As we approach that holiest of Pagan holidays, Samhain, once again I’d like to post a story appropriate for the season. This tale is from my recent book of Dark Fantasy short stories, October Dark, titled “Basket Head”, available on Amazon and other platforms. I hope I’m not sticking my neck out by predicting you’ll enjoy this tale.

Somehow I knew they were lying. Or perhaps not so much lies as ignorance. Death- or at least unconsciousness followed quickly by death- would occur as soon as the blade severed the head. The guillotine. Invented as the most humane form of execution! Ha! Humane execution? Who needs a body to savor a delicious oxymoron? I certainly didn’t.

Yes, there was a moment of shock when my head began to fall; another shock when it flopped and rolled inside the basket. But I remained conscious. Ironically, if anything, my senses were heightened. And where was the merciful void of death?

A thought. If indeed our consciousness, identity; our selfness are products of, and contained within our brains, then are we truly beheaded when the blade comes down, or are we more accurately bebodied? Was my head cut off or was it my body that was dissevered? I tend to believe the latter, as our arms, legs and torsos do not think, but are mere conduits to the brain- the mind. Yes, the body is not the temple of the spirit, but a mere platform on which is balanced the true center of our being- our minds- encased within our sculls. But such conjecture is beyond the purview of the ignorant, unwashed rabble who locked my head in that hideous contraption and pulled the lever.

But listen to me! I had been a philosopher most of my life; an advisor within the court of the queen herself, and still, with my head rolling about unceremoniously within a foul smelling basket of wicker, a philosopher I remain!

How long have I been here? I am not privy to clocks, hourglasses or sundials. But I hear. I hear the bellowing shouts and screams of delight from the mob outside. Oh, how vulgar they are! How incapable of critical thinking and objective analysis. If they were, then surely they would have recognized that within the natural order we are superior to them. I do not postulate this out of arrogance or an unreasonable elitism. It is simply the way things are, and have always been. Should not the inferior be subordinate to their betters? Oh such barbarity and chaos there will be if this reign of terror triumphs and they succeed in this preposterous revolution. They will regret- nay, make that rue the day they allowed their rabid impulses to turn upon their benefactors- and benefactresses. Oh my poor, misunderstood Marie. Why, who would not prefer cake over bread? Oh, those wonderful discussions we had over sherry and sweet cakes.

After having said all of that and excoriating the peasants with their lust for rolling heads, credit should go where credit is due. The good Dr. Guillotine, certainly well meaning, after his own fashion, came up with an execution device that was swift and painless. At least physically painless. In days of yore, the pain and agony inflicted upon the executed was by design. Oh such gleeful bliss experienced by the executioner and the howling mob bearing witness to the joyous event. Perhaps going back millennia, as far back as the dawn of society, there were few opportunities for public entertainment, and the bored masses would pilgrimage from distant miles around to partake of the festivities. Ah the ecstasy of witnessing a human being slowly tormented on the breaking wheel, the soul satisfying screams of the executed and the exciting sound of bones being crushed and broken. Why, there were times when the condemned man or woman would survive for days before the Angel Of Death would affect a merciful finale. Impalement was one of the more horrific methods of dispatching the condemned. The prisoner was stripped naked with arms tied behind the back, then placed on an upright sharpened pole, which would pierce the anus, the body succumbing to the unwavering force of gravity, ultimately emerging through the condemned’s mouth. And lest we forget, the burnings at the stake for offenses large, small or fabricated. Ah, the agony of Saint Joan, her faith in her lord unfaltering until the sizzling end. Need I go on? The torments we visit upon each other are infinite in number and prove that within the human soul and psyche, a beast of demonic, twisted evil lurks and lies in wait.

And so bravo, Dr. Guillotine, bravo indeed for the quick coup de grace, perhaps to the disappointment of the rabid mob that yearned for at least a little bit more; a blood curdling scream or a paroxysm at the moment of severance. Must the fun end so soon?

Time. How much time has passed? Could it be that bodies are in fact superfluous, and we can get along nicely without them? So many of us browbeat and self-flagellate over what we believe are gross imperfections of ourselves from the neck down. The obese, the scarred, the age withered – perhaps all of those poor souls would be ecstatic to dispense with bodies that only inspire shame and mockery. Ah, imagine, all of humanity existing without those cumbersome, disease ridden, flatulent bodies. Would it not be a better world? Would we not be a better specie? A specie devoid of pain, except perhaps for the occasional migraine. A specie devoid of hunger, lust, crime and warmongering. A specie of pure sentience and intellect. We would traverse from point A to point B by willing our heads to roll in the preferred direction. Yes, the occasional collision of heads would be unavoidable, but that too could be a blessing of sorts- a meeting of the minds!

Ah, what do I hear from beyond the basket? An increase in the volume of cheering blood lust from the huddled, unwashed masses?

What is that sphere descending upon me from above? A round object shaped like a head. And for good reason. Am I really so arrogant that I expected my own private basket? I now have a basket mate, and undoubtedly there will be others. I pray that among them there will be at least one decent conversationalist. I must be a gracious host and turn my head and welcome the arriver. Sacre bleu! it is the head of Budreau, my political rival who wielded his poison pen like a rapier. And another plummeted down to join us. “Bienvenue mon fre’re, there is much room for us all.” Egads! It is Dubois, who challenged me to a duel for repeatedly cuckolding him. A duel indeed; oh the crude vulgarity of the man. And yet another has tumbled into the basket. It is Degelle, the dim witted sore losing lout who accused me of cheating at cards. Moi? One does not need to cheat to defeat the feebleminded. Ah, have I underestimated the simian rabble who stormed the Bastille? Are they actually clever enough to select basket mates who despise one another?

And yet another head spins down from the guillotine and settles inside the basket. But this one bears an aromatic scent and is divinely coifed. Sacre bleu! Non, non! The head that bounced off the basket’s bottom, that exquisite head, is that of the queen herself! Oh mon ch’eri, my poor Marie! “Speak to me my queen, speak to me!”

