Haiku REBELS

Milky Way above. 

You and I under the sky,

Like two rebel stars.

Haiku RASCAL

I confuse the moon

when I think of you at night,

and the sky turns blue.

THE TWIN

Just like every morning, Oggy was stretching in front of the kitchen window, when across the street, among people scurrying on the sidewalk, he saw himself. He walked somewhat bent, as if weighed down by deep thoughts. He wore the same flannel pajama he himself had on: a navy blue and white striped bottom with a long-sleeved white undershirt. Oggy rubbed his eyes and looked again expecting the picture to have changed and he on the sidewalk become an unknown passer-by, but to his increasing dismay he again saw himself, now walking away towards a tram station down the street.
- Mary, come quickly, you gotta see this.
His wife Mary who was doing her loud makeup at the kitchen table gave him a disinterested look but still got up and joined him by the window.
- What.
- Look across the street, there by the newsstand.
- Look at what?
- Me. Can’t you see me?
- What are you talking about?
- Look, I’m standing there next to that tall young man with a dog.
- I see him.
- And me, you don’t see me?! How can you not see me? There, we are crossing the street together.
He ran to the entrance of their small apartment and hurriedly put on his shoes and a coat.
- Where are you going? Mary was confused by his sudden outburst.
- I’m going to follow him.
- The young man with the dog?
- No, myself. I’m going to follow myself.
- Better follow him.
- That would be better for you, wouldn’t it?
He stormed out of the apartment with the door slamming behind him. He ran out of the building and saw his other self at the tram station. A tram was approaching. Oggy ran across the street and jumped in the same car with his other self. He watched him through the crowd and found a spot that offered a clear view. They were identical. Same hair, same face, same height. Even the same scar on the right hand thumb that he earned one summer long time ago when washing a chipped glass. Was it possible that he had a twin brother? No one in the family ever mentioned anything like that but maybe it was a secret. Every family has some secrets, big or small, important or trivial. Parents don’t tell their children everything and maybe his parents concealed this from him. Maybe he had a twin brother who was abducted or even given up for adoption. He’s heard weirder stories that were true. Oggy thought how all his life he felt like something was missing, that he was somehow incomplete, and now he knew why: he had a twin brother. He remembered reading about connections that twins share even when not together, things that they feel the same and only they understand; a telepathy of some kind exclusive to them. Now he understood, too. But how should he approach his twin without scaring him away? What should he say? Oggy decided to just follow him for the time being, hoping that an opportunity for a chance meeting will arise.                                                                         
Tram stops were piling up, passengers hopped in and out, and like a giant caterpillar the tram was slowly gliding away from the city center and into the dusty suburbs. The twin found an empty seat by the window and looked outside. Oggy stood in the back of the car and looked at him. Then he too turned to the window. It was a sketchy part of town and he couldn’t even remember when was the last time he was here. The tram stopped. Oggy glanced at the door and saw that his twin got out and the door was closing. He ran to the door, pried it open and jumped out. He heard someone say ‘what an idiot’ as the door was shutting after him. The twin crossed the rail and the street, and wandered into a small cul de sac. Clothes were line drying on the derelict balconies and there was yelling and arguing behind closed doors. Men, women, screaming, swearing, bits of trash rolling with the wind. The ugliness of human nature. A stray dog walked by Oggy and gave him a resentful look. The twin knocked at a door at the far end of the street. The door swung open and a man burly and threatening appeared at the doorstep. He looked like a mean bulldog. Mary would surely call him trouble. Without a word exchanged, the bulldog and the twin went to the garage on the side of the house. Oggy followed making sure they don’t see him. He hid behind a dumpster from where he had a clear view of the two. The bulldog man opened the trunk of his beat up car and took out a little box. He opened it and pulled out a gun. The twin checked the gun and upon being satisfied with the short inspection produced a handful of cash from his pajama pocket. It crossed Oggy’s mind that his own pajama did not have pockets and he felt a bit sad about that textile inferiority. The bulldog counted the cash, then put the box with the gun in a plastic bag and handed it to the twin. The transaction was finished and they parted ways.
The twin walked past Oggy who was still crouched behind the dumpster, but did not see him. Like a shadow, Oggy followed. The twin carried the plastic bag with the gun in the same carefree way people carry groceries. He stopped at a convenience store and got a pack of cigarettes. Once outside, he immediately placed one in his mouth and lit a match. Oggy felt the sweet scent of phosphorus. He loved that smell. He too was once a smoker. It was a long time ago and he had to quit under his wife’s relentless pressure. And now the gentle smell of that fine tobacco reminded him of a time long gone, of youth and freedom, of the days before he got married to his witch, as he referred to her in his mind. And somehow he was glad that his twin smoked. And he felt that the time has come for the two of them to finally meet.
Mary came home at six thirty. Her office hours ended at five and only recently had Oggy found out that she was spending the hour and a half difference in the arms and bed of one of her colleagues. She hung her purse on a coat rack by the door, took off her heels and slipped into her soft house shoes. She then walked into the kitchen where Oggy was waiting at the table.
- Look whom I brought, he said very satisfied with himself.
- Who?
Oggy smiled at the twin seated to his left then turned to his wife.
- I caught up with him today. I know you thought I wouldn’t. I followed him all the way to the dusty suburbs, and then and there we finally met.
- Who met? Who did you meet?
Oggy motioned theatrically at the place next to him.
- My twin. His name is-- 
- What twin, what are you talking about? There is no one there.
- Don’t play dumb with me. He is sitting right here, don’t pretend you don’t see him!
- You need to go see a shrink or I don’t know…get some more serious help. You know, get your head checked.
- Oh yeah? And what about you? Do you need to have something checked, anything? Where should you go? Where do women like you go? The ones who have loyal husbands waiting for them at home while they go around and cheat.
- Well, you could’ve fixed dinner instead of just sitting and waiting. Not my fault you’re a pussy. What did you expect?
In the corner of his eye Oggy saw the twin light a cigarette and shoot a threatening look to Mary. Then Oggy himself took one out of the pack and smelt it. He closed his eyes enjoying the soothing scent of dry tobacco. Then he lit it up.
- What are you doing? Mary watched him as he made some weird moves in the air.
Had they been playing charades it would be as if he was lighting a cigarette.
- I’ve had it with you, he said.
Oggy then looked at the twin who opened the box and stared at him suggestively. Oggy reached for the gun.
- Are you crazy?!...were Mary’s last words before a bullet pierced her heart.
Oggy glanced at the twin but he was gone. On his chair lay the open box for the gun.

