. The ladies man Steve Garvey lunges for a ground ball in one card, while Joe Morgan and Carlton Fisk stand with the bat at the ready getting set to smash one out of the park in the other two cards. All three players now senior citizens, and long retired from a sport that they once dominated. A few pages later and there is an advertisement for "Daisy BB guns". In this day and age would it still be legal to advertise a gun add in a comic book directed mainly at a youthful audience? I do not know, but I suspect that these days someone from DC comics would be sent to Guantanamo Bay as a terror threat. Then there is an add for "The Secret of Teaching yourself Music" which shows a Brady Bunch type mom sitting at a piano with a guy sporting a Shaun Cassidy hairdo who is strumming on a guitar.  On the back page of the comic there is an advertisement for Browning Bicycles featuring the True Story of the now forgotten John Rakowski who pedaled his way around the world in the mid 1970s. All of these advertisements bring me back to a time when it was Legionnaires disease that was making the headlines instead of the now dreaded Ebola virus. I toss the comic book on the nightstand and turn off the light. Tomorrow will be another day.
    
     
    

Faceless Sticks in the Surf

Faceless Sticks in the Surf by Jay

Miami, Florida:  August 28, 2014

By Jay: Two men who are now slightly beyond middle age are sitting in a hotel room.  They are twin brothers.  One of them is in excellent physical shape – small-boned, spry and wide-eyed, and from a distance appearing much younger than his years – a runner of marathons who has recently qualified for the prestigious Boston Marathon.  He is a good two and a half inches shorter than his counterpart – tall and white bearded who only a few short years before used to be in the same condition as his brother.  Now as he sits there he feels the sores in his mouth as well as the raw soles of his aching feet.  Even the tips of his fingers are red and hurt when bent.  He runs when he can, but lately he has been limping, and has recently purchased a cane to help him move around whenever his feet become too sore.  It is the chemotherapy drug that is keeping him alive at the moment, and as he squints at the old fading picture on his computer screen, he sees himself and his brother as they appeared three and half decades in the past at Wells Beach, Maine in August, 1979. 

The picture under inspection is an old slide that has recently been converted.  It shows a scene in late afternoon.  Two pale, stick-like, red haired boys are seen splashing around in the frigid surf.  They are turned away from each other, the one on the left rearing higher than the one on the right.  The faces are indistinguishable – pale and muted – white and featureless – as if they are phantoms emerging from the depths of a vast and ancient ocean.  Both ghosts are gazing skywards into the blueness of a 1970’s sky that has long since set and expired within the dust of infinity.  And the faded light and overall bleached and blurred image of the scene seems to be eroding into the distant realms of transient time.  Even the pale ocean itself, extending towards a limitless horizon appears to be of another world – one of dreams or even nightmares where giant monsters and serpents dwell under the dark depth.  The two boys appear to be lighter than themselves, as if they are spirits that belong to an incorporeal world.  They seem to be emerging from the surf as if intoxicated with the weightlessness of youth – the divinity of hydrogen and helium and the rise of unearthly space and thought and dreamlike matter that transcend the grim reality of the geologic touch and density that consumes the spirit. 

            The twins are still looking at the image on the screen of their faceless, ghostly selves – haunting and disturbingly true - stepping to the effortless rhythm of time, which in the final footsteps reveals the erosive face of us all.     

              

  

DC Comics Ghosts: Number 78, July 1979

By Craig: Ok, I am on a roll. There are times when I feel like writing, and there are other times when I do not feel like writing. Lately I have felt like writing. The other day I was having a discussion with my brother Jay and he told me that he was reading the works of Gaston Leroux. I had never read anything by Leroux, and was familiar with only one of his stories. Leroux was best known for his book The Phantom of the Opera which was made into a movie staring Lon Chaney back in the 1920s. In fact, I probably knew who Lon Chaney was before I had ever heard of Gaston Leroux...and it is probable that even today I would not associate Leroux with The Phantom of the Opera had it not been for a comic book that I read when I was 10 years old.