“Oh monsieur, if I had it all to do over, I would not be a queen, but a bakester, baking cakes by the thousands- or was it loaves that the peasants craved?”

“Ah, c’est la vie, my adored queen, we may no longer have Paris, but we do have each other-

allbeit in Hell.”

Recently, a strange and lurid meme has gone viral on the internet concerning JD Vance, Donald Trump’s choice as his presidential running mate, and also the author of the best selling memoir “Hillbilly Elegy.” And what was this meme you ask? Surely you know by now. The apocrypha of memes is endless, but this is the kind of wonderfully appealing meme that compelled an agnostic like myself to fall upon my knees and plead, “Oh god- please, please make this one true.”

I’m referring, of course, to the story of JD and the couch. Yes, the couch. As the meme goes, JD relates in his memoir that he, brace yourselves now, had sex with a latex glove shoved between two accommodating couch cushions. Hey, you may say, liberal elitist that you are, no big deal. In Appalachia, it could very well be a time honored custom, especially in regions where there is a dearth of sheep.

When Michelle Obama delivered her masterpiece of oratory at the 2016 Democratic convention, we all knew we were listening to something historic. But not just for its power and elegance. Here’s the pessimistic cynic in me, rearing its ugly head. When she delivered the most famous line in the speech, “When they go low, we go high,”in spite of the jubilant cheers in the convention hall, as the final word tumbled from her palate, I knew we were screwed.

Once again, the Democrats were willing to bring a butter knife to a gun fight. Appealing to the better angels of our nature only provides comic relief to the enemy.

Fast forward eight years. Through an odd alignment of celestial bodies, Kamala Harris is the Democratic nominee for the presidency. Oh how sweet if she were to win. Multi-racial Childless Cat Woman, scratching the wanna be fuhrer to humiliating defeat. And to whom should she give special thanks? The ultimate avuncular Dad Figure, her running mate Tim Walz. Eager to engage his counter- part JD in verbal combat on the debate stage, he threw the gauntlet. “Come on JD, get off the couch and debate me!” Thank you Tim Walz, and a special thanks to the darker angels of our nature. Yes, put away the butter knife. They’re way too ruthless, and their guns are always loaded.

In “Hillbilly Elegy,” JD writes about the poor white people he grew up with. People who have been stereotyped as lazy, quick to violence, alcoholic, opiate addicted and ignorant. His people. I read the book. I was expecting him to launch a robust defense of his people. But, inexplicably, in his book he reinforces the stereotypes. Which, somehow, brings me to Birtherism, a movement which became Trump’s cause celebre a few years before he descended the golden escalator, reluctant wife in tow, to declare his candidacy for the 2016 presidential election. His noble, patriotic impetus? The opening salvo was several years earlier when he spearheaded Birtherism. Barak Obama was not eligible to be a U.S. president because he was not a natural-born U.S. citizen, as required by article II of the constitution. The racist belief that Obama’s Honolulu Hawaii birth certificate was forged. Why, you may ask? Was there a cabal of progressive psychics in 1961 who foresaw that Obama would run for president 47 years later, and his true Kenyan birthplace would be a disqualifier ? Quick- forge a Hawaiian birth certificate, and make it look good! Birth notices were published in two separate Hawaiian newspapers. Friends of his mother remember clearly when he was born- in Hawaii.

But Birthers are difficult to please. Eventually, wanting this distraction laid to rest, the birth certificate was obtained, but the Birthers hollered fake! (an invective that became a mantra by MAGA Nation years later.) But couldn’t all of this be resolved with photographic evidence? Imagine if you will an irate man confronting his neighbor that he was having sex with his wife. The neighbor responds indignantly. “Outrageous- show me your proof!” To which the accuser responds, “Don’t give me that- show me proof you haven’t!” Whereupon the accused produces several photographs of himself not having sex with the accuser’s wife.

And so, president Obama, placate once and for all the endlessly suspicious citizens of Maga Nitwit Nation and show a few clear, unadulterated photos of yourself not being born in Kenya. Are you paying attention, JD? Two or three pics should do it, of you not having sex with a couch. That should get you off the hook and lay this nonsense to rest.

Unless, of course, a certain couch’s jealous hubby has pictures proving otherwise.

Suspension of disbelief is a literary term which in essence means the reader must put logic and critical thinking on hold in order to accept something which is too absurd or unreal to be taken seriously. But, of course, as is increasingly more common, truth is stranger than fiction, and sometimes so much so that even with reality, we must suspend disbelief. Which brings me to the governor of South Dakota, Kristi Noem.

In her recently released memoir “No Going Back: The Truth On What’s Wrong With Politics And How We Move America Forward,” Noem recollects, with nary a hint of regret, remorse or moral ambivalence, the day years ago when she killed a 14-month-old Wire Haired Pointer puppy named Cricket, who, among other offenses, couldn’t cut muster as a pheasant hunting dog.

Noem describes Cricket as having an aggressive personality (not uncommon for dogs bred to hunt). Not a hunter myself (in addition to moral reservations, the image of me decked out in camouflage skulking about in the woods requires an extra effort at suspension of disbelief) I didn’t understand Noem’s rationale for taking Cricket on a pheasant hunt with more mature dogs in order to calm the puppy, as stated in her memoir. For the innocent young pup, it was a romp in the woods as she had, “The time of her life,” excitedly chasing birds and ruining the hunt.

On their way home, Noem made a stop to visit some locals who owned chickens. Cricket, still high from the botched pheasant hunt, jumped out of the truck and made a beeline for the hapless cluckers.

“Like a trained assassin,” writes Noam, “Cricket began grabbing one chicken at a time, crunching it to death with one bite, then dropping it to attack another.” Noam describes Cricket as “The picture of joy” during the attack. After restraining the frisky pup, Noam paid the traumatized family for the value of the chickens, then returned home, apparently in a seething rage. “I hated that dog!” (exclamation point added) Noam recalls, calling Cricket “Less than worthless as a hunting dog, untrainable (did she ever try?) and dangerous to all. At that moment, I realized I had to put her down.” Noam dragged Cricket to a gravel pit, and shot her dead in front of an incredulous construction crew. “It was not a pleasant job, but it had to be done,” she remembers, “And after it was over, I realized another unpleasant job needed to be done.”