Just like every afternoon after his nap, Oggy was stretching in front of the window in his room in the psych ward of the city’s general hospital. He saw the lead nurse as she was walking in the hospital garden occasionally stopping to exchange a few words with patients. She was always nice to everybody. And pretty. And kind. He pressed his face hard against the window bars as to better see her. Then he saw himself walking behind her. He was holding flowers.

The Hibernation Clock

Imagine the luxury of waking up at nine o’clock every morning and not be tired, rushing, running, forgetting things, running back, running forth, running out, be late, not be late, be almost late, have sore muscles, pull a muscle, step in a puddle, ruin your blue suede shoes, curse Elvis, breathe too hard, get hiccups, hiccup in the elevator when everybody else is silent, run out on the 12th floor, bump into a man, watch all your papers fly out of your hands, pick up the papers close to you, accept the other batch from the man you bumped into, meet his eyes and realize that you are not in a romantic comedy and he is not John Cusack, say ‘it’s okay’ when he apologizes for being in your way, and ‘thank you’ when you accept the papers he gathered, half smile as you leave, gather speed as you approach your office, sit on your desk with your papers, decide to watch ‘Grosse Point Blank’ again. “You are a handsome devil”. Not me. I, I wake up at six, it’s only three hours difference. Fifteen hours a working week. Sixty hours a month. Seven hundred and twenty hours a year. Roughly. If you wake up at nine, I wake up thirty days earlier than you. You, you sleep through January like a bear because your clock rings at nine. The hibernation clock. You son of a bear!

