It all started on a Saturday night, the 2nd day in December, 2006, when bored with my evening I started thinking as to why we read stories, and better yet, why do we write them?  I’d read before that there might be only six or seven basic stories in the world, perhaps you’ve read or heard the same thing.  Kind of a ‘play’ on that old philosophers muse – ‘that there’s nothing new under the sun.’

 

What is it that causes us to like stories?  Why is it that we have such a distinctive and instinctive need for them, that as soon as we can communicate as young children, we are demanding to be told stories, and will likely continue to do so till our dying day?  What is even more astounding is how incurious we are as to why we indulge in this strange activity.  What real purpose does it serve?  So much do we take our need to tell stories for granted, that questions like these hardly matter?

 

Many will say that stories “satisfy our need to escape,” and surely we use them to escape from reality, but in no way does it explain “why” we are able to find diversion this way.  In fact, once you become comfortable with being able to divert your mind by reading a story, you then realize that “escapism” is not all, indeed, is but a very small part of why we read, or write a story.  Which brings us back to the belief of many, that there are only six or seven basic stories in the world, and that - that is all there’s ever been - and all there ever will be.

 

Read the words of Christopher Booker, with me, as he explores this thought, “But the further my investigation proceeded, the more clearly two things emerged.  The first was that there are indeed a small number of plots which are so fundamental to the way we tell stories that it is virtually impossible for any storyteller ever entirely to break away from them.  The second was that, the more familiar we become with the nature of these shaping forms and forces lying beneath the surface of stories, pushing them into patterns and directions which are beyond the storyteller’s conscious control, the more we find that we are entering a realm to which recognition of the plots themselves proves only to be have been the gateway. We are in fact uncovering nothing less than a kind of hidden, universal language: a nucleus of situations and figures which are the very stuff from which stories are made.”

 

We are being bombarded over and over again with a message, and we are delivering it to ourselves as it was programmed into our psyches to do so, by telling each other stories.  What is the message?  It’s about who we are, from where we came, and where we’re going. 

 

How can that be, you say, since neither you nor I have a clue as to the answer to those three questions.  Simply put, we don’t know yet, but we will… soon.  You must first address the question of why we are telling the stories, to understand that the why is the reason there will be answers. 

 

Think about how far we’ve come in a relatively short span of time, from the ancient markings in the caves to Yahoo’s Main Page, we’re still telling stories to each other, still reading the words others write, and someday someone will write the complete story with all the answers. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh the rhythm… the music, the happy words of that song,

 

on that summer weekend in the park…

 

When the weather is high you

 

can stretch right up and touch the sky

 

when the weather is fine

 

you’ve got women

 

You’ve got women on the mind

 

Have a drink have a drive

 

Go out and see what you can find

 

Move along the lake

 

You’re turning twenty-five

 

We’re always happy

 

Lots of living in this sound philosophy

 

Sing along with us….

 

 

Nuremberg, Germany… a Saturday morning, Roger

 

and me loose in town for the weekend.

 

It’s party time!

 

We’re at the park, the sky is crystal blue, not a cloud on the continent today I think, and the pond, like a sheet of glass, with little paddle boats peddling back and forth, people milling, picnicking, playing Frisbee catch.  Music is playing all around, a small band is at the south end of the pond, and the smell of grilling bratwurst, drifts through the air.  It’s 1978 and I’m turning 25 like the song says, and life is good, life is good, and the grass is so fucking green.

 

We’re with a large group of friends, some German, mostly American, and the mood is relaxed and pre-partying, the air charged with excitement – for everyone to feel.  I lean back on my arms, on the blanket that covers the grass, and think about nothing other than breathing the fresh air, and letting the world soak into me, as I accept the cold beer handed to me by Cindy.

 

I’ve known Cindy for 3 months and though we’ve had our times, it’s others we’ll be seeking today.  She and Roger tried it out too, but arrived at the same answer we did.  What is it I wondered to myself, that solves the mystery of where you’re going and what you’re looking for?

 

“What you thinking?” 