Who was next in line? A mean, old “Disgusting, musky rancid goat,” who sometimes chased her children and sullied their clothes. Sorta normal behavior, knowers of goat behavior might opine, but in Noam’s eyes, he needed killing, as Texans like to say. The goat was unceremoniously dragged to the gravel pit. But, perhaps her hand still shaking with rage from the previous unpleasantness, Noam botched her first shot at the hapless goat, and had to run back to her truck for more ammo to finish off the agonized animal.

And what do dog trainers have to say? (Try as I may, I failed to discover any credible literature written by goat trainers.) Among other things, “A 14-month old dog is a baby that doesn’t know any better,” says professional hunting dog trainer Dan Lussen. He further stated, “There’s a lot of steps you take before you take the dog to a field and shoot birds over it, like obedience training.”

And when Noam’s young daughter came home from school that day and asked, “Mommy, where’s Cricket?” I can only conjecture her response. “Oh, sweetie, Cricket’s gone to Puppy Heaven, along with your pet goat to keep her company.”

Ah yes. Suspension of disbelief. Perhaps if instead of Cricket, the puppy had been a three year old dog named Butch, or Spike. But Cricket?

Does anyone remember Joni Ernst, when she successfully ran for senator from Iowa several years ago? Do you remember her blissfully reminiscing about her childhood on the farm where she was assigned the job of castrating the male pigs, a skill that put her in good stead as a future member of the GOP. “Dog gone it, when I’m elected watch out DC. I’m going to cut pork- I know how to make them squeal!” she stated in a tv commercial, or words to that effect. Does my memory fail, or was there a mad dash by senate male Democrats to purchase protective cups from Amazon?

For the sake of brevity and mercy, I will leave out Sarah Palin. Or at least I would if I could but I can’t. When she was governor of Alaska she evened out the eco imbalance by dispatching countless wolves. At least it was from a helicopter, perhaps providing our lupine friends (who have family units more stable than our own) some illusion that they were dropping like flies for somehow offending some thunder god up in the sky, and not from a zealous, lunatic hunter.

Think of how different the Red State women are from our Blue State progressive ladies. Think of their incongruous names – Kristi, Joni, such cute little girl names (lest I forget the adorable name Cricket.) These women scare the bejesus out of me. But how many badass psycho women do we have? Try to imagine Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez wrestling down a hog and rendering him a falsetto on the porcine quire, or Gretchen Whitmer running amok, filling the gravel pit with puppies, goats and god only knows what other wiggly, squealing innocent creatures. Yes, the good women folk in South Dakota, Iowa and Alaska, those self-reliant, rough and ready Red States, may indeed have inherently different sensibilities from our Blue State ladies. Is it a biblical thing, something about dominion over the animals, taken to a psychotic degree?

Kristi Noam made no secrets about wanting to be Trump’s running mate, and appeared to be the favorite. The pundits now say, due to her book, she has self-immolated, and doesn’t stand a chance.

I think of the terror in the eyes of little Cricket, and the death throes of that old goat. Vice president?

I figure she’s a shoo-in.

Today, within a long swath of the country from Texas to Maine, within the path of totality, a total eclipse of the sun will be visible for a period of from two and a half to four minutes. Millions of people will experience this rare, transformative phenomenon. I live in Huntington Beach, California, and was fortunate enough to find lodging in Nashville, within the fabled path, to experience the last total eclipse in the states back in August, 2017. To see a total eclipse was at the apex of my bucket list, and I was not disappointed. It was an overcast afternoon in Nashville. I was with a group on a large greenbelt at the magnificent Gaylord Opryland Hotel. With baited breath we observed the eclipse progression through a veil of clouds. It was approaching the total phase when, with about a minute to go, the sun was enveloped by an ominous cluster of clouds. Then, it happened. A miracle perhaps? Mere seconds before total eclipse, the clouds disappeared as if pulled asunder by the hands of god. People began to cheer, chant and dance. I was transfixed as the hot August day cooled and darkness descended. It was transcendent and joyous, for me and countless others. But, sadly, not for everyone.

Am I referring to those foolhardy souls who stared at the sun like blissful idiots without protective glasses? No. I am referring to thousands of hapless young couples, both in 2017 and today. If any of you have read some of my prior posts, you must know where I’m going. You have to know what’s coming.

Yes, I am a cynical, sarcastic, pessimistic old sourpuss. When wonderful things happen, I know there is a dull, tarnished flip side to the bright shiny coin. People hate to see the bubble burst- the parade rained upon. And thus, certain realities are suppressed and kept under lock and key in the dark recesses of our psyches. But I’m not people. I hate parades, especially the famous obnoxious one we have here in Huntington Beach every July 4th. I love a good drenching on a parade, with plenty of sleet and hail stones clogging and muffling those god awful tubas. So let me lay some eclipse reality on you, oh gentle readers.

Today and as it was seven years ago, thousands of young men were badgered by their wives and girlfriends to enter the path of totality, be it Texas or Maine, and to copulate with the expressed intent of conceiving a child during that two and a half to four minute window of total eclipse. Why? So their offspring will be forever special, in some preposterous Granola and crystal way, and mom will have some inexplicable bragging rights among her peers ( “Oh, look at my little Jeremy. He’s an eclipse baby, you know.”)

Try to imagine, oh ye men, the consummate pressure. Erection, insertion and ejaculation within those brief, precarious minutes, exacerbated by growing darkness and a gawking crowd of thousands. Some will succeed; but alas, some won’t. I can hear the cacophony of angry feminine voices across the land. “It didn’t happen, did it Marvin? (or Bill, or Jason etc. ad nauseam). “Oh, this is so typical of you!”

Ah, the ephemeral window of opportunity within the path of totality. A window that will be slammed shut for another twenty years.

My condolences to Marvin, Bill, Jason et al. . You did your best, but it just didn’t happen.