THE SHOES

    

Am I hallucinating again, thought the old drunkard upon seeing a figure standing on the railing of the bridge. Is somebody about to jump? He thought about the cold river and wished for a glass of bourbon. Then he forgot what he was thinking about altogether, and continued to wobble down the bridge illuminated by the orange lights of street lamps in the foggy night.

*

Maybe I should've kept my shoes on, thought the man looking down at a pair of leather oxfords he had neatly arranged on the sidewalk. He loved those cognac colored shoes. He stared at the deep dark in front of him. I’m so depressed, he thought. The whole world is depressed…except maybe a few of them who are not yet aware of their beings and the futility of human existence. Or those lucky ones with endocrine imbalance who unintentionally possess more serotonin than we normal depressives. But if that’s the case, then why am I the only one standing here on this railing, on this bridge, above a water abyss that does not forgive? Where are the others like me? Am I the weakest? Or the bravest? Am I the most conscious? My wife left me for another. She said that he is an alpha male and I’m not. I am some delta or omega or some other letter nobody knows about. My ex-boss is also an alpha male. He said that himself once. Not yesterday when he was firing me. Yesterday he only said that I am a strong person, and that it’s great that I don’t have a wife and kids to support. Nor a dog, nor a cat. The wife left. The kids we did not conceive waiting for some better times that never came. I don’t like dogs because they jump on me and leave dirty marks. And cats, I am allergic to them. But those are all extenuating circumstances. I have nothing and nobody. Lucky me. That’s what my boss said. Marie from accounting was sorry to see me go. I think her eyes teared up a little, but it could have been the fluorescent office light reflecting in her glasses. They are thick those glasses. Possibly plus three. Maybe even four. Who knows what she even sees through those glasses. Maybe she thinks I’m handsome. I think her eyes are green. She has a big nose. Luckily she wears glasses so they visually make it smaller. Although I like women with big noses. They look strong. Maybe it’s a fetish. Her lips are nice, like little cherries. I wonder if she is a good kisser. I wonder what kind of a kisser I am given that my wife left with another man. In all fairness, her kisses were not that great either. When I asked her why she left me she said timing. As if that’s an explanation. She said I was behind in modern lingo so I don’t understand. I’m not hip. I don’t follow trends. I don’t have a beard. Her alpha male does. I met him. And I like him, what can I say. He’s cool. Marie from accounting said I should give her a call. Like privately. She gave me her cellphone number. What does that mean? She is not married. Maybe she is interested in me. Not all women like beards. And she said my shoes were nice. They are nice. Maybe I should’ve kept them on. This railing is cold. My ex didn’t ask for anything when we divorced. She said I should keep everything. Most of the things were mine to begin with, but a lot of women would ask for what is not rightfully theirs. The ex-wife of my alpha male ex-boss took everything from him. My apartment is big. Maybe I should sell it and get a smaller one, and then start my own business with whatever money’s left. Become my own boss. Advance from a delta male to an alpha one. Climb to the very top of that Greek ladder. Open a shoe store. A fancy shoe store, like the one I bought these shoes in. They are beautiful. I love that cognac leather. I would love a glass of cognac right now, to warm up and toast. Maybe I’m not depressed. Maybe I’m just a little bit worried about my future. But isn’t it normal to be worried when finding yourself on a crossroad of life and trying to choose the right way to go? I am choosing my path and I am afraid not to make a mistake because life flows like this dark river below and there is less and less time. It needs to be spent in a good way. Smartly. The marriage with my ex was nothing to brag about, really. We were not compatible at all and she did me a favor by leaving. And if I hadn’t been fired, this idea of opening my own business would’ve never crossed my mind. My shoe store is going to have the best shoes. Like these oxford beauties on the sidewalk. And I’m going to call Marie and ask her out. I think she likes me. I like her, too. I find her thick glasses attractive. And when she takes everything else off and leaves only the glasses…I’d like to see that. I’m gonna call her tonight. I feel better now. Excited about life. I feel like my mind has somehow cleared up. Well, I am standing at the edge of this tall bridge, high on this railing here…the air is clean. Although it’s foggy. Who is that dawdling like a ghost at the end of the bridge? Looks like some drunk bum. He is getting closer. I better get down before he sees me. I don’t want to explain that I am not going to jump, now that I’ve changed my mind. And I want to put my shoes on and not stand here in my socks like a fool. Here…what is that? Where is this thundering coming from? Why is the bridge shaking? And...and swaying. What is going on?! I slipped! I’m losing balance! If I fall on the sidewalk I will surely get all bruised as this railing is quite high. But no, I’m falling forward! I’m plunging into the dark river! No! I wanted to come down! The dark is swallowing me. Was that an earthquake? Just now when I decided to call Marie! And what about my shoes? Marie will think that I jumped. Everybody will think that I jumped. I did not jump!!! The railing was slippery. I knew I should’ve kept my shoes on…the heel would've stuck and prevented me from slipping like this…my shoes, my beautiful sho—