 

Roger’s question darts through a thin cloud of hashe smoke, and gently pokes my sub-conscious, and as I look at him and see the thin line of sweat above his lip, the day old beard and his smile, I capture the moment to replay it over and over during my life.  My best friend for three years now, ever since we’d met back in Huntsville, assigned by the luck of the draw to the same unit in Germany. 

 

“How I’d like to meet the woman of my dreams today.”

 

Roger laughs, and takes a drink of his beer as he glances in the direction of Leah, his latest flame, and who I know he will be with when the sun disappears.  It is a given, for when he’s on it, he’s on it, and for now Roger is on Leah.

 

As for me, I’m loose, free, and open to all possibilities, and feeling that feeling which has rarely been wrong in my life, the feeling that today will be special, today will be one to remember. 

 

Looking around I marvel in the fact that just over 30 years ago this place was the center of Nazi Germany, and a man by the name of Hitler ruled supreme.  Now, Hitler is gone and the scene is totally relaxed, peaceful, and quite beautiful.  The Coliseum, not 200 feet from me, once held scores of Nazi Celebrations, burning torches and all that, now just a hazy artifact of a past nobody wants to remember.

 

Three females come from nowhere, interrupting our group, but known by some, and as introductions are passing around, I seize upon the girl named Sandra; dressed like a German, speaking fluent English, and sporting a set of Army Captain bars on the lapel of her blouse; the girlfriend of some Army Captain somewhere, but not here.

 

“DeWayne” she says, rolling it over, deliciously, as her eyes brighten, turning my own into small black pools, mysteries bouncing back and forth between us. Without a thought I offer her my beer, and she takes a long drink, handing it back while wiping her mouth.  Nervousness tries to take hold of me, but I shove it back from where it comes, and light a cigarette to hide any leftover evidence, all the time watching her.

 

I realize that we’ve parted from the crowd, and that neither seems to care. In the middle of all the conversations, we hold a séance for two, everyone else removed.  I barely notice as Roger, recognizing the signs gets up and moves over to some other people who are smoking hashe.

 

“Where you’re from,” the most asked question in this city I’d bet, comes from Sandra, her voice rich, velvety, and smooth, and as my mind clicks around to the perfect response, the one she wants, I let my eyes wander over her body; long brown, almost reddish hair lies lightly on her shoulders, her face - makeup free but radiant and alive, smiles as I whisk by, down the long slender neck unadorned with anything shiny or metal, to her perfectly balanced shoulders that harbor breasts, full and jutting upward, even through the blouse pinned with Captain’s Bars. I barely question them as I move lower to her waist where tan shorts cover the part of a woman I call heaven, and admire legs meant to be shown, along to bare feet, pink toenails, and something embossed in the middle of each one, something pink.  “The Hills of Oklahoma,” I say, as she strokes my bare arm and says, “I knew that wasn’t all tan.”

 

We are up and walking away from the group, hand in hand, the sun warming my face as I slide my sunglasses on, and look to my right - into the eyes of what I’ve been looking for.

 

Epilogue…..

 

Every year in this country thousands of people disappear, never to be heard from again. 

 

Dan was one of these people, along with a L.A. Police Officer by the name of Keala Jamison, age 33. Both were reported “missing” at the same time, and were at the time being sought for questioning about the murder of Roger Davies, the D.A. of L.A. County, who was found murdered at a California beach house on the morning after a meeting attended by Mr. Davies, Ms Jamison, Dan, and two unidentified men.

 

Authorities especially wanted to speak to Ms. Jamison because she was the last known person to see the D.A. alive, as they left the meeting together.

 

Dan had been a childhood friend of Mr. Davies, and they had attended the same High School. Ms. Jamison had no connection to the D.A. other than being a Police Officer with the L.A. Police Department. The Davies family vehemently denied subsequent speculation of a romantic connection between her and Mr. Davies.

 

So… with Dan now gone, we are left to wonder about the rest of the story. I guess everyone has his/her own idea but as to mine…

 

I think it went down like this…

 

Jackie possessed powers we can only imagine, but they were not without limitations. I don’t think Dan was the only one to run away; who’s to say they wouldn’t have done the same thing in that situation?

