Albert the Brave

 Albert thought the tree looked like it ought to be conquered.  It was Yggradrasil, the holy center of the cosmos, an immense ash that towered to the high realms, home of dragons and stags and all-knowing eagles that clenched their talons on the branches.  That token of the Prose Edda extended farther than any other, branching off into worlds beyond; worlds like Alfheim, land of the elves of light; or Jotenheim, land of the frost giants.  What mysteries he would find if he should climb that mighty tree.  Such a madness accelerated him into the shadows of her leaves, which fanned out over the world like a forbidden sky.  He was entering from Midgard, yes, the mid-realm alotted to humans by the Norse Gods. 

Under the tree grew a series of glossy bushes that may have hidden the fairies of Midsummer, Oberon and Titania among them.  Best not to disturb the mischievous sprites, who would surely turn him into an ass if he interrupted their sleep.  So, he climbed, out of the Earth and into the world between worlds, a place that invited him, branch by branch, into the sacred root of creation.  He couldn't wait to tell his brothers about this.  They'd be annoyed by this mythological tangent at first, but eventually they'd catch on and be envious of his scaling of the universe.  To be on top of it all, he would tease them, is the greatest feeling in the world.  Nothing could bother you up there.  You ruled the Gods and the Gods bowed only to you.  He'd show them, yes, he'd bring them here and brag about how he'd ascended the tallest tree in the world all on his own.  They would laugh at him like they always did, but he would know the truth; that he, Albert the Brave, had earned the sole honor of climbing that impossible tree standing alone on the hill.  All these ideas flashed before him in a series of joyful images as he climbed this impenetrable fortress. 

He imagined poisonous snakes that were coiled around the branches, squirrels with buck teeth that chewed on the heads of the dead from Valhalla, frost giants that just missed grabbing his legs as he swiftly escaped their reach.  Those devourers from Jotenheim swiped at him every chance they got, but he was always too fast for them.   

As he neared the top, the winds shifted as the four stags pranced among the leaves, each represented by a cardinal direction.  Daylight shown through the gaps above, quickly overtaken by an ominous cloud, possibly sent from Asgard to foil the boy's ascent.  The tree was too high, he needed a rest.  It smelled of burnt wood up here, a possible result of the war between Vanaheim and Asgard.  The Gods of fertility and wisdom vs. the soldiers of Odin.  That would be a sight indeed, but not for today.  Today he would reach the top. 

Just before resuming his climb, the rain started to fall, seeds of rebirth from the eyes of Freya.  Her weapons caused him to slip, but he held on tightly to the bark.  Nothing could stop him now that he was so close.  Up and up, he went, though he had to admit it was getting harder to climb.  Looking up, briefly he thought he could see the all-knowing eagle, waiting for him at the top.  Just one more minute, he called.  A few more kicks of the leg, and up there he'd be, to seal his fate. 

Now the sky opened up and he was but a few feet from the top.  An aching hand reached out for the summit, yet became interrupted by a great crashing from the sky above.  Albert looked up and saw the hammer of Thor, the prince of Asgard so angered by this mortal's intrusion, strike down on the black foot of the clouds, creating a ripple of lightning that headed straight for the boy's outstretched arm.  Albert closed his eyes and prayed.  The force sent him flying, in dizzying shards of murderous abandon, past the four stags of the winds, the snakes coiled among the branches, even the Bifrost connecting this world from the one he belonged, tumbling through the canopy of a chaotic and restless world, landing on his back among the fairies in a guttural thump that sent any remaining birds in the vicinity flying away faster than he'd fallen. 

East of the Heart

Your eyes are sad, distant, 
Needing my touch,  
Or the laughter you left: 
Those merry gifts of children, 
Chiming down the walls of your heart, 
Where paintings of a past life 
Decorate your dreams in love and light. 
I, the one who stole your soul, 
Brought you to the ends of the Earth, 
Bound by love, hardened by haste, 
Reaching for a memory that once stood 
On a jade slab as smooth as your soul,  
A reclined Buddha closing the door 
On a world you kissed goodbye. 
What a beast I am, 
To take you from your home, 
From all your loved ones, 

Those who depend on you, 
Only for my selfish gain, 
That a man, as lucky as I, 
Might be loved by a woman 
Blessed with such beauty as you possess. 

The Three Boys

The painter on the hill sketched them where they lay.  Three boys, exposed to the elements, stretching on their blanket over freshly mowed grass.  Princely in appearance yet ragged in behavior.  They pointed at planes that glided over the town, preserving some sense of wonder that all boys cherish in their youth, so the painter thought.  He was sure to express this important detail on their faces, which were turned sideways along the breeze, all awash from the light of yellow flowers that glowed among the foreground of that wonderful town below the hill. 