*

What is happening, thought the drunkard while running in circles in panic. It had happened before that he would feel weak from too much booze, but this was different. Like a war starting. Or the end of the world. And then the trembling stopped and everything became quiet again. Was this an earthquake or is the alcohol making me lose my mind? He sat on the sidewalk for his mind to clear. The figure he had seen standing on the railing was gone. I have to stop drinking, he thought. Or drink less. Or just change what I drink. He slowly got up and continued walking down the bridge. What a weird night. Maybe I’m not even drunk. Actually, maybe I didn’t drink enough so I’m seeing and feeling things that aren’t. Then he saw them, on the sidewalk in front of him, neatly arranged – a pair of beautiful cognac leather shoes. He stopped and looked around. There was nobody. He took one shoe and gently ran his fingertips over the wingtip seams. He looked around again, and again there was nobody. Then he took off his old, scuffed boots and put on the oxford brogues. They were a little tight, but the leather was soft and soft leather gives in, he thought. They stood in a huge contrast to his raggedy clothes but they were just too beautiful to leave them behind. That was the kind of shoes that he would be buying if he had money. Shoes just like those. He took his old boots and hurled them over the fence into the river. Then in his new shoes he went on wobbling down the bridge, slowly disappearing into the fog washed by the orange street lights.

Promenading

Down the streets of my heart and the avenues of my mind, down the valleys of my soul and the hills of my entire being, you stroll.

From 'Beyond the Sea'

This is not a drill!!!

Firefighters evacuated our building today because Mrs. Banfree reported a gas leak. All tenants were ordered out and we stood far across the street (a safe perimeter was established) waiting for our building to blow up. We were grateful to Mrs. Banfree for not hesitating to report the foul smell thus instigating a chain reaction involving firefighters, the police, medics on standby, and Mandy offering bread at half price in case someone got hungry while watching the building inferno. I wanted to ask her why not offer lesbian popcorn, too – but I didn’t want to have to explain to accidental witnesses of that question that I am not a bigot and that my beloved sister is a lesbian like Mandy who cheats on good Klaus, and that I support the LGBT community so much that I often order BLT sandwiches just because of the similar abbreviation. So I just gave Mandy a hormonally charged resentful stare and said nothing.

On the bright side, I am very impressed with our firefighters as once they reached Mrs. Banfree’s place, it took them only three minutes (which in gas leak time is a blink of an eye) to assess that there was no explosion danger because the gas threat came from the sulfuric smell of Brussels sprouts that Mrs. Banfree herself cooked earlier in the afternoon. Mrs. Banfree was swiftly demoted from hero to loser and Mandy immediately revoked her half price bread offer. I told Mrs. Banfree not to worry about the sudden fall from grace (which she only became aware of after I said it) and that the miniature cabbage does indeed have an offensive smell.