In the summer of 1979 my brother and I were full throttle in the comic book craze. We were 10 years old and would spend hours reading the same stories over and over again. Unlike most kids we were a little different. We were not really into the superhero comics as much as our friends were. For sure, we had issues of the Fantastic Four, Spiderman, and Batman, but our preference was outside of the superhero genre. Even back in those days TIME and the HISTORICAL PAST were motifs that seemed to occupy a lot of my waking moments. They were abstract ideas that my youthful mind tried to process. I was fascinated by tales and legends of yore...events that occurred in the remote past...a time far removed from my own. At some point my brother and I became interested in ghosts. I don't recall the exact moment when or why but I can only surmise that it was the natural progression of my mind attempting to come to terms with the concept of DEATH. Death had only just recently become a companion to our  consciousness when our grandfather had passed away the winter before. What was Death? What were Ghosts? Eureka! There is an end! One day I will die! That is impossible...Death only happens to other people! One of our favorite comic book at this time was the DC Comics title GHOSTS.

 

The cover of issue # 78 was enough for you to want to turn the pages and read on! 3 GHASTLY GHOST TALES including "THE WORLD'S MOST FAMOUS PHANTOM" The story starts out like most classic ghostly tales. A weary traveler...At night....A nasty rain storm...An old abandoned church in the middle of nowhere! Young Gaston Leroux finds shelter and the unexpected hospitality of a strange organist who keeps his head covered with a red cloth. When the young gentleman's curiosity overtakes his reason he quickly removes the cloth from his hosts head and reveals a monstrous looking face. Leroux flees from the old church with his pissed off host in pursuit. When he finds his way back to the village he meets a few of the locals who explain to him that the man he met in the church was in actuality a phantom of a man that had been burned alive in the church centuries before. Supposedly, Leroux uses this encounter as the basis of his story The Phantom of the Opera.

I was not even sure that I still possessed the issue of GHOSTS # 78 until I started thumbing through some of our old comic books which are stored in a big plastic box. True comic book collectors would be appalled by the way that my brother and I treated our comic books. We wrote our names in them and took absolutely no precautions to preserve the condition. Most of them are in fair condition...well read, and well loved. After all, what are they meant for? Are they meant to be placed in sealed plastic sleeves with a cardboard back? When I found GHOSTS # 78 I noticed that it had stood the test of time surprisingly well. I gave it to my brother the other day for him to enjoy once again. In fact, it traveled with us 800 miles to Miami when I decided to accompany Jay for his most recent appointment with his oncologist who is treating him for his cancer. GHOSTS...the ghosts of time that are my constant companions. I have now accepted that there will be a finality to my existence...A time when I will no longer be... Eventually we will all be ghosts...phantoms of something that once was.

A Certain Encounter: Sin City

By Craig: It had been nearly a quarter of a century since I had last stepped foot in Sin City. With its dazzling lights and loose reputation, Las Vegas Nevada is the place where one goes when one wishes to be ones self. Street performers are ubiquitous and range from Elvis and Marilyn Monroe impersonators to painted human statues. They work for donations and a dollar or two might get you a photograph with them. The city comes to life at night just before dusk. Amid all of the glitz and glamour of the casinos and opulent hotels there is, of course, the people of the abyss which lurk within the shadows of all this luxury and wealth. I was in Las Vegas on business and one afternoon I decided that I needed to go for a run since I realized that it had been four days since my last run through the streets of Sedona Arizona. That had been a nice, pleasant, scenic morning run along the streets and trails of that resort town, but running through the streets of Sin City at 1400 hours in mid July was anything but pleasant. In fact, it was almost suicidal.

There was a light breeze blowing, but it gave very little comfort when the temperature was hovering at about 110 degrees. I decided that I really could have done without the breeze, because it was like having an oven blowing in your face. I had big ambitions before I started to run...7 miles...I would do 7 miles...slow of course, because of the heat, but I was in awesome shape. After all, I had just qualified for the Boston Marathon. Or so I thought....

