THE MAN WHO INVENTED THE STICKY POO DOLL, AND OTHER THINGS by John ANDREW DURLER Sr. (heaven official's blessing novel english .TXT) π
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We both sobbed and clutched one another. We kissed again, our faces wet with tears. A long, kiss moving our hands all over each other. I opened my eyes. Marty's brown eyes stared into mine, smoldering.
The next morning, the car was loaded up, behind it a pick-up truck with dilapidated furniture on it, and that was the last I saw of Marty for years. We wrote and kept in touch, talked on the phone, but not a lot, living in different parts of the country.
He was upstate for a while, then in the Carolinas, then Florida.
We never really got together. I was always busy, and so was he, but we kept in touch.
The passion slowly quieted down. I guess we put in on hold, or buried it, too hard to carry around. Every time he or I would get a new job or promotion, or on holidays, I'd call, or he would.
He won a needle point championship for small tapestries and country scenes. He started a business selling what he made, but had to charge too much to be very profitable.
He applied for a clerk's position in a small prison Just outside New Jersey. Six months later doing more than others, he got promoted to become the warden's assistant. The warden had a heart attack shortly after his training.
"Because bureaucracy is incompetent." He chuckled. "I am appointed warden." Realizing he knew little about running a prison, he read every book he could find on the subject. Before long, he was so organized, his secretary and assistant did most of the work. With a lot of spare time on his hands, he began to take an interest in the prisoners. He asked them about their lives, treated them with kindness, and offered them advice on a multitude of things including how to stay out of prison.
The next morning, the car was loaded up, behind it a pick-up truck with dilapidated furniture on it, and that was the last I saw of Marty for years. We wrote and kept in touch, talked on the phone, but not a lot, living in different parts of the country.
He was upstate for a while, then in the Carolinas, then Florida.
We never really got together. I was always busy, and so was he, but we kept in touch.
The passion slowly quieted down. I guess we put in on hold, or buried it, too hard to carry around. Every time he or I would get a new job or promotion, or on holidays, I'd call, or he would.
He won a needle point championship for small tapestries and country scenes. He started a business selling what he made, but had to charge too much to be very profitable.
He applied for a clerk's position in a small prison Just outside New Jersey. Six months later doing more than others, he got promoted to become the warden's assistant. The warden had a heart attack shortly after his training.
"Because bureaucracy is incompetent." He chuckled. "I am appointed warden." Realizing he knew little about running a prison, he read every book he could find on the subject. Before long, he was so organized, his secretary and assistant did most of the work. With a lot of spare time on his hands, he began to take an interest in the prisoners. He asked them about their lives, treated them with kindness, and offered them advice on a multitude of things including how to stay out of prison.
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I burned.
I said. "Iβll give it another shot after I finish the pack I have in my pocket, and the carton I have in my luggage."
They both smiled knowingly. We got high, silly, sang old songs and pretty soon the conversation drifted to poetry and writing.
Marty said, "I canβt wait for the millennium. I want to see all the shit the editors and educators come out with. The big, six syllable words on sterile pages so I can puke.β
βWhy do you think thatβs the way itβs going?β I asked. βThereβs a lot of good writers out there, fresh language, green language.β
βThey wonβt get any grants.β Marty said. βThey wonβt be published in the slicks.
They will read and write the finest, most shining texts, and will lead the young poets, who will follow in their footsteps. They will die trying to write the great poem.
"The world will revere Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, William Carlos Williams, Pablo Neruda, etc., etc. Literature will Make icons of Danielle Steel and Stephen King. The formula will be the only way to publication.
Editors and Publishers do not take chances. Judy Bloom can write anything, anything, and thousands of stories better than hers will never see print. The world is a testing ground where intellect and ignorance clash. Humanity can never see itself and if it did it would die in its own denial.β
βMarty,β I said, βyou really have a hard on for Publishers and editors. Iβm a publisher and editor.β
βYes, but do not control the publication. You publish and edit what is already selected.β
βThatβs true, Marty. No one ever published anything of mine except some poems, one in a prestigious quarterly. I published my books myself.β
βOK, you bastards,β Lisa said, feeling neglected. βCut the bullshit depressing me to death with millennium portends of demised poets and writers and letβs get to goddamn doing something enjoyable and uplifting to joyous and revolutionary to change the fucking world you donβt fucking like.β
Her eyes blazed. Her hair, I swear electrified. She was pissed.
"That's going to take time." I said, "Right now, I'm sweating. Is the water swim-able. Any sharks, moray ells, poisonous starfish, or jellyfish, because it looks so good and beautifully refreshing."
"We can all cool off and relax and do a beach thing afterward, and talk about the state of things." Lisa said.