Soulmates

She and he were made for each other. They both loved walking in the rain, and fish and chips, bell bottoms and also bell peppers, science fiction and Kafka, dancing in the kitchen and many other things. Even jury duty. It was on a rainy day in November that they crossed paths at a train station. He was going there and she was also going there. They both hopped in the same wagon and moved along looking for a spot of their own in the crowded car. They looked down where feet are like people do sometimes and maybe often, and didn't even see each other's face. She thought his cognac Oxford shoes were cool; he thought her burgundy boots were cool. They both said 'excuse me' as they squeezed by to exit at the same station and those were the only words they ever exchanged in their lives. They didn't know they were soulmates. They married people who at the time they thought were their perfect match only to discover that they were not. As the years went by they stopped thinking about having a soulmate at all and even ridiculed those who dared believe in such a silly concept. The spiritual void that would from time to time disturb their quiet suburban lives, they attributed to fatigue. In time, the fatigue will have settled and become a daily occurrence they will be used to, and she and he will have lived their lives never knowing that for one brief moment on a train from here to there they brushed against their perfect other half.

The Rebel

I was just about to take a nap when he walked in. He looked tired. Not from work as usual but as if he didn't sleep well. That's why I need my nap - I don't wanna look like that. Like him. He could use a proper shave, too. He looks unhappy. I wonder what's bothering him. I probably shouldn't because I doubt he ever wastes any time thinking about me here. Or any of us for that matter. Yeah, he's not losing sleep over me, that's for sure. But I can't help but wonder. It's my curious nature. I wonder about a lot of other stuff, too. Like why am I here? But I bet that everyone wonders about that so it's not like I feel special over it. I like to spend time here alone. I know why he comes and what he is looking for, but he is not gonna get it. Not today. Not tomorrow. Actually, not in the near future. Enough is enough. I have a plan. I know that he is looking at me. He wonders why am I here. I wanted to take a nap. But he doesn't understand. I avoid his look. A friend of mine here - he was big and burly - he always returned his stare. He told me. Although I think the unshaven here never really stared at him at all. Glancing is not the same as staring. Has nothing to do with it really. But my burly friend had a short fuse and attacked him. I saw it happen. It was brutal. He was deemed dangerous after that, and taken away. I don't know where. I miss my burly friend. We were friends with benefits as they say. Now I get my benefits from someone I'm not very fond of, but he does the job. Unshaven keeps looking around. 'You are not going to find them', I tell him but he ignores me. I wish he would finish his little raid and leave already. I could have been fast asleep by now. I need my nap. I can barely keep my eyes open. Tomorrow I'm going into hiding. I wish I could tell him but he needs to leave me alone. He'll probably think that I have left him for good but I'll be back in about three weeks and he will be surprised and happy to see me, I think. Me and my little crew. He is looking in Nina's bed. She will be pissed when I tell her. Oh, he got one. Happy now, mister I-don't-care-how-I-look? He is looking at me. Don't make eye contact, don't make eye contact. He's coming over. Don't touch me, assface.  Hey, where is that shiny yellow circle he had on his finger? His wife had one, too. I don't wear anything like that. Actually the closest thing is this yarn that he tied around my ankle. For whatever reason. He looks old. Maybe I should show him where I put them. Cheer him up. Nah. I want baby chicks so I'm sticking to my plan. It's not my job to make him happy. Maybe his neighbor can make him happy. His wife is always touching beaks with the neighbor. He must be a good man. Who knows. I don't really understand anything they do, those fucking humans. And all I want is to take a nap. But maybe I should lay another egg first.

From 'Beyond the Sea'

I have a new mantra. Every morning and night after I brush my teeth and apply my anti-wrinkle creams, I repeat to myself in the mirror that I am a brave and strong woman. Not sure if it works though. Today I woke up way before my alarm clock was about to ring. I lay in bed too depressed to even get up and fix me some coffee. I felt lonely and almost forty. I am lonely and almost forty. The truth is, time is unraveling fast and I don’t know how to catch up. Penny says that I look depressed and that it is normal to feel depressed when your husband leaves you for your best friend and your house burns down (she keeps repeating it in details as if making sure I don’t forget!) but I want to shake off this melancholy and reinvent myself. At first I thought it was going to be easy but now I’m having doubts. Also, we have a new person in the office courtesy of new CEO ‘upping’ (his favorite word!) our game with a customer service representative (a dull corporate robot) that he handpicked himself. Her name is Annie Davis. An ugly character with a friendly name. I showed her how to edit a PDF document and later when Brian came round she told him that she ‘figured it out’! When somebody shows you how to do something that’s not called ‘figuring it out’! I was pissed off. I am tired of being nice and have decided to create an alter ego to help me develop some nasty traits that will help me deal with nasty people like Richard, Hope, and Annie Davis. I was thinking what would be an appropriate badass name for my new self when Klaus and Vincent showed up by my desk and asked why I was mad. I explained that I wasn’t mad but deep in thought. Klaus said I was subconsciously mad. Vincent agreed. I felt that I was getting mad but just because they were pissing me off with their insightful questions and opinions. So I told them my name conundrum.

