Dreams Come True . . . Danny Goes to the Beach
Something You Don't See Every Day
My name is Andrew Joyce and I write books for a living. You can check me out on Google (Andrew Joyce Author). My point is that is all I do, write books. I do not make money in any other way. Another thing that I must say is that on the whole, I don’t like communing with people very much.
I only tell you this because I ran into some very nice people the other day; not only nice, but honest. I found them on the Internet, they run a book blogging tour company and I didn’t know them from Adam.
They did right by me and when I wanted to buy more of their services, I was advised that they would love to take my money, but if I wanted to sell more books I would be better served elsewhere. Then they showed me where I could be “better served.” They were right. Their name is Good Tales Book Tours. Here’s a link: http://goodtalesbooktours.com/
That's all I wanted to say.
Danny's Freedom
Hey guys, it's me again, Danny the Dog. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Andrew Joyce’s roommate and he is my human.
I've just been reading a little Billy Shakespeare and listening to Kris Kristofferson. Genius will tell out. What got to me this day was how they both spoke to having nothing. Billy said: "Having nothing, nothing can he lose." And Kris wrote: "Freedom's just another word for nothin' left to lose. Nothin' ain't worth nothin' but it's free."
In dog years I'm an old man, or an old dog if you will; and with age comes experience and with experience comes wisdom. And with wisdom comes the realization that we need nothing to be, nothing to exist. We accumulate so much crap and it never makes us happy. Here in America we have storage facilities on every corner. We have so much crap we have to pay someone to hold it for us!
Over one hundred and fifty years ago, Henry David Thoreau told his neighbors that they saved things; put them in their attics and there the stuff stayed until they died. Then their heirs sold the stuff and other people bought it and put it in their attics until they died. Etcetera ... etcetera ... etcetera.
I reckon what I’m trying to say is that all we need—dogs, humans and anyone else—is love. There is only love. There is fear of course, the fear of not having enough, the fear of not being loved enough. But love always triumphs over fear. So to my non-dog friends, I say choose love. I'm only a dog and I love my human unconditionally. Love those around you. Never, ever trade your love. Never ask for something in return for your love because then it is not love.
Danny the Dog, over and out.
P.S. This missive was inspired by Kris’ words.
http://geni.us/molly
Any time you doubt your own worth, remember this story…
Originally posted on Chris The Story Reading Ape's Blog:
The Black Telephone…
When I was a young boy, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood..
I remember the polished, old case fastened to the Wall.
The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box.
I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother talked to it.
Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person.
Her name was “Information Please” and there was nothing she did not know.
Information Please could supply anyone’s number and the correct time.
My personal experience with the genie-in-a-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor.
Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer, the pain was terrible, but there seemed no point in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy.
I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway.
The telephone!
Quickly, I ran for the footstool in the parlor and dragged it to the landing.
Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver in the parlor and held it to my ear.
“Information, please” I said into the mouthpiece just above my head.
A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear. “Information.”
“I hurt my finger…” I wailed into the phone, the tears came readily enough now that I had an audience.
“Isn’t your mother home?” came the question.
“Nobody’s home but me,” I blubbered.
“Are you bleeding?” the voice asked.
“No,”I replied.“I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts.”
“Can you open the icebox?” she asked.
I said I could.
“Then chip off a little bit of ice and hold it to your finger,” said the voice..
After that, I called “Information Please” for everything..
I asked her for help with my geography, and she told me where Philadelphia was.
She helped me with my math.
She told me my pet chipmunk that I had caught in the park just the day before, would eat fruit and nuts.
Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary, died.
I called, Information Please,” and told her the sad story.
She listened, and then said things grown-ups say to soothe a child.
But I was not consoled. I asked her, “Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?”
She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, “Wayne, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in.”
Somehow I felt better.
Another day I was on the telephone, “Information Please.”
”Information,” said in the now familiar voice.
“How do I spell fix?”I asked.
All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest .
When I was nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston.
I missed my friend very much.
“Information Please” belonged in that old wooden box back home and I somehow never thought of trying the shiny new phone that sat on the table in the hall.
As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me..
Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then.
I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.
A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle .
I had about a half-hour or so between planes.
I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now.
