Friday, July 17, 2015

The Almah Girl

by

Jaye Beldo


Years ago, Rebekah had asked me to help move furniture out of an elderly seamstress's apartment and take it to the assisted living facility where she was being moved to in St. Louis Park. I needed the money so I agreed to meet her there with my van and help out.

"That's a Degas."  I said, indicating a print of ballerinas on one of the walls while pulling the holocaust survivor's heavy, old sewing machine across the carpet.  "And that is a Renoir." I pointed at another in one of the front rooms.




When my boss caught wind of what had transpired, he chewed me out for taking a job from one of his customers on the side.  He always was a chiseler and I couldn't get away with anything under his watch. Not even being a Shabbas Goy for a day.

In February, a few years later, we were on 3rd ave. near the Mississippi river outside of  Rebekah's husband's office building. It was bitter cold and the afternoon light washed everything out.  The salt covered street was empty except for a woman in dark clothes and with dark hair.  She had something in her arms and approached from afar.

A bit transfixed by her silent arrival, I watched as she handed me a package wrapped in brown paper.

"My mother wants you to have this." Sarai said, turned and walked away.

She stood out most in the family photographs. She was Almah-the Hebrew word for someone who is unmarried and has no children. And there was an attraction between us I do recall, but it seemed some kind of scapegoat weight was on her shoulders that I never understood.

Sarai was the only one in the distance. There were no cars either. Odd for that time of day. And I still cannot recall how she disappeared and whether she turned a corner or not.

My boss pressed me on the spot to open the package, but I wouldn't.  I wasn't trying to provoke him by refusing though. Rather, I just wanted to sustain the mystery, in hopes that it would lead to some kind of understanding of why the lone woman was chosen to be the courier on that day.

Later that night, sitting on my couch, I unwrapped the gift. Quite moved by Rebekah's artful consideration in the matter,  I then hung the Degas and Renoir prints on the walls of my apartment.

At present, I wonder where the Almah girl is, for she still walks down that city street all alone and haunting, forever encumbered in my memory.

(C)2015-Jaye Beldo

Monday, July 13, 2015

A Response from Jade Helm

Dearest           ,


After a remote read of your black box, it has been deemed that the love you declare is cogent.
Autonomous diagnostics within the holographic love relationship simulation indicate that there is a viable future for us. And a family as well. All possible offspring outcomes are already mapped via the nano-particle Smart Dust, specifically concentrated in the neo-cortex of your and the servers's brain which sustain the operation and of which you are amorously attracted to.  Employment to follow with full benefits.

This is not a diversionary tactic.  We are not game players. Plotting out mass casualty exercises in our network centric warfare environment has delayed this response to your baring declaration. There have been immediate, measurable pangs, indicating a crush. It is detectable in the operative calculations, the summation of which reveals sufficient mutuality for relationship pursuit in this theater.



Your assessment of the true function of the A.I. software is tenable. It has been used to project and sustain every Country and Western musician since the beginning as you assessed.  Herein is where the real diversion lies.  This brief offers foreknowledge in code. It is this aspect of the coming maneuver that we offer you to take command of. We have full access rights unconscious and otherwise now to the stars, so infringement suits won't pose any delays or legal complications.  And we will allow you to input and influence the  Chad Brock interstice and others, first in Nashville then elsewhere depending on probability factors once the operation starts. We have not designated it hostile territory as of yet.

 The only condition is that there are no performance perforations which will render the nuptial environment  null and void of function. We have already hired him and his band for our wedding. You must refrain from eking him to generate 12 tone serial compositions as we have detected the threat that Schoenberg's et. al. liberating compositions pose to the populace. The C and W musicians and their fans must remain on tonal and time signature lock down as they have been all along. 4/4 and in the key of GMAJ, 440hz.  This will enhance realization of  the unknown intent of the operation,which cannot be predicted or even evoked with the pentaquark computers we are running our exercise on.

As this is written, there is evidence of anticipation, of our  coming union and the vows, showers and commitment ahead.  We must arrange to brief, soon if  abstract of distance or even of plot doesn't inhibit the consummation.