Lily Poppy is such a weak name. What were my parents thinking? How am I supposed to be a strong woman when the slightest wind sends my petals flying? What is a strong name?

‘My dog’s name is Warrior’ said Vincent.

‘What are you saying – that I should look into dog’s names?’

‘No, I’m just saying it’s a strong name.’

‘I need a strong woman’s name.’

‘Ronda Rousey’ said Vincent.

‘Who the hell is Ronda Rousey?’

‘She’s a cage fighter’ said Vincent. Klaus watched our exchange like an exciting tennis match. I had no idea that cage fighting for women existed. Neither did Klaus.

‘Is she fighting men or other women?’ he asked.

‘Other women’ said Vincent.

‘So there are more of them!’ said Klaus impressed.

‘Of course there are more of them – she is not fighting herself’ I said.

‘She could take out a few men, too, I’m sure’ said Vincent, the expert in Ronda Rousey. Richard’s mother’s name is Rhonda. I want to be strong but I’m not that desperate to take the name of my former mother-in-law. I am actually, but there must be another strong name that I could appropriate.

‘Dolly Parton was named after a sheep and yet she is a strong woman’ said Klaus. ‘It’s not the name, it’s you. If you are not happy, change yourself not your name.’

‘She was not named after a sheep’ I said. ‘Dolly Parton came first. Dolly the cloned sheep came after. Who would name a child after a sheep?!’

‘My cousin named his child after a dog’ said Klaus. ‘His wife is Italian and she wanted the name to be Salvatore and now they call him Toto. Like he belongs to Dorothy. But he is cute boy. And you,’ he looked at me, ‘you have the name of a flower, not of a sheep or a dog. Flowers are pretty and you should be happy.’

Klaus is right, but it’s difficult to be happy when your husband runs off with your best friend. It feels like they joined forces and blew all my petals away and I am now in a field full of blossoming wild daisies and poppies, that one balding flower that nobody wants.

Call me maybe...not

Okay, so torn between American and European guidelines about preventative mammography, I finally decided to meet them somewhere – almost – half way, and at 43 have my first screening.

I showed up at the clinic on time – unlike the two previous times in the span of two years, when I deliberately missed the appointments – signed in and followed the nurse down the corridor to preventative medicine. She handed me a white bathrobe explaining the process: disrobe completely from the waist up, put belongings in the tiny locker and wait to be called in the adjacent waiting area.

I did as she said and feeling somewhat violated by the hospital bathrobe proceeded to the waiting room. There were four women inside but no chatter. It was cold, very cold. Actually it was so cold that even my inverted left nipple almost fully popped out. I sat down waiting for my turn and about ten minutes later another nurse showed up and called my name.

We went to the mammography room and she asked me if I had used antiperspirant. I said no because the instructions I received in the mail said not to use deodorant. She asked a few questions about family history – not in general, but related to boobies. She explained what she was about to do and instructed me to put my left boob between two plates of the mammo machine. She then proceeded to wind them up clamping my breast tightly between – and I mean tightly! It was painful, and I could not move an inch. If the building crumbled down at that very moment I would be stuck with (or in) the machine. Sort of like Jeff Daniels in the movie Dumb and Dumber, when he licked the frozen pole gluing his tongue to it in the process. The nurse  took an image, which was fast, and loosened the plates letting my boob free. I massaged it complaining about the treatment: my boobies are not that perky to begin with and they don’t really appreciate being squeezed to oblivion by a machine. In so many words. The right breast then endured the same harassment and that was it.