And you’ll be reminded of it for the rest of your days.

About two months ago I posted a piece regarding Israel’s slaughter of Palestinian civilians in Gaza, about two thirds of whom are women and children. And I expressed what I believe are the true motives of the Benjamin (Bibi) Netanyahu regime. At the time of the post last December, I, along with with virtually all thinking, conscionable people of the Western Democracies, was horror struck that the Gaza death count was nearing 20,000, and our government reacted with token handwringing and flaccid posturing. Last weekend, the death toll hit 30,000.

Netanyahu has been aggressively belligerent in the face of any and all criticism over his actions. He insists that the massive civilian casualties are the result of Hamas, the presumed target, using human shields. Tragically, the Palestinian death toll is not just the result of massive, ceaseless bombing of Gaza, but, perhaps more insidious, the deliberate starvation and blocking the flow of fuel and medicine, as well as food. Merely a month ago, words like war crimes, apartheid and genocide were spoken with restraint and caution. Now, they have entered the general lexicon when speaking of the atrocities occurring in Gaza.

The triggering event that incited Israel’s crushing invasion of Gaza was, ostensibly, a terrorist attack on October 7th of last year by the Palestinian group Hamas, which has committed various terrorist acts in its ongoing asymmetrical war with the Zionist State. 1,200 Israeli fatalities were reported, as well as 250 hostages taken. A strong, but hopefully proportional response was expected, justifiably, from Israel. In my post from last December, I asserted that Israeli Intelligence learned of preparations for the attack a year before it happened. Days before the attack, Egyptian intelligence provided a more detailed report and warning to Israel that the attack was imminent.

We are expected to believe that the country with the most sophisticated security apparatus in the world simply dropped the ball in the face of the most serious attack on Israel in its over 75 year existence.

Is cynicism a bad thing? I am a cynic. I’ve always been a cynic and always will be because humanity demands it of me. Cynicism provides clarity of vision and critical thinking. So I will say it again. The Israeli invasion of Gaza has little to do with destroying Hamas or liberating hostages taken by Hamas during the October attack. It has everything to do with leveling Gaza and massacring the Palestinians who live there to make way for the Israeli settlers who are spreading like locusts into Palestinian lands. The October Hamas attack was a classic casus belli, or pretext, for the Israeli invasion. Netanyahu has stated that he will continue to bomb Gaza until Hamas is annihilated. Evidently he believes all Palestinians in Gaza are Hamas.

The massacre in Gaza is unprecedented in the 21st century. Who can stop it?Joe Biden can stop it.

As Israel faces international condemnation , Biden reflexively, and as he himself has stated, unconditionally supports the Zionist State. Here goes my cynical mind conjuring outlandish scenarios of Biden’s inability to reconnect with his backbone regarding Israel. I imagine a phone call from Netanyahu to our president: “Hello Joe? It’s Bibi. We’ve just developed a bomb a 1,000 times more destructive than the one dropped on Hiroshima. We thought we’ed take the liberty of testing it on Chicago.” Biden (slight pause). “Oh yes Bibi, anything!”

The US gives Israel nearly four billion dollars a year, most of it for defense. Biden continues to bypass congress in support of Israel. Another 14.3 billion is in the works, contingent on Netanyahu reducing civilian casualties in its occupation of Gaza. Contingent? Who’s going to declare the inevitable non compliance and cut off the aid? Biden? “Oh yes Bibi- anything!”

The great firebrand of morality, Nathaniel West, condemned Israel’s war crimes and pleaded for a cease-fire, stating that the US veto at the UN security council “To block a vote to end Israel’s barbaric genocidal campaign in Gaza is an act of spiritual obscenity and moral bankruptcy.” He went further and said, “Israel and the US are complicit in the genocide of the Palestinians.”

The next time you see an image of a Palestinian child’s arm reaching out desperately from beneath the bombed rubble, attribute it to our tax dollars and a president lacking the courage to stand up to the 21st century’s ultimate bully- a genocidal war criminal laughing at the great helpless giant that once was the proud champion of the free world.

Say it ain’t so, Joe.

As I write this post, a reported 19,400 Palestinians, most of them children and women, have been shot, bombed, burned, crushed or bulldozed to death in Gaza by Israeli defense forces. By the time I post this later today I have every reason to believe that number will exceed 20,000. And I have every reason to believe that number will increase exponentially considering there are, or were, two million Palestinians cramped into seventeen square miles. Israel has stated that its invasion of Gaza is existential- if they don’t annihilate Hamas, Hamas will annihilate them. The invasion, they say, is to save itself from extinction. Let’s examine this more closely.

From the inception of the modern Zionist nation of Israel in 1948, when 750,000 Palestinians were expelled from their land, there has been ongoing violent conflict. The death toll of Palestinians has outstripped that of the Israelis many times over. The event that triggered the most recent and deadliest conflict (I’m reluctant to call it a war because of the stark asymmetry) was an attack by Hamas terrorists on 10/7/23. It was brutal and barbaric by any decent person’s standards. An estimated 1,200 Israeli civilians were murdered by Hamas terrorists, some dragged out of their homes and hundreds slaughtered at a music concert, in addition to hundreds taken hostage. Why did this happen? Can such barbarity occur within a vacuum? Were there, perhaps, precipitating causes and conditions?

Since 1948, when Israel was declared a sovereign state, the country has been expanding like a voracious amoeba. After the 1967 Six Day War, Israel captured the Sinai, Gaza, West Bank, East Jerusalem and the Golan Heights, doubling its original area. More than 700,000 settlers, roughly 10 percent of Israel’s total population, now live in 150 settlements and 128 outposts throughout the occupied West Bank and East Jerusalem. Nearly all of them are on privately owned Palestinian land. The settlers move in, killing and displacing Palestinians, pushing them out of their homes and stealing their land, all with a wink and a nod from the Israeli government. Gaza city has been blocked by Israel, long before the October attack, controlling the flow of both people and goods. The city has been referred to as an open air prison. Many believe pushback against the settlers was inevitable.