Me: Hey body? What's up?

Body: What are you trying to do kill me?

Me: No. Absolutely not! I'm trying to help you become physically fit?

Body: Well hey...I have a bright idea you moron...Try finding a cool place and a cold drink and quit thinking for a while!!!

Me: I was just trying to help?

Body: You can help by going into that store and getting me a nice tall Gatorade...I mean...what kind of an idiot would go for a run in the desert when it is 110 degrees?

Me: Are you calling me an idiot?

Body: Hey! Idiot! The Gatorade please! Now!!

I ducked inside of a convenience store and looked at my GPS watch. 3.14 miles...Ok...that was good...I ran pi! I always run with a few dollars tucked into my shorts pocket and I'm glad that I did on this day for I bought the largest bottle of ice cold glacier Gatorade that they had. Enough of the manly heroics. I was done running on this day! I left the store and hobbled back out into the oppressive heat. I could see the hotel a few blocks away and was heading in that direction when I stumbled into Methuselah.

He at first appeared to be quite ancient...hence the nickname...but after speaking with him, and observing him a little bit more carefully I concluded that the man was probably not that much older than my nearly 46 years. His rough years of hard alcohol soaked living and probable drug use, along with his grey matted beard, and leathery sun beaten skin had muddled my initial perception of him. He was extremely thin with attenuated limbs and a cadaverous looking face with a red bulbous nose common to people afflicted with alcohol abuse. If he kept on this path...I guessed...it wouldn't be long before he passed into the eternal abyss. He peered at me suspiciously through a set of beady eyes. He had been laying down on the sidewalk and when I rounded the corner I had almost stepped on him. At first I thought that he might have been dead, but he had sat up on his elbows when I stopped to ask if he was ok. He told me that he was tired. I, in turn, told him that this was no time of the day to be outside sweltering in the hot desert sun. Although, he had found a shady spot under a buildings overhang. We talked for quite some time and I found out that this wreck of a man was no ignoramus. He talked with a keen sense of intelligence and possessed a vocabulary that had to have come from a man of some education. I wondered what had brought him to his present condition, but it was none of my business so I did not ask. He, however, seemed surprised that I was sitting on the sidewalk talking to him. I asked him where he was from originally, because nobody it seems is a native of Las Vegas. He then told me that he was Canadian and had come to the United States when he was in his early teens with his parents who had since passed away. He had worked as a consultant of some kind for a number of years and had married, but his wife had died of cancer a few years ago. Ironically, he claimed that he too, now had cancer, and that his health insurance quit paying for his treatments. He had lost his house, his job, and now "here I am!" He said.  He had no children...and now, no family. Every now and then he would laugh...a laugh that seemed to mock his very existence. So I was wrong about him! He was no depraved alcoholic...At least he wasn't if he was being truthful. His condition was the result of an unfortunate and unlucky set of circumstances. He had simply drawn a bad lot...The short straw...The Joker in the deck!

I asked him why he didn't go back to Canada where he was a citizen because they had a national health care plan that took care of its citizens. He told me that he was no longer a Canadian citizen...that he had applied for Medicaid but that he did not qualify because his household income was too high. He had explained to them that he had lost his job, but they had turned a blind eye.
"Good God Fearing Christians!" He had said with some drama. "I came here to Vegas, because Vegas has the friendliest people on the planet" He told me.
I was skeptical of his claims, but who was I to question him? I had only been in Vegas for three or four days. He had been here close to a year.
"God Fearing Christians!!" he muttered again. I wished him luck and gave him the remainder of the money I had in my pocket (which wasn't much) and as I took my leave of him I could still hear his mocking laugh. Ah HEE...HEE...HEE...HEE!!!