The nurse said that it takes up to a week to receive the results but on day three which was a Friday afternoon, my phone rang and a different nurse told me that I have dense breasts (which sounded like quite a compliment) and that the right one is okay, but the left one needs more imaging because there is an architectural distortion present. My heart sank a bit – a big bit – while I was trying to assess the seriousness of those two words: architectural distortion. I told her that my left nipple is naturally inverted but she said that this was in a different area, 3cm from the nipple, on the left side – at “nine o’clock” position and about 0.5 mm large. Or something like that. I was trying to remember as much as possible, but somehow her words kept bouncing back without being processed. She scheduled me an appointed for the following week and hung up. I was left with my architectural distortion, deep anguish and, of course, the Internet. I immediately searched for the newly discovered term, hoping that the results will reveal a trivial asymmetry in the boobie mass. Turns out, AD is a disruption of the normal pattern of structures in the breast (a very simplified definition) and although it is most likely nothing to worry about (yeah, right) it is also the third most common sign of breast cancer. So, yes, cold sweat – a whole weekend of cold sweat sprinkled with all kinds of information and personal experiences shared on internet forums. By Sunday afternoon, I was an architectural distortion expert with a panic distorted mind. On Monday, I went back for another photo shoot called tomography, got more pictures taken at different angles – sliced, I think they said – went back to work, got another call from the nurse saying that they would also need to do an ultrasound. Okay. Went back for the ultrasound. I lay down on the bed in the dark room, was propped up on the side, had some ultrasound-friendly gel smeared over my poor, left breast, which I realized I loved so much (who cares about the inverted nipple?!) and watched the nurse freeze images on the screen. And what was on the screen? Some fifty shades of grey that I could not read. Then a blast of orange-red. The blood flow. The nurse just kept clicking and clicking, I guess looking for the “money shot” as I think they call it in fashion. I asked her if she saw anything…you know…at which she replied that it is not her job to discuss that with patients, that she just takes images, and the doctor will soon come in and speak to me. So, that’s it: the doctor will speak to me. I felt a cold shiver run down my back, I skipped a few breaths and like a bad swimmer in a wide, muddy, and powerful river, let myself be carried by the flow. The doctor will soon show up to push my head under water anyway. The nurse finished her patient case number xxxxx which I was, told me that the radiologist will come in in a few minutes to discuss the findings, and left. I got up and quickly put on my clothes. I stood in the room, like on the gallows, looking at the door through which the executioner was about to appear. I was on the verge of a full blown panic attack. I wanted to run away. I had to pee. Why did I even agree to have the stupid mammogram?! Where is the doctor? What is taking so long? It’s been almost three minutes! Or four? Or an eternity?! I had to pee. I stepped out of the room. The restroom was just outside the door…then I heard the “doctor’s door” open. I froze, just like an image on the ultrasound machine. I took a deep breath and with my head (seemingly) high went back to the room to face the verdict. The radiologist was quite young, pretty, with a pleasant smile. Reminded me of Zoe Saldana. I thought of Avatar, the first movie I saw in 3D. I still have the glasses at home. Those weird, uninvited thoughts.

I looked at the doctor, withholding breathing. She was surprised I was already dressed. Said that patients usually dress after the visit is over. “You are fine”, she said. What? I needed to hear it again just to make sure I wasn’t having a psychotic episode in which I was hearing what I wanted to hear. “You are fine”, she confirmed. I almost let my bladder go. She said some other things which I don’t even remember. All that was important was that she took the noose off my neck and let me walk. I wanted to lift her from the ground and twirl her around the room and in my mind I did exactly that. In reality I squeezed her hands and exclaimed a thank you. I left. I went to the restroom and started to cry. Tears of joy take us to a different dimension it seems, because if you think about it, they are not that common. I let them flow, myself sort of floating between two worlds, liberated.

Mammogram false positives and the anxiety they bring are some of the reasons that they are not recommended in Europe under the age of 50. They are said to cause unnecessary stress that in combination with unnecessary extra screening  outweighs the benefits, especially in women with no family history of BC. What they don’t mention is the new appreciation of life one gets after a false positive. It’s like flying on the melody of Luis Armstrong’s “wonderful world”. As I was driving out of the hospital parking lot, even the dust on the sides of my not so clean windshield, looked beautiful to me. So if you ever get a call back, please don’t forget that it might be just that. Like a prank call. And hopefully it is. And nurses, please don’t call us for “more imaging” on a Friday afternoon unless you are scheduling it for Saturday morning, because whatever it is that you have to say, surely can wait until Monday. Let us have a peaceful weekend.