Then without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, “Information Please.”
Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well.
”Information.” I hadn’t planned this, but I heard myself saying, “Could you please tell me how to spell fix?”
There was a long pause.
Then came the soft spoken answer, “I guess your finger must have healed by now.”
I laughed, “So it’s really you,” I said.
“I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time?”
I wonder, she said, “if you know how much your call meant to me.”
“I never had any children and I used to look forward to your calls.”
I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister.
“Please do”, she said.
“Just ask for Sally.” Three months later I was back in Seattle.
A different voice answered, “Information.”
I asked for Sally. “Are you a friend?” she said.
“Yes, a very old friend,” I answered.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” She said, “Sally had been working part time the last few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago.”
Before I could hang up, she said, “Wait a minute, did you say your name was Wayne?”
“Yes” I answered.
“Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you called. Let me read it to you.”
The note said, “Tell him there are other worlds to sing in. He’ll know what I mean.”
I thanked her and hung up.
I knew what Sally meant.
Never underestimate the impression you may make on others.
Misunderstood (With Apologies to Eric Burdon)
“I’m just a soul whose intentions are good. Oh Lord please don’t let me be misunderstood.”
That is a line from a song that was popular in the 60’s. It also sums up my thinking.
If you will allow me I’d like to give you my side of the story. I know the papers and television have painted me as a monster, something that should be exterminated at the soonest possible moment. But I did what I did for a very good reason.
It started on that cold day in February two years ago when she walked into my shop. At the time I was a woodworker, a cabinet maker. She was not beautiful, but then again she was not unpleasant to the eye. I can still remember her first words, “Are you Abner Crochet?” Seeing as how that was my name, I answered in the affirmative. My time is limited, they will be coming for me shortly, so I’ll have to leave a much out of my narrative, but the salient facts are as follows.
She said she wanted me to construct an old fashion type wardrobe of maple with cypress shelving. But I ask you, if that is all she wanted why in heaven’s name did she come on to me in such a manner?
What manner was that you may ask. Well, I will tell you.
At our third meeting while I was showing her the plans I had drawn up for her commission, she placed her hand on mine. Yes, I know that does not seem like much, but you did not see the look in her eyes. After that day the relationship grew. She would come by almost daily to check on the progress of the piece, at least that is what she claimed. I knew different, she was falling in love with me as I had fallen in love with her.
Then the day came when my work was done. She was thrilled with the finished product, and over and over again she told me that I was an artist and my work should be in museums. That made me feel good, not because she liked my work: I felt good because she loved me, and I was in love for the first time in my life.
I expected her the next day when the piece was to be picked up. However, I was disappointed. She had sent two workmen in her stead. So I called her, and can you believe it, she pretended that she had not the slightest feelings for me. She said, “I assume you’re calling about the bill. Well, I’ve already sent off the check with a little extra because my fiancé loves it so much. It is to be my wedding present to him.”
What was she talking about? She had not once mentioned a fiancé! She touched my hand for God’s sake! I had to think. I could only mutter a weak thank you, and hung up the phone.
Admittedly, I have not been around women very much. Until she came into my life I don’t think I’d even touched a woman. But I knew she felt towards me as I felt towards her. She placed her hand on top of mine!
“Yes … yes …”
I’m being told I must gather my belongings for the move. But before I do so, I must explain myself. I’ll be brief.
Knowing she loved me as I loved her meant only one thing. She was being forced to marry against her will. And I decided that I would have to intercede on her behalf. That is why I broke into the apartment. I was only going to reason with the man. Tell him of our true, great love.
Then my world, all my hopes and dreams, crumbled before me. When I flicked on the bedroom light … when I flicked on the bedroom light … even now it is hard for me to put into words what I saw. When I flicked on the bedroom light there he was, and there she was. They were lying in the same bed! And neither one of them were decent. It was then that I knew my one true love had betrayed me.
I know I said I went there only to convince my rival that he should bow out of true love’s way, but that does not explain why I brought along the hunting knife. Was I subconsciously planning to do harm to the man? I do not know.