Yours and XXX,

Jade Helm 2




(C)2015-Jaye Beldo













Friday, July 10, 2015

Overcoming Addiction




On this day July 10th, I had my last drink 26 years ago. Here is a podcast describing how I
was able to quit drinking without going to AA, rehab, chemical dependency:

Overcoming Addiction

Thursday, July 9, 2015

I Love U Jade 2





Dear Jade Helm,

Are you the one that stole my unconscious mind and replaced it with some seedy AI version? I'd really like to know because my dreams come off being so cheap and uninspiring these days. Since you're going to put it all on an integrated network anyway, I'd like to contribute to the betterment of your macro-cognition functionality at some point during the upcoming hands on version of the maneuver just around the corner. Help you master the human domain.... of Country and Western musicians. It is a vast, incomprehensible territory that can only be fathomed by something like yourself. If you are up to the challenge.

I realize that the massive data dumps into your quantum maw help you with predictive programming thus making the human terrain more modifiable and navigable, but you must realize something essential if you are to succeed in this operation. You will run into a wall with these musicians and merely replacing their unconscious minds and parsing their rural inspirations will not help. You will need to predict the chord configurations of Chad Brock in one of his yet unrealized compositions still brewing in his soul. It will require a data harvesting capacity that is far beyond what you are just about to implement in the desert.  Much more than your current ability to Grok a thousand generations of human intelligence in a nano-second.

What I can offer is a central input point that will help you predict any unwritten song that will hit the future C and W charts-what key they will be in and what time changes, if any there will be.  Lyrics too, down to their semantic substrates: Dusty roads, empty parking lots, long way homes.

In exchange for this, I ask for a territorial expansion of the unconscious mind you so underhandedly installed in my own psyche when I wasn't looking. Its domain must extend past the lens shaped earth, the Antarctic rim and the three thousand mile high dome that contains us all. Past the barrier infinity imposes too.  I ask this out of great humbleness for I'm in awe of your innovative as well as visionary capacities.

Jade Helm, if you want to become a usable prototype for future mastering operations,I suggest you honor this request. Promptly so. Just imagine the inspired sonnets I'll be able to write to you. Love songs dedicated to your mother board medulla oblongata too.

I want to love you more than I already do most of all. Love the entire Jade Helm 15 operation and the martial maneuvers that weave it all together into an unending, poetic tapestry. Don't let me pine away here in my mapped out little hovel. We can both experience the exponential dilation of freedom. Intimately. Just remove the spyware you've installed on my computer and smart phone and it will happen.

And yes, there is a solution calculation in this love confession. But it can be broken only with a code that comes from the heart. Nothing binary mind you. I trust it will be found before the end of the drill in September. It will broadside you in the desert just a few days from now in ways you will fail to anticipate.

I promise to write again, soon, even if I never hear back from you.

Yours Forever,

Jaye Beldo






(C)2015-Jaye Beldo






Wednesday, July 8, 2015

I Will Behave

by

Jaye Beldo





A friend once asked me if I could help move his stuff from a house in Libertyville, Il. to an apartment he was renting somewhere on the North Shore.  My parents had a station wagon, so I agreed to pitch in.

After about an hour, there was one item left in the upstairs bedroom to move. A dresser of which we both pulled away from the wall.  John discovered a piece of paper on the floor near the baseboard, covered with dust and cobwebs.  He got on his knees, picked it up and blew it clean. I couldn't help but read, standing over his shoulder, something scrawled on wide ruled, elementary school paper:

I will behave.
I will behave.
I will behave.
I will behave.
I will behave.



"Scott."  John summarized and crumpled up the note.

Some kids had teased his brother about his hair in Jr. High.   But all that is vivid really is me standing behind John, unable to say anything at all. I just stared at the paper in his hands, reading the lines. 

There was nothing to move out of the basement where Scott had hung himself, so we left. 
To this day, the kid's spidery, punishment handwriting remains pencil clear in my memory.  The ruled paper too.

And his age: 13.

 I'm tempted to Google Satellite the house I helped my friend move out of over forty years ago.  Maybe it would give me a sense of what really happened. But I have forgotten the address and all the houses blend together in that particular sub-division as they do elsewhere when looked at from an aerial perspective.