The town was like a brown lake nestled inside a landscape between mountains.  The painter mused that the three brothers would never share a moment so close to heaven, or anything that would ever feel as remotely close to home.  He searched for a way to put this in the painting, but it wouldn't come.  Finally, a surreal impression came upon him, that a cloud vaguely shaped like a hearth might send this message to the heart.  It would be the final touch on an otherwise realist work of art. 

One of them suddenly leaped off his feet and took off through the meadow, followed closely by a smaller one.  The third, who looked to be the most reclusive, diligently folded the blanket, picked up a bag, and started after them.  Perfect timing, thought the painter.  Just enough to gather the essence of these lads.  He wished for them to return sometime, perhaps with some girls, or a dog to play with.  Maybe they at least had some sporting goods, or a kite; that would be nice.   

It's often where one isn't looking that the greatest inspiration comes from.  Places you wouldn't expect.  On this day, it wasn't an accident.  The painter had fully expected to paint a scenic view of this peaceful town, and the view didn't disappoint.  What he hadn't expected were three of the happiest boys he'd ever seen.  He wondered what the depraved outside world would tarnish their youths with.  It happened to everyone eventually, an axiom that made one as miserable as a widow.  He wished their summer would last an eternity for them, not be the fleeting type that great summers often are.  For it is known that time is a terrible thief; it steals itself from the happy moments and indulges in the sorrowful ones.  Those boys, how soon would they know sorrow?  One day, time would miss them so much that it would flood them with its suffocating remembrance.  The only question was when. 

 

Black Mirror

    Black Mirror is the best show I'm watching right now.  It has really opened my eyes to the way technology is changing us.  Each episode is basically a scenario of what would happen if some aspect of modern technology totally took over our social lives; things like rating people, the desire to be a YouTube sensation, and video terrorism.  There are some interesting things going on here, though it would be a stretch to think any of them would come true.  The most powerful one I've seen so far is Nosedive, a dystopian nightmare where people get to rate you based on your interactions with them, strangers included.  Your overall rating is a deciding factor in most services that are offered in society.  Civil rights have disappeared; all that matters is a rating that your phone keeps track of, like a serial badge.  Essentially that means that the people who are most gifted at faking happiness are the most privileged members of society.  I couldn't live in such a world. 

A Tropical Wish

Here in the stale, computerized air of the office 
A tropical wish sends my mind aflight, 
Off to distant shores where the sea kisses the sand, 
Flinging the smell of ocean spray at my nose. 
Parrots of many colors flock over marble palisades, 
Scissoring through tree fronds off the shore, 
Where sands of white quartz glitter around the bay 
Like a tiara built by the eons of sea-wash. 
I can see dogs out there surfing over the waves, 
Wearing sunglasses and little water shorts, 
Their tongues hanging off their jaws, 
As if they'd just had a steak tossed at their feet. 
Monkeys play catch on the beach with bananas 
They stole from unwitting spectators along the shore. 
One of them gets squeezed out of its peel 
After being caught, flies up into the air and lands 
In the mouth of the nearest raving primate. 
Others are sailing in banana boats off in the distance; 
Perfectly fitting, but perhaps a shade too surreal. 
Babes in 2-piece lycra bikinis launch volleyballs 
Off the wet wrists of their sweat-tanned bodies, 
Bouncing the balls upwards like the lofty breasts 
Fixed in bouyancy between their arms. 
Children ride on toothless mako sharks 
Who wouldn't eat them even if they could, 
As flying fish hurdle over them singing old sea songs 
By using the dripping amplifiers of their gills. 
Sand castles made by the labor of mighty oysters 
Rise proudly into the briny breeze, as ignorant 
Of their weakness as a dictator is to his people. 
The sun is high; it beats off the hay-strewn roofs 
Of refreshment stands and vacant summer chairs, 
Casting shadows for margaritas and pina coladas 
That relax in the shade, cooled by bar ice, 
Waiting to be drunk by some thirsty swimmer. 
 
I soak it all in, this wonderful scene of strangeness, 
Thinking about how much fun it would be 
If things like these happened where I work. 
But here there are no singing fish, 
No children racing surf-dogs in the water, 
No models chatting secretly about how good I look; 
Nothing so remotely exciting or vivid or colorful. 
This is no St. Tropez, Jamaica, or Bora-Bora; 
This is only the dull prison of another sterilized office 
Monitored by the steady droning of computers, 
Each operating according to a set of rules 
That are so eerily similar to the yes/no, go/stop, on/off 
Rules of civilization, that they may as well have replaced us.