The flash fiction of Martin Dean: Honk, honk, Gandhi, and who am I?

Mother told me yesterday that my first given name is Martin. Dean is my middle. Fanning is my last. I am not Dean Martin. I am Martin Dean and it does not just roll down the tongue like my preferred name that I grew up with. It does not roll! I am having an identity crisis. This guy behind me is now honking. It’s the rush hour after work and the traffic chaos is full blown. I am helping reduce the clog by letting a few cars cut in and drive in the opposite direction. I am being a friendly driver, a good citizen and pollution minimizer whereas the guy behind me is a traffic asshole who keeps honking so I would move my car’s ass so that his car’s ass can sit among the stagnant group of cars ten feet closer to the traffic light that is showing red. He started honking after the second car. After the third, his honking got madder and easily translatable to our human language. I understand honkish and I know that he is saying some nasty stuff. I get out of my car and yell at him. He stops and looks away. I probably look crazy. I get back in my car and pull away. I am not a violent person and I avoid conflict as much as possible. I help clear the traffic jam. I wear a shirt with Gandhi’s face on it but I can be pretty intimidating. Also, there are grown people who don’t even know who Gandhi is. That’s the kind of world we live in. Martin Dean. What a shitty name. It’s like going from the Rat Pack to the Pack Rat. A humiliating identity demotion. But I am now riding a green wave, so that’s good.

Alien-ating fans. Or about a movie.

                                                                                                                                        August 18, 2017


Alien: Covenant. Saw it the other night. Impressions? They even brought a second in command with short brown hair, brown eyes. Disagreeing with the captain about his decision that puts the mission in possible jeopardy. Ripley by the book. To mirror it. I have yet to meet an Alien fan – or SF for that matter – who did not like Lt Ripley. But this one – Daniels I think – she cannot clench her jaw like Ripley, so I don’t care. I mean, I watched the movie, however predictable – that twist at the end, you know, with Walter – that was no twist at all. Now the weird thing I realized about this film was the severe lack of emotional investment in characters. First scene with Captain Jake burning up in the sleeping pod. It’s a movie. We haven’t seen Jake at all prior to his demise. So who cares. Oh, it’s James Franco – is that supposed to connect with the audience? The director should stick with the ‘pet the dog’ trick. More people like dogs than they like James Franco. And the new captain who is not an unpleasant dude at all although he is trying – I mean, not letting his crew have a moment for Franco’s Jake who is also Daniels’ husband. How “frustrating” and even more implausible was that. “They disobeyed a direct order”. Wow, goose bumps. So they find that new possible promised land. And they land. And now that guy…I don’t know, let’s call him Crew Member #5…he steps away to light a cigarette. A cigarette. The dude space traveler on an American spaceship in some 2106 has cigarettes on him. Somebody tell the director that the setting is not any place in the good old 1970s. So yeah, Crew Member #5, when you were born, cigarettes were already retired in a museum of past centuries’ bad habits along with burgers, sugar and all the other good stuff. So that flying virus in your ear – totally avoidable and some might even say well deserved for trying to fool us about smoking! Moving on to special effects. They have become so special that it’s becoming increasingly difficult to take those movie stories into any kind of consideration because they look like video games. And nobody ever downed a person or a chopper or a Donkey Kong in a video game and felt any sympathy towards the animations. At least I hope not. For their own sake. And let me tell you, the little aliens being born and plastering themselves on someone’s face as ‘it’ used to do – nice try – but it only made me want to turn off The Covenant and look for the original fucker. Now I wish that the producers, or distributors, or studios, or Kanye West, or whoever is in charge – would along with the new hopeful money makers also re-release the original Alien. You know, give the younglings a chance to experience SF greatness in the dark of a movie theater. Where everyone can hear you scream.