 

Anyway, we know that Dan ran, and I would guess another one or two did too. 

 

I believe the actions of Dan and the others (who ran) weakened Jackie’s powers, and she was forced to leave them. However, to protect them from the riders she merely removed them to a different time period, while she and Leo escaped with the rest of the group, while promising to return for Dan and whoever else had been left behind.

 

I believe Roger Davies was no other than “Pierce,” the man who had betrayed Jackie. I don’t know how he ended up in the same time period with Dan, but somehow he did.

 

But before Jackie and Dan left for the final time, I believe that they for whatever reason, made sure that Roger Davies, a.k.a. Pierce, would not be able to bother them anymore.

 

I don’t know … but it sounds plausible, at least to me.

 

All I know is that from now on when I think of Dan, I’ll think of the way rain smells on a spring day, and in between the raindrops I’ll feel a presence I can’t define.

 

 editor

"The Rag" will be out later, but for now, the latest issue of the "nowhere man" is playing over at ... "nowhere man."

ice

 

 

The New Residencia Editor – Ice Dep Editor – PuP Vice Pres. – Daze Exec VP – Six Asst. Exec VP - Prank StoryLine – Whit Scoop Rep– Scratchomo Ace Reporter – Jonnie Chief of Art – Lucy   Second Chances Man! – I just finished reading Colo’s latest blog, “Gathering the Lost,” and was really impressed.  Of course she had asked me if it would be okay (to use some of my characters)and naturally I had no problem with it.  In fact I can see unlimited possibilities here, which I will need to explore, and maybe develop a little.  Meanwhile I would like to “thank” Colo for the “links” on her blog that take you to “The New Residencia,” and “nowhere man.” WHIT’s Whittlings Whit is talking about “last words” on his blog and judging from the number of comments, people on the stream have some “last words” for him.  Check it out; he’s always on target somewhere. ALONG THE SPIRAL PATH Daze told me the other day she was going to go outside and think about “time and apples,” which had been sort of part of my blog, but instead she ended up thinking about “monkeys and potatoes.”  You will have to read her latest blog to see where all this leads, but it is interesting when she starts down a certain path; it usually “spirals” somewhat. LOOKIN FOR TRUTH Go by and check out this blog by... “LookinforLucy,” she needs some “stream-support.

When your brain turns to Squash Squash has become the latest to showcase his voice on the screen.  He sounds (to me) like the druggist we used to have in my hometown 50 years ago, and I mean that as a compliment.  A steady, trusting voice from someone we all appreciate.  Check it out.  Btw, while you’re there check out his blog “Wading in the Stream.”  P.S. Me and the Pupster have decided to join in on this 99 bottle of beer idea that “Lucy” started.  SCRATCH’S BAR AND GRILL Drop by the Bar and Grill and see some of the gang there, as they sit around Scratch’s favorite booth and tell the scariest stories around.  You can even contribute if you like, Mr. Scratchomo is always open to a new tail, er, tale. Editorial – ice   Well our days around the plantation may, finally, be slowing down a little.  My job will be less hectic since our “fiscal” year ends in a few days.  If you can’t spend money there ain’t much you can do is there?   Pup’s travels will probably also decline as we move into the fall, though she does have a trip to the city coming up in the first week of October and come to think of it, I’m scheduled to go out of town for a week in early October, and of course we’ll have some puppies to sell/deliver around “Halloween” time, so maybe I’m being too optimistic about things “slowing” down? One of the reasons I started the “second” blog, “nowhere man,” was to free up the ol rag for more issues, and naturally more often.  So far, it seems to be working although the jury is still out on it a little. I really don’t know how some of the bloggers on the stream manage to do 3 or even 4 blogs.  These two I have are more than enough. Btw, you can catch up to the latest goings on with “Leo and Dan & Jackie,” over at that other blog “nowhere man.”  It’s the bottom blog on my list of favorites.