All agreed. I assumed it was safe in the water. The beach was red and white sandy powder. It did not burn the feet, was warm enough to stand or sit. We three agreed naked was OK, but I still wore a bathing suit, feeling insecure, and found I could look at both without embarrassment or erection. They both jeered me for my shyness, but didnβt pursue it. We swam, played water ball, floated, drifted, built lopsided, ever crumbling castles in the sand, drank lemonade with pineapple juice sparked with Russian Vodka, sunbathed and munched on fruit. Marty said, "Don't go in the water at night. Sharks and poisonous creatures swim in close."
I was getting antsy and wanted to do something with adventure. I said so and they both jumped at it. We sat in the sand and thought and thought, but didnβt come up with anything agreeable to us all. I finally said Iβd turn in and get some sleep.
Marty showed me to a room in the back of their cottage, a huge palm tree growing in the middle. A fairly large hammock was roped to it and to a wooden pole at the other end, which had a towel and bag full of bathroom stuff hanging from it. In the corner was a pool about eight feet round which was fed by a stream that flowed down from the mountain behind the house. I stayed for two weeks, and went back home. Three weeks later, I opened the New York Times and saw their faces. They were smiling, getting on a plane. The six passenger Lear Jet never made it. They never found it, or them. Three days later, I received a postcard, saying they were going to a Poet and Writing Symposium and would be in New York to pick me up to "Give them hell!" I still wonder how they died, or if they died.
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I said. "Iβll give it another shot after I finish the pack I have in my pocket, and the carton I have in my luggage."
They both smiled knowingly. We got high, silly, sang old songs and pretty soon the conversation drifted to poetry and writing.
Marty said, "I canβt wait for the millennium. I want to see all the shit the editors and educators come out with. The big, six syllable words on sterile pages so I can puke.β
βWhy do you think thatβs the way itβs going?β I asked. βThereβs a lot of good writers out there, fresh language, green language.β
βThey wonβt get any grants.β Marty said. βThey wonβt be published in the slicks.
They will read and write the finest, most shining texts, and will lead the young poets, who will follow in their footsteps. They will die trying to write the great poem.
"The world will revere Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, William Carlos Williams, Pablo Neruda, etc., etc. Literature will Make icons of Danielle Steel and Stephen King. The formula will be the only way to publication.
Editors and Publishers do not take chances. Judy Bloom can write anything, anything, and thousands of stories better than hers will never see print. The world is a testing ground where intellect and ignorance clash. Humanity can never see itself and if it did it would die in its own denial.β
βMarty,β I said, βyou really have a hard on for Publishers and editors. Iβm a publisher and editor.β
βYes, but do not control the publication. You publish and edit what is already selected.β
βThatβs true, Marty. No one ever published anything of mine except some poems, one in a prestigious quarterly. I published my books myself.β
βOK, you bastards,β Lisa said, feeling neglected. βCut the bullshit depressing me to death with millennium portends of demised poets and writers and letβs get to goddamn doing something enjoyable and uplifting to joyous and revolutionary to change the fucking world you donβt fucking like.β
Her eyes blazed. Her hair, I swear electrified. She was pissed.
"That's going to take time." I said, "Right now, I'm sweating. Is the water swim-able. Any sharks, moray ells, poisonous starfish, or jellyfish, because it looks so good and beautifully refreshing."
"We can all cool off and relax and do a beach thing afterward, and talk about the state of things." Lisa said.
All agreed. I assumed it was safe in the water. The beach was red and white sandy powder. It did not burn the feet, was warm enough to stand or sit. We three agreed naked was OK, but I still wore a bathing suit, feeling insecure, and found I could look at both without embarrassment or erection. They both jeered me for my shyness, but didnβt pursue it. We swam, played water ball, floated, drifted, built lopsided, ever crumbling castles in the sand, drank lemonade with pineapple juice sparked with Russian Vodka, sunbathed and munched on fruit. Marty said, "Don't go in the water at night. Sharks and poisonous creatures swim in close."
I was getting antsy and wanted to do something with adventure. I said so and they both jumped at it. We sat in the sand and thought and thought, but didnβt come up with anything agreeable to us all. I finally said Iβd turn in and get some sleep.
Marty showed me to a room in the back of their cottage, a huge palm tree growing in the middle. A fairly large hammock was roped to it and to a wooden pole at the other end, which had a towel and bag full of bathroom stuff hanging from it. In the corner was a pool about eight feet round which was fed by a stream that flowed down from the mountain behind the house. I stayed for two weeks, and went back home. Three weeks later, I opened the New York Times and saw their faces. They were smiling, getting on a plane. The six passenger Lear Jet never made it. They never found it, or them. Three days later, I received a postcard, saying they were going to a Poet and Writing Symposium and would be in New York to pick me up to "Give them hell!" I still wonder how they died, or if they died.
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Publication Date: 04-04-2010
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