There is a Latin term- Casus Belli. It means a pretext by which one country justifies the attack on another. Israel was warned by Egyptian intelligence of the terrorist attack three days prior. Incredibly, Israel’s own intelligence knew the attack was being planned over a year in advance. It was ignored.

Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, has vowed to turn Gaza into, “A deserted island.” I suspect this has been his goal, long before the Hamas attack.

And so to all the handwringers who caution Israel to be more discriminate and precise in their bombing of Gaza in order to reduce civilian casualties, they are being precise. At this point anyone who can’t see Israel’s true intentions is wearing blinders. The goal is not to ferret out Hamas, and oh, sorry about the civilians. They’re bombing schools and hospitals, not because they are inept bombers. Unicef has declared no place in Gaza is safe for children.

Israel’s goal is clear. Purge Gaza of all Palestinians through death or displacement, render Gaza into rubble, the “Deserted island” Netanyahu has described, bulldoze it flat and subdivide the land for the settlers, who are parasitic on American tax dollars.

We Americans have been told ad nauseam bordering on brain washing that our’s and Israel’s interests are inextricably linked. Reasonable people can disagree on many things, we are told- why, it doesn’t even warrant discussion- what’s good for Israel is good for the United States. We all know, as we’ve been told endlessly, that Israel is our closest friend. Really? Since WWII we have provided more foreign aid to Israel than to any other country. 3.3 billion in 2022, with 99.7 percent going to their military.

I haven’t checked the Gaza civilian body count yet as I finish this post. I’m afraid to look. My parting words?

The blood on Israel’s hands stains ours once removed. It’s time. It’s time to reassess our relationship with the Zionist state. And as for being friends? Men and nations are judged by the friends they keep. And what the hell have they ever done for us?

There. I’ve said it.

I’m lost. How did get here? Where am I? I have no map or compass. But, just then, I see it. It’s clouded by mist, but still I see it.

I’m back in October. October, a place and time of wonderful things- and horrible things. I’ve come home. My true home, October. Darker than before, but still, the only time, the only place, where I’ve ever truly belonged.

In honor of Holy Samhain, may I submit a sample from my third October book, October Dark, which I hope will be available this spring. As Shadows Loom

It was on Tuesday, October 11th, at exactly 11:19 A.M. when the strange day began.

I’ve often wondered if I saw it first. I’ve always had an eye and a special sensitivity to things- the odd things that most others overlook.

It started with a bush. An ordinary bush, about five feet high and about three feet away from my neighbor’s garage wall. It was directly behind the bush, the odd thing that I saw. From an angle it appeared to be a painting on the garage wall, an ink black painting of uncanny detail; an ink black painting of the bush.

Was it an illusion? A trompe l’oeil, tricking the eye of the beholder? Then, when I got directly in front of the bush I realized with some degree of shock that the enigmatic painting on the wall was in fact the bush’s shadow. I was mesmerized as I looked more closely. Not only was the shadow the same shape and dimensions of the bush, but every detail was clearly delineated; every leaf and branch of the bush, every break in the spaces within were not only contained within the shadow, but were in fact more delineated than they were in the bush itself.

I started walking about the neighborhood to examine other shadows. Perhaps some fluke aberration in the light breaking through the clouds made the bush’s shadow unique and singular. But all the shadows, the shadows of street lamps, trees, mailboxes were all like the shadow of the bush. The shadows, to my astonishment, appeared more real than the objects they reflected.

As I continued walking and observing I felt compelled to examine my own shadow. But a sense of dread overtook me. What might my own shadow look like? Before today, shadows of people seemed like amorphous silhouettes, vague but benign shapes that trail us, seen most often through the corner of the eye. Facing my own shadow would have to wait for another day, for I had lost track of time, and the shadows were beginning to disperse with the onset of twilight.

Gloom. The next two days were uncharacteristically gray and dark. This gave me time to reflect on what I had seen. Was it an illusion? Had my own imagination conjured something that wasn’t there? I’d know soon enough. The weather forecast for the following day was warm and sunny.

I awoke early, but waited until later in the day when shadows are thought to be longer. Thought to be? Are the shadows aware of this? When I first observed the bold shadows two days prior it was before noon. Do they obey the science, or have their own minds and wills? I decided 2:00 P.M. would be an appropriate time to investigate.

I stepped outside. The shadows were there but more elongated than before. Perhaps this would have a stretching effect and the delineation would be fainter.

I stared at the shadow as I had previously. No. The stark exaggeration in detail was still there, but there was something else. The shadow seemed looming and oppressive. I had the sense that the bush was now prey to the shadow and in danger of being absorbed.

I knew at some point I would have to confront my own shadow. But I was not quite yet ready. Was I alone in my perceptions? I looked around. There were two people walking about on either side of me on the street. One was an old man, the other a woman of middle age. I approached the woman first. How could I ask my question without sounding mad? I chose my words with delicate finesse, but they never got spoken. She looked straight into my eyes, and held a shaking finger to her quivering lips in gesture of caution and silence and moved on. I crossed the street where the old man was walking with faltering steps. He stopped as I asked the same question the woman refused to hear. He grew agitated and whispered, “In the name of sweet Jesus man, hold your tongue!”

I watched the two of them walk away, followed by their shadows. Was I becoming delusional? The footsteps of their shadows should have been in sync with their steps, but- was it possible? The shadows moved faster, walking slightly beyond the man and woman. There was again the sense that the shadows were exercising their will in an expression of dominance. Then, the shadows converged, blocking the progress of the man and woman. I could no longer watch the absurd spectacle and turned around, running back home.

I poured a glass of brandy and drank, trying to settle my nerves. As the drink calmed me somewhat, I began analyzing the possibilities: I had become hallucinatory due to some biological malady- a metabolic imbalance, or perhaps even a brain tumor or lesion; it was a test by the government to analyze the reactions of people to seemingly impossible phenomena; it was a prank, a protracted hoax, but perpetrated by whom? None of my friends or neighbors, with all due respect, would have the mental capacity to pull it off.