A Certain Encounter: Moschops (1961 NU)

By Craig: It was a thickset lumbering beast nearly twelve feet long with a robust calf-like face. In a way it reminded me of a gigantic toad, but its skin was not warty or covered with scales, rather it was smooth, like the skin of an amphibious lizard. It was a docile creature that had the ambling gait of a tortoise, but could move surprisingly fast when the need arose. It was content to munch on the ferns and lycopods that dominated the eco-system of the upper Permian. It was the Moschops!

The Moschops was not really a dinosaur per-se, because it lived in the geological time period before the dinosaurs appeared. It was, however, still considered among many to be a precursor to those intimidating giants who dominated the landscape of the later Mesozoic. It seemed to thrive well in the region now known as South Africa where it's fossilized remains have been found and were first identified at the beginning of the 20th century by the Scottish Geologist Robert Broom.

I first became acquainted with Mr. Moschops when I was five years old. My brother and I received a Marx dinosaur play set for Christmas. Among the many dinosaurs in the set was a squatty white Moschops. I don't know why, but for some reason it quickly became one of my favorite models in the set. Perhaps it had something to do with the resemblance to the toads that I frequently saw hopping along in my grandfather's garden. A few years later I had another encounter with Moschops. This time my brother and I found a Moschops trading card that was part of a set of 80 cards depicting various prehistoric creatures issued by NU-Cards in 1961. It was a blue bordered card with a black and white image in the center which featured a family of Moschops'. The image is taken from a painting by the late Czech artist Zdenek Burian.  I look at that card now these many years later and turn it over to read the short caption on the back.

                 "A Family of MOCHOPS look pretty to each other-but to no one else."

I suddenly find myself transported to the South African plains of the Permian period some 260 million years ago. I am standing in front of the black and white family of Burian's Moschops. At first everything is still, but gradually the black and white scene changes into colour and I am soon looking toward the eastern sky and notice the bright Permian Sun shining its magnificence upon an earlier time. It is a beautiful sunny, yellow, morning on the plains of Karoo, but my breathing is heavy due to the different Nitrogen/Oxygen ratio of our planet in this remote geological period of time.

"I'll not be running a marathon today!" I exclaimed.  It was directed at no one in particular, and since there are no humans around, it would seem that the Moschops closest to me was the receiver of my declaration.

"Excuse me? What did you say?" It asked.

I took a deep breath and smiled. "Well Mr. Moschops since I am from a time in the future, far distant to your own, my lungs need to adapt to the atmosphere of your time."

"Well, bloody bad luck for you matey! I can breathe just fine." He replied.

"Well good for you Mr. Chops! It will take millions of years for my lungs to evolve if I have to stay in your time, and I m afraid that my lifetime is not that long....matey!"

He laughed. His huge teeth jutting out from his brown mouth.
"Aw come on now, the Permian isn't such a bad time to live." He said.  "Just look around you matey...Do you see any of the pollution and corruption that encompasses the Earth in your time?" Where are all the smokestacks and automobiles with their noxious fumes? Where are all the criminals running around with their guns shooting at people in schools and restaurants? There are no wars here, no weapons of mass destruction, nobody thinking that their religion is superior to someone else's. No greedy capitalists, communists, socialists, jingoists, monarchists, feudalists, anarchists, or any other ISTS that I can think of. There are no conservatives, liberals, democrats, republicans, Whigs, Tories, senators, kings, queens, dictators, premieres, presidents, secretaries, prime ministers or any other egotistical title that is eagerly sought in your time. Why? Because there are no humans! Those arrogant smelly perverted creatures don't exist!
No sir, there is only the flowing water of that stream, and the distant sun to warm us. We have plenty of food and want for nothing here in the Permian."

I shrugged. "I guess you summed up life in my times Mr. Moschops. So...well...what would you recommend that I do? Should I hike to the summit of that volcano in the distance and hurl myself into the cauldron?"

Mr. Moschops  chuckled. "I certainly wouldn't recommend that! It would be just a bit too dramatic wouldn't you say?"