However, it is all academic. When I saw the two—my love and that vile man—intertwined upon the bed, I lost all reason. I did what I had to do to save my love. He just got in the way. I knew she loved me, but now that she was sullied by another, she could never have me. So, the most humane thing I could do was to end her life. I did not want her living a life of regret because she had lost my love. And him? I said he got in the way. He fought, and he fought hard to protect my love, however, it did give me great joy to dispatch him into another world.
So, you see my friends, what I did I did out of love.
They are moving me to the death watch cell now. Soon I will have my hair shaved and the gel placed thereon, for good conductivity you know. Then I’ll get my allotted 50,000 volts. I am happy as I write these words, my true love and I will be together in a very short while.
“I’m just a soul whose intentions where good. Oh Lord please don’t let me be misunderstood.”
A Little Bit of Me Died
My momma was the most loving person that I ever knew. My momma deserved better than me.
My name is Jimmy, but my momma always called me James, and I’m here to tell you of her.
The first time I ever saw her cry was when John F. was killed. John F. as in John F. Kennedy.
I could go on and on about my momma. But I will tell you one thing about her that will sum up her life. And to a certain extent . . . my life . . . thanks to her. And what follows is 100% true.
We lived in the South, in an all-white neighborhood. The year was 1968. Then the unthinkable happened. A black family moved in across the street.
The “For Sale” signs appeared immediately up and down the block.
My momma was beset with rheumatoid arthritis. She was bed-ridden and in a lot of pain.
When my momma heard about the family moving into our all-white neighborhood, she got out of bed and baked a cake . . . from scratch. She was in so much pain. I begged her to go back to bed, but she would not.
When the cake was iced, she instructed my eighteen-old self to carry it across the street and welcome our new neighbors to our slice of heaven. She would have gone herself, but baking the cake had taken everything she had.
Shortly thereafter, my momma died.
A little bit of me also died then. But she lives on in me when I show love for my fellow man, regardless of their color.
God bless you, Momma.
A Conversation with Jesus
I was hanging out the other night at the Tiki Hut, minding my own business, when a voice behind me said, “Hey man, what’s up?”
I should first explain that the Tiki Hut is an edifice here at the marina where I live. The denizens of the marina congregate there on occasion to commune with one another. I, on the other hand, avoid it like the plague. It’s not that I don’t like people, it’s just that I don’t like being around people, but that evening I had the place to myself.
I turned around, and standing there was this dude I had never seen before, although he did look kind of familiar.
“Hello,” I said in response. I was a little perturbed at having my solitude interrupted, but decided not to be rude. “Are you new here?” I asked in a friendly manner.
“Somewhat.”
I mentally shrugged. I didn’t care one way or the other, I was being polite. Well, I had done my part and started to head back to my boat. I had a six-pack of cold beers waiting for me and I thought it about time I paid it some attention.
“Want a beer?”
It was the dude. He was holding a plastic grocery bag that I had not noticed before. It definitely had the outline of a six-pack in it. Figuring the guy might be lonely and thinking I might as well do my Christian duty, I said, “Sure, why not?” I would have a beer and we’d shoot the shit and then I’d get the hell out of there. I reckoned I could put up with him for the time it would take to drink one beer.
He reached into the bag and came out with two bottles of my favorite beer. Things were looking up. He did the honors of popping the caps and we both took a long pull of that cold, good-tasting beverage.
“So,” I said, “you moving in?”
“I’m thinking about it. I wanted to get a feel for the place first. Do you like living here?”
“It’s okay. As long as you pay your rent on time they leave you alone.”
I’ll not bore you with the rest of the mundane conversation. That first beer led to a second and then a third. I was starting to warm up to the guy by the fourth. Then it dawned on me. We both had had four beers, but we started out with only a six-pack. When I mentioned that fact, I was told, “No, you must be mistaken. There were two in the bag.”
Another mental shrug on my part.
As I popped the cap on my fifth beer, he asked me, “So, what do you think of the state the world is in?”
If I had been asked that question on the first or second or even the third beer, I would have bolted. I don’t get into conversations like that. Truth be known, I generally don’t get into conversations at all. I live alone and I like it that way. I don’t have to please anyone and I sure as hell don’t have to answer stupid questions. But . . . I was on my fifth beer and the guy was buying. So, what the hell?