Then, a thought came to me. What are shadows? Do we really know? So much of what we assume to be true has never been questioned or tested. We believe shadows are produced when an opaque object is between the sun’s rays and a surface. What if that explanation is merely what the shadows want us to believe? Our shadows are cast in our image- who’s to say shadows are not sentient? Then, another thought. A horrifying thought. What if we have it backwards? What if we are imperfect images of them? Perhaps they’ve been observing us since the beginning, keeping silent- playing the fool. I had to make a decision. Either confront my own shadow directly, or descend into madness. I chose the former.

It was a clear October day. I decided 11:00 P.M. would be an appropriate time for my mano et shadow confrontation.

I found a wall without intrusive shrubs or objects nearby that would create additional shadows that would distract my attention. And there I stood, me alone, between the sun’s rays and the wall. And there it was- my doppelganger in silhouette.

I breathed a sigh of relief. It was an ordinary shadow of myself, no different from thousands of others I’ve seen. I raised my left arm to my side and my shadow did likewise, in perfect sync. Then I raised my right leg away from side, and was mimicked by the black outline on the wall. I saluted with my left hand and so did my new friend. I actually began to enjoy myself as I danced a jig and my shadow danced back, a perfect duet. Then, there was a change. Oh so subtle and surreptitious. I blinked my eyes several times in hope that they were deceiving me. But no. The face began to emerge.

Shadows should not have faces. Oh so slow, so insidious. First the eyes, then the nose. The mouth was last. It was like watching thick oil poured from a jar, oozing and inexorable. Then, the expression appeared. I gasped. That look- that mocking, insinuating look.

There was a commotion in the neighborhood. The screams were bloodcurdling. I looked about. My neighbors were in a state of frenzied hysteria, running for their lives, and in pursuit were their shadows; long legged, arms outstretched several yards, in furious pursuit. And those faces. Those leering faces, mouths wide like caverns. And then the horror.

My neighbors were enveloped by their own shadows; absorbed, devoured by them as if they were sustenance, placed on earth for the sole purpose of nourishing their masters.

I turned back to my own shadow. He winked, and wet his lips as his mouth expanded, wide and endless. His eyes. For a brief moment was there a glimmer of compassion?

His arms reached out to me, gently bringing my body to him, as one might with a distressed child who required his mother’s embrace.

Then, I was swallowed, as he and his brethren cast themselves wide across the land.

It must be wonderful to live in a small town, kind of Mayberry like. Remember Mayberry, with the lovable homespun sheriff Taylor, single parent to his adorable son Opie? Oh, the wonderful maternalism of Aunt Bee, forever cooling fresh baked pies on the window sill. A small town. A small town of decent, god fearing folk who look out for one another, and why they even needed a sheriff is beyond me. How odd. I don’t seem to recall any Black folk in Mayberry. Oh, why ruin things, harboring such thoughts?

CW star Jason Aldean has released a song and video called “Try That In A Small Town, ” which has generated a bit of controversy. A sample of the lyrics:

“Sucker punch somebody on a sidewalk, carjack an old lady at a red light… Cus out a cop, spit in his face… yeah, you think you’re tough. Well try that in a small town, see how far you make it down the road… Full of good ol’ boys, raised up right if you’re looking for a fight- try that in a small town, see how far ya make it down the road.”

In the accompanying video scenes of street protests, burning buildings, rioters throwing rocks at cops etc. are rampant. In the original version, since deleted, were scenes of Black Lives Matter, showing their rage in the wake of the police murder of George Floyd. The video’s setting is the Maury County Courthouse building in Columbia Tennessee, draped majestically by Old Glory. But why this location? Well, not only was this the site of the race riots in 1946 (one man’s riot is another man’s insurrection) but a notorious lynching as well (I know- a bit of a limp word to describe a lynching. Celebrity romances are notorious, lynchings are barbaric and horrific.) In 1927 a white mob (white mob? A redundancy considering the historic time and place) pulled an 18 year old Black man named Henry Choate from jail and dragged him by car through the city. Choate had allegedly attacked a 16 year old white girl. The girl could not positively identify him as the assailant, but these hard working, god fearing folk had little time for nit picking, and so Choate was hung until dead from a window.

Once upon a time, August of 1955 to be exact, a big city 13 year old Black boy named Emmett Till journeyed from the big city of Chicago, where horrible things happen to good people, to the placid, bucolic small town of Drew, Mississippi, to visit relatives. While buying candy at a local store, Emmett Till was accused of flirting with the white woman proprietor. Several nights later the woman’s husband and his brother abducted Emmett who was staying with his great-uncle. Three days later Till’s bloated and mutilated body was was found in the Tallahatchie River.

Such wonderful wholesome values these small town folk have, sticking together, taking care of their own. All those horrific crimes and mayhem in the big bad cities would never happen there.

Unless you’re not one of them. A big city outsider, or maybe an innocent Black boy naive about the ways and rules of small towns. Think of Henry Choate hanging by his neck. Think of Emmett Till and his experience of small town, Southern hospitality, his mama insisting on an open casket funeral so the world could see her baby, his face an unrecognizable pulp.

Try it in a small town. Emmett Till’s murderers tried and succeeded in a small town and they were acquitted by a small town jury, decent folk all, looking out for one another.

The hands of the clock twirl at a maddening pace, the calendar pages plummet like Autumn leaves, months ending before we fully realized they had arrived. The seasons come, then are gone in what seems like an untimely death. Time has become a blur and the years hurl into ephemera. But once again we’ve made it- another 4th of July, when for at least one day we can forget our differences and divisions and, united, we can celebrate freedom and liberty.

But leave it to me to rain on the parade- more inexcusable in that it’s that parade, the big daddy of them all-the 4th of July Parade, the pride of main streets, watermelon growers, fireworks manufacturers and of course, patriots. But what is a patriot? Can two people antipathetic in their vision and interpretation of history both be patriots? At one time they could, but I’m no longer sure. There are some who are out to destroy democracy in the name of democracy. The few are given the power to ban books without the consent of the many. Parents, many of whom are provincial if indeed not tribal, are determining their children’s curricula, overriding the judgement of teachers and school boards. Certain factual elements of our history must not be taught for fear of wreaking guilt and discomfort on the delicate, innocent children. But, as so often is the case, I stray off subject and wander into the tangential.