I glanced behind Mr. Moschops to see two of his family members taking a drink from the stream. I began to reflect on the words that had just been spoken by my new found friend. Everything seemed peaceful here. No bills to pay, no deadlines to meet, no dealing with the hustle and bustle of competitive corporate America with all of its primitive bullshit ideologies and dogma. Sure, there were some small carnivores running around that might try to bite my head off, but nothing that I could not handle...At least there were no huge T-Rex's or Allosaurs to  contend with. As far as food? Why could I not learn to diet on the lycopods like the Moschops? I could even supplement my diet with some Permian fish! The atmosphere? Well...I would just have to evolve faster! I think that this here was a time after my own liking. I was about to inform Mr. Moschops that he had just convinced me to take up permanent residence when suddenly the scene began to change and the Moschops family shifted to their Burian positions. I found myself holding the card in my hand and immediately became aware of a siren in the distance, blaring it's all too familiar noisy music...

Sinclair the Striker

Sinclair the Striker by Jay

One of the greatest cricketers from South Africa during the late nineteenth and early twentieth century was Jimmy Sinclair.  Tall and naturally athletic, Sinclair was a powerful batsman.  He is often given credit for hitting the first test century ever for South Africa and is known for whacking some of the most powerful sixes ever witnessed.  Indeed, it is possible he hit the longest six in cricket history when he belted one out of the Old Wanderers cricket ground where it landed on an outgoing train!  He also became the first South African to make over 300 (301) in 1897 for G. Beve’s XI against Roodeport.  Sinclair wasn’t just a good batsman however, he was also a notable bowler – an all-rounder, who could be phenomenal on the right day.  As a teenager he had trounced Lord Hawke’s English team practically all by himself, scoring 157 points and taking all the wickets.  He was definitely the man to watch whenever the English or the Australians had to face South Africa.  In the first decade of the twentieth century, he would be joined by more talent on the South African team including Aubrey Faulkner and C.B. Llewellyn, and this would set the stage for some of the great matchups between these countries.  In 1910, the South Africans, with Sinclair leading the way, toured Australia for the first time.  Sinclair can actually be seen in some very rare footage from one of the tests on this tour.  The clip is very clear for its age.  It is a sunny day, and Sinclair is bowling against Warren Bardsley.  The non-striker is the legendary Australian batsmen, Victor Trumper.   Bardsley hits the ball and begins to run.  Trumper then runs past Sinclair in a mad dash to get to the other end of the pitch but is thrown out by one of the players who is out of frame (probably Llewellyn).  Ignominiously, Trumper falls as he is extending his bat and is then seen rising quickly to his feet where he seems to hitch up his pants before calmly turning around and walking off the field.  In the meantime, Sinclair is seen striding forward, perfectly composed and commending his fellow teammates by clapping, obviously pleased in this great moment of triumph by ridding themselves of Australia’s biggest threat.  It is unfortunate that this is the only known footage of Trumper in action (though some posed footage of him does exist).  However, here we see Sinclair, South Africa’s answer to Trumper, glorying in the moment, forever immortalized on this bright summer day so long ago in December, 1910.  It is interesting to note that when this footage was shot, Sinclair was past his prime though he still from time to time exhibited some of the form that had made him such a feared presence a decade before.   