“It depends on what world you are talking about. My little world is doing just fine. I eat every day. And when it rains, I’m dry. What more could a man ask for?”
He nodded, but said nothing. So fueled by Guinness Stout, I went on.
“Now, if you’re asking about the world in general, I would have to say that for the majority of the people in it, the place is a shit-hole. Wouldn’t you say so?”
“I would say that the vast majority of the people on this planet are living the lives that they want to live.”
Now the guy was pissing me off. Being of Irish descent and having four and a half Guinnesses in me got me on my soap box.
“Do you believe in God?” I asked with a drunken sneer.
“I have heard of Him, but I don’t know if I believe in Him.”
“Well, if God is real how can he let the suffering go on? How can he allow a baby to get cancer? How can the son-of-a-bitch let the world get into the mess that it is in today?”
“Good questions, my friend. Very good questions.”
“Don’t patronize me, and hand me another goddamn beer.” I was in rare form.
When I had been placated with my sixth beer (who’s counting?), my new-found friend went on.
“Many people feel as you do. They use the same argument. ‘If there is a God, how can He allow the suffering?’ I think the answer is that there is no God. There is only the Oneness. There is only us. Perhaps we are God. And if we are God, how could we allow ourselves to suffer?”
That was it for me. Free beer or not, I was out of there. The guy was crazy. But first I would finish my beer . . . just to be polite.
Then he went on.
“It’s a shame that we don’t believe in reincarnation because that would explain many things. If reincarnation was for real that would mean souls exist before birth. It might even mean that we choose our lives. That life is not a crap shoot.”
I was thinking, “You’re a crap shoot!”
“Do you know that physicists have proven, mathematically at least, that there is no such thing as time and that we are living in a hologram? And if so, then what does anything matter? Look at it this way. We live in a dimension known as time-space. You cannot have one without the other. You cannot have time without space and you cannot have space without time. Right?”
“If you say so. How about another beer?” We were now into the third six-pack that wasn’t there. But what the fuck?
“Think of it this way. Time-space is a manifestation of the physical plane. Off the physical plane, there is no time-space by definition. Correct?”
“Please stop asking me to confirm what you are saying. I’ll admit it makes sense . . . so far. So, I’ll sit here and listen to you as long as that magic bag keeps popping out Guinnesses.”
“Okay. Now visualize this. If you were to look into a dimension of time-space from a dimension of non-time-space, meaning a non-physical universe, what would you see?”
“Your momma!”
He smiled at me with such forbearance that I felt ashamed at having made such a flippant remark. And I sobered up instantly. “I’m sorry I said that. Please go on.”
“I take no offense and I assure you, ‘my momma’ takes no offense.”
I pushed my half-finished beer aside and waited. He didn’t seem drunk, yet he had had as many beers as me. He took another deep swallow of his Guinness and continued.
“What you would see is all time happening at once. That is what you would see. Now, here’s my point. If all time happens at once and we are living in a hologram—a false reality if you will. And if we pre-exist before we are born, and if we know the lives we are going to live, and if there is no time, which means the duration of our lives are as one-millionth of the time it takes to blink an eye, then how are we harmed?”
A good question to which I had no answer. But I had to ask, “Who the hell are you?”
“I’ve been known by many names over many lives. My time on the time-space plane is over. I just come to visit once in a while because that’s what I do. I am a teacher. Sometimes to the multitudes, sometimes to just one lonely man thinking of drinking a beer. In my last incarnation, I was known as Jesus Bar Joseph, or Jesus, Son of Joseph. In parting, let me say this. There is no God. There is only the Oneness and we are all fragments of that Oneness, playing out our existence. Working our way back to the Oneness where we will be reunited. There is no hell and there is no heaven. There is no loss, there is only us. Peace be with you, my friend.”
Then he glowed with such brilliance, and the brilliance was filled with love. So much love that I cried.
Then he was gone. He had disappeared into thin air right in front of me!
Now I sit here pondering his words. If we are all One, then hiding from my neighbors might not be such a smart thing. I think I’ll invite that nice young couple who live a few boats over for a Sunday brunch. If I can make it through that, perhaps I’ll visit the Tiki Hut a little more often. You never know who you might meet there.
http://andrewjoyce76.com