Allow me to share a few thoughts, and please bear with me. Suspend the urge to break out the tar and feathers and hear me out to the end.

Our third president, Thomas Jefferson, can be legitimately described as a statesman, diplomat, lawyer, architect, philosopher, gentleman farmer and major founder of our republic. That’s quite a resume. It’s what I was taught in grade school a few centuries ago. But human beings as well as countries are complex. The good we do and the evil we do are not mutually exclusive, and, of course, many of us would disagree as to what constitutes good and evil. And with that, let us revisit Thomas Jefferson.

Thomas Jefferson was one of the largest slave owners in the colonies. He was an oligarch and a statutory rapist (in his forties he sired at least six children with a fourteen year old child slave named Sally Hemings.) All of these children remained in slavery and never were acknowledged as his progeny. He plagiarized much of the Declaration Of Independence, borrowing freely from John Locke and other philosophers. He believed Native Americans were culturally and intellectually inferior to whites and their lands should be forcibly taken away by white settlers. He instituted policies of Indian removal, culminating in the Indian Removal Act later implemented by Andrew Jackson. He believed the native people should be forcibly pushed westward and advocated displacing the Cherokee and Shawnee from their homelands to west of the Mississippi River, violating all treaties with those tribes. The Trail Of Tears ethnic cleansing soon followed, and eventually the effective genocide of native peoples under the aegis of “Manifest Destiny.”

Reality. The Constitution was written by and for white males of property and wealth. Native people, slaves, poor whites and all women – the vast majority of people in the United States- were excluded from this ultimate gentlemen’s club.

Kermit Roosevelt, in his book “The Nation That Never Was,” posits that the true origins of Freedom And Liberty For All began with Reconstruction and the 13th, 14th and 15th amendments (women, oh long suffering women, had to wait until the ratification of the 19th amendment in 1920 for the right to vote.) Roosevelt also posits that in The Civil War the values of the founders were tightly aligned with those of the Confederacy- states’ rights and slavery.

And yet, The Founders had vision and created a constitution that was fluid and could be amended. Look at what we’ve done in the last hundred years. We defeated Fascism and stopped the Jewish genocide advanced by Adolph Hitler. We’ve fed, defended and given medical aid to people the world over. We have been, or sadly had been, the leader and stalwart of democracy, respected and a protector of other democracies. We’ve done wonderful and noble things as well as absurd and unjust things (the Vietnam War, the invasion of Iraq under false pretexts). And all should be remembered without whitewash, selectivity or revision. The historians’ dilemma is that in the expanse of a single day an infinite number of events transpire. Which events warrant chronicling? All of them that are critical to understanding, without prejudice.

A checkered past need not forge the path of our future. And when I feel my own cynicism get the better of me, I remember that millions of people have, and continue, to risk their lives to be a part of our great but imperfect country.

Let Freedom Ring.

Around midnight on May 8th, 1981, while walking back to her dorm at Syracuse University, freshman Alice Sebold was grabbed from behind in a park pedestrian tunnel and viciously raped.

Such an odd redundancy. Viciously raped, as opposed to what? Gently, or perhaps thoughtfully raped?

Her injuries, in addition to the rape itself, included a lacerated nose, various cuts and contusions and blood and semen in her urine, according to a medical exam. When interviewed by police, she stated her rapist was a Black man, 16-18 years of age, with a small but muscular build. In an affidavit, she stated that she desired prosecution in the event her assailant was apprehended. The detective assigned to her case, without explanation, was skeptical of her account, noting it did not seem “completely factual.” Enigmatic and vague? Male insensitivity to rape, an historical allegation against male investigators? and yet…

As one would expect as is the case with many if not most rape victims, her psychological trauma exceeded her physical wounds. She now saw herself as tainted; as one who on the surface was afforded sympathy and compassion, but beneath, stigmata as old as civilization lurked. Had she somehow brought this upon herself? Why did she walk through a park in the darkness of night by herself? Again, self-doubts buttressed by societal victim blaming. Was she somehow behaving flirtatiously, or had dressed provocatively? No on both counts, but preconceptions die slowly. Did she somehow, perhaps subliminally, send a message to her attacker that she was fair game, or would not fight as hard as some others? She sensed that her own father believed on some level she was at fault.

Sebold had always aspired to be a writer, and later admitted that even during the rape she was aware she would eventually write about it.

She returned to Syracuse University in the Fall and enrolled in writing workshops taught by the noted writers Tess Gallagher and Tobias Wolff. One day , before class, she went to pick up a snack near campus and spotted a man on the street who she thought resembled her rapist. The man approached her and, according to Sebold, said, “Hey- don’t I know you?” The man was in fact addressing a police officer who was behind her, but she was certain he was addressing her. Her rapist, she was sure, was brazenly mocking her. She reported her encounter to Wolff, who exhorted her to contact the police. She sketched the man’s face, and Syracuse P.D. issued an alert. Paul Clapper, the police officer who the man had actually addressed, recognized the description. Several days later Anthony Broadwater, twenty, was arrested, nearly five months after Sebold’s rape. Two weeks later, Sebold was asked to identify Broadwater in a lineup. Five Black men, all wearing prison uniforms, stood in a line. Broadwater was #4. Sebold identified #5. Then, every guardrail ensuring a fair and just legal system, blew off the edges and fell into the abyss.

Gail Uebelhoer, an assistant district attorney, took Sebold aside and told her that Broadwater had deceived her by having a friend from jail who could have been his doppelganger stand in the #5 spot, and to stare threateningly at her. All absurd nonsense. Broadwater was not friends with #5, they bore no resemblance aside from both being Black males and no suspect in the history of jurisprudence has had the prerogative to select other members of a lineup. Yet Sebold, incredibly, accepted what Uebelhoer told her.