Below are two pictures of Sinclair.  One is from my collection of tobacco cards, which dates from the same year as the Australian tour (1910).  The other is taken from Roland Bowen’s informative book on the history of cricket called Cricket: A History of its Growth and Development throughout the World.  I believe this picture is really representative of the man and his performance on the field.  In a way, it almost seems contemporary though it is well over 100 years old.  Sinclair looks formidable and intimidating  as he holds his bat high and leans over on his toes, almost as if he is about to topple onto the crease.  There is no question that he is not just protecting the wicket, but is fiercely determined to launch one of his thunderous sixes deep into the cosmos.  It is a picture full of undisciplined energy and raw strength.  Sinclair the striker is life captured at the pinnacle of one’s power.  It is brief, and it is momentary; however, for an instant, the scene captures an ephemeral glimpse of something immortal that transcends this single act of a man.  Sinclair stands out from everything else around him - the subdued, hazy background of buildings, phantom-like in appearance and seeming to want to melt into an obscure and forgotten past – the lone wicket, a three pronged fork planted in the ground as stark as the cricketer himself and yet remote, lonely and isolated within the scene - people in the dimness, but whose images are so deeply blurred that they may as well be  antique shingles or posts rather than breathing, thinking things that were once living and loved by relatives long dead.  The most startling image in the picture however, is Sinclair’s shadow.  As he leans over and prepares to wallop the ball out of the grounds, it almost seems to be rising up to consume him.  It is a grim irony indeed, that Sinclair would die young at the age of 36 on February 23, 1913.   And yet…  the picture defies this end of a man.  He seems to be struggling to burst forth from the diminishing scene, from the blurs and shadows of mortality and into something that strikes into the very core of the sun itself.

 

The Glass Temple of Worcester

By Craig: What was it? Was it a monster? A giant monolith emerging from the bowels of the earth? It had massive mechanical arms that moved and lifted cars and people up with very little effort, swallowing them whole! It appeared to be made out of glass, and was getting taller with every single day...until eventually...it was the tallest thing on the horizon.

I was around four or five years old when these juvenile thoughts floated through my immature brain. I was processing information the best way that a five year old could. Of course it was only a fiction...a distortion of facts...an erroneous translation due to a five year olds limited knowledge and experience of the natural world. In reality the glass monster that appeared to be rising like a phoenix from the earths mantle and wreaking terrible destruction and mayhem on the unfortunate inhabitants in the distance was none other than the construction of the Worcester County National bank in downtown Worcester Massachusetts. (How's that for a long sentence?) This was in 1972...or perhaps 1973. The glass tower is now known as Worcester Plaza. The giant moving arms were cranes. The I-beams and other mechanical things being lifted were interpreted by my five year old mind to be cars and people. It didn't matter to me then. I wanted no part of that horror that was occurring on the horizon!

At the time that this glass skyscraper was being constructed I was living with my parents and twin brother in my grandfathers triple decker on Queen St. across from the now defunct City hospital where I had been born. I recall sitting on the back porch attempting to make sense of the gargantuan world beyond the safe confines of my grandfathers house. I sensed danger beyond the porch. Out in the street cars flew by, honking their horns while sirens blew from ambulances on a regular basis, coming and going from the place of sickness and death. I sensed brutality...chaos...mayhem. This was the violent world to which I had been born. This was the world in which I would have to survive. My notions of this world haven't changed much in the forty or so years since I first developed them. Only my courage to face this busy and convoluted environment has improved, and this, of course developed over time.

I now realize and understand with a sort of reluctance that this is the way of the universe...our universe. It is hostile, and violent at the core. It starts with the primordial elements and works its way up. One only has to look a hydrogen atom within the confines of our own sun to see the constant struggle of nature. Hydrogen atoms bombarding each other, fusing together in an explosive state to form helium atoms. If this is how the universe is constructed than why should we as humans be any different? We are born into this violent cataclysm! It is our condition in the state of normalcy. The universe is not a peaceful place. Why does a baby cry when it is removed from its mothers womb? Why does it not smile? or even laugh? Does it unconsciously sense the barbarous environment in which it has been cast? Every moment there is a struggle of the elements around you. Even as I write this within the relatively safe confines of my house, while sipping on a refreshing cup of hot coffee, I sense danger. It is in the wind...the sky...the distant sound of booming thunder...a gunshot...the fat toad in its aquarium is on edge...feeling safe under its plastic igloo. As for myself?...I am ready to turn in for the night...locking the doors and making sure that my fighting stick and bayonet are within reaching distance from my bed...I might just as well be on the back porch in Worcester...forty years and 900 miles away sitting on my long dead grandfather's lap listening to his dreams, and watching a giant monster with mechanical arms warn me of the future...I see it still...