Broadwater could not afford an attorney, so a volunteer named Steven Paquette was assigned as his counsel. Knowing the demographics of white conservatives in Syracuse, he encouraged his client to opt for a bench trial. After the lineup debacle, he reasoned, the case would be dismissed, considering how weak and tenuous the evidence was. He was wrong.

The trial began in May, 1982, and lasted two days. Throughout the trial, the prosecutor mentioned repeatedly that Sebold had been a virgin. Broadwater was asked by his attorney to describe his unique facial characteristics, which included a scar beneath his chin, a chipped tooth and one eye that appeared different from the other due to surgery years earlier. None of these features were described by Sebold although she had described being a centimeter away from her rapist.

DNA analysis was not available at this time, but a forensic chemist testified that a pubic hair from a Black person had been recovered from the rape kit consistent with a hair sample submitted by the suspect. Hair comparison has since been dismissed as “junk science,” as reliable as reading tea leaves, and is now seen as a convenient way for amoral prosecutors to back into guilty verdicts. It is now estimated that thousands of wrongful convictions have been made by its application.

When Sebold testified she adamantly stated, “I could not have identified him as the man who raped me unless he was the man who raped me.” But she hadn’t identified him prior to being coached.

After closing, the judge, who chatted amiably with Sebold during breaks and told her he had daughters of his own, immediately declared Broadwater was guilty of rape in the first degree.

Let’s stare reality in its often hideous face. Removing the debunked hair follicle evidence, Anthony Broadwater, an innocent, hard working young Black man who loved his family, was a veteran and had no criminal record, was found guilty of rape because a young white woman said he was guilty.

And so off to prison he went. As a convicted sex offender, he was targeted by other inmates. Violence surrounded him. A friend he had made was killed standing next to him in an Auburn prison. He was transferred to various prisons, and at Attica, he presented portions of his transcript to a Muslim Imam, who after reading them convinced other inmates that Broadwater was innocent.

Broadwater appealed his conviction and was denied. He was caught in a catch 22. A condition of early release from his 25 year sentence, was taking sex offender treatment programs. He denied he was a sex offender. No treatment, no parole. To his astonishment, he was released after 16 years for being a model prisoner. He was 38 years old. Jobs were menial and difficult to get. He was a social pariah. A registered sex offender. And what of Alice Sebold during the period Broadwater was in prison?

She pursued her writing career. In 1999 her memoir “Lucky,” dealing with her rape and subsequent trial, was published, with initial meager sales. Then, in 2002 her novel “The Lovely Bones,” about a teenaged girl, who, after being raped and murdered, looks down from heaven at her struggling friends and family. It became a best seller and sold 10 million copies. Then it was released as a movie in 2010. After the enormous success of “The Lovely Bones,” renewed interest in “Lucky” resulted and 1 million copies sold. Then another twist.

With greater attention to “Lucky” (so titled because an investigator said she was lucky she wasn’t killed during her rape) inconsistencies and judicial misconduct became apparent, such as the assistant D.A. prompting Sebold about the lineup and lying to her that Broadwater tried to have it rigged. When she appeared on the Oprah Winfrey show, Oprah found her account of recognizing her rapist on the street fishy. Film director Jane Campion wanted to adapt “Lucky,” but as more people on Campion’s team read the book, the more incredulous it appeared. By this time the hair follicle nonsense was generally acknowledged. Finally, in June of 2021, Timothy Mucciante, the film’s financier was removed from the project when production funds never materialized. Perhaps vindictive, Mucciante hired Dan Myers, a former sheriff turned P.I. to investigate the entire rape case. He interviewed Paul Clapper, the cop who had actually been addressed by Broadwater years before. Clapper mentioned the lineup fiasco, then opined that the wrong man may have been convicted. Soon, Myers contacted two attorneys, Dave Hammond and Melissa Schwartz, who specialized in wrongful convictions. Both of them read “Lucky” and were flabbergasted. Where’s the evidence? The attorneys presented the trial transcript to William Fitzpatrick, a D.A. Schwartz had once worked for. It was so short he read it in an hour. “I couldn’t believe, in a 1981 non-jury trial, a guy could get convicted on that,” he concluded. Things started moving quickly up the flagpole. Gordon Cuffy, the judge who was reviewing Broadwater’s case, asked Fitzpatrick if the lineup scenes and subsequent commentary by Uebelhoer described in “Lucky” were accurate. Fitzpatrick contacted Sebold and she conceded they were. Five days later judge Cuffy vacated Broadwater’s conviction. He had been convicted on a debunked hair analysis and a tainted lineup.

Shortly after the exoneration, Broadwater sued the State of New York for wrongful imprisonment. They settled for 5.5 million. If only he could sue to get the 40 years wrenched away from him back. And what of Alice Sebold?

I wonder if at any time between Broadwater’s conviction and his exoneration, during that 40 year period when she was racking up fame, fortune and survivor hero status, if she ever doubted she fingered the right man? A woman of no small degree of intellect and sophistication, not recognizing she was coached by an unscrupulous D.A. and she had identified the wrong man in the lineup? Certainly she is well read and and informed. During those 40 years was she unaware of the debunked hair analysis? As Broadwater was living in Hell, did she ever consider that her success was parasitic on the innocent man she helped convict? I am by my own admission a skeptic and cynic. I wonder if she ever truly believed Broadwater was guilty. Her emailed apology to him has been dismissed by some as a glorified form letter. He has stated publicly that he is forgiving, but is disappointed there has been no face to face mea culpa. I would never forgive her. Do I feel sorry for her? No. I feel sorry for him.

And just as women must be to some degree always on guard against predators, Black men must also be on guard. They must be forever vigilant to make sure it is not their footsteps being heard behind the lone white woman walking briskly to her car; that it is not their shadow sprawled upon the asphalt beneath her feet. Their innocence provides no shield. Accusations need no validity. They must be forever vigilant to not get too close or be perceived as a threat, however illusory that perception may be. Their own vulnerability is etched within their pigment- always.

Theirs is a peculiar kind of Hell, where a false move isn’t even necessary to crank up the burners.