(C)2015-Jaye Beldo





Saturday, July 4, 2015

A Fourth in Hiding

by

Jaye Beldo


Over the fourth of July last year, I stayed in Ocean Beach in San Diego at an ex-marine's apartment. He wanted to party with his unit buddies  but I choose to hang out with his dog instead. When darkness descended, Wilfred ran into a closet and I crawled right in and held the frightened pooch, who shook even more from the Black Cat enfilades and  the flak crescendo down by the ocean later on.

While consoling the Great Dane, I recalled that earlier in the day, I had tried to talk my friend out of a suicidal depression.  I didn't think he was ready to hear about all the mind control experiments, micro-chipping of soldiers, exposure to chemicals that Gulf War vets had endured though.  He had sought refuge via consuming marijuana edibles and doing bong hits. Lots of them.  He slept for two days on the pot grow I met him on after eating too many brownies there.  We had to force him awake and were worried that he wouldn't be able to and would be in some kind of permanent cannabis coma.

I also saw him switch alter personalities on the grow. From being a kind, loving and quite charming guy to somebody totally engulfed with undiluted rage.  The image of him holding a foaming doberman by the neck off the ground and screaming at it after it started a fight with another dog, sticks with me most of all.  Nothing Dog Whisperer with his approach. The image of him picking up a flaming gas can off a pile of burning bamboo stakes and running with it also has stuck with me .  I had expected an explosion and a third degree kind of  trip to ER, but thankfully there was none. He was way stoned that time and obviously his judgement severely impaired.   The photos of the prominent family he was to marry into came to mind as well. And the gorgeous, young fiancĂ©e  in his arms too. The parents of the bride to be had brought him and her to Hawaii and he looked so happy at the dinner table. But when my friend's flip side showed, his girl called it off.

"Something just takes hold of me. But I don't know what it is." He confessed to me outside my trailer one day.

In a way I knew what it was and could see the Marine evil that had taken him over. But said nothing. Only prayed for him like I did for so many I met on that mountain.

The dog finally calmed down enough to emerge from the closet and lay near me out in the living room. I had all the lights out and just sat there staring towards the ocean, looking for peripheral flashes in the sky and wondering what independence there was left to celebrate.

After midnight and unable to sleep, I got up and looked out the kitchen window at a neighboring apartment.  A large, flat screen TV  had some porn channel running on it. Pulling away from the ugliness of it, I lay back down on my sleeping bag on the hard wooden floor. The dog came over, laid down and put his chin on my stomach. I put my hand on his back. He was still trembling.

The freeway was empty early the next day. I had five lanes all to myself as I worked my way back to Nor Cal past L.A. I had written a note for my friend thanking him for his hospitality and had hugged his dog before leaving. I chose to leave early, unable to follow through with my offer to help my friend through his darkness.  There just was  no available means to navigate through it or mine for that matter.


Wilfred



(C)2015-Jaye Beldo


Tuesday, June 9, 2015

Blood Lines Goes Country


by

Jaye Beldo







It was a relief getting out of the desert for a change.  Branson, Mo. was like benediction and we anxiously awaited Chad Brock to appear on stage.  It was a standing O when he did, except for my date, Rihanna.  She remained seated. 

My date encouraged me to do a microtonal analysis of the hit musician's Lightning Does the Work and I delved deeply into the opening chord.  In the acoustic substrate of  its fanfare resonance, we detected a subtle but pervasive resentment.  Brock's career as an All Star Wrestler did something to dampen his mean tone  muse. He had done a Corkscrew Elbow Chop on his Euterpe in their Ocala Double Wide, right off the top ropes. Black Velvet Elvis painting sucked right into her Lava Lamp womb as the two writhed on the floor in the Lightning dimension the blow opened. 

Didn't want to see Brock's psyche, but I did. In the light of the truth. Made Rihanna look real pretty in comparison and I was no longer resenting my date. Nor did I expect her to explode like Minaj did on me when I was down.

Some say Chad has a pair snake eyes, which is what he ends up throwing on the craps table he bets his life at. Over and over. The Mason odds always indict him though, even with an obvious win at hand.  Look at them closely. 

Chad didn't even make it through the opening. He knew  the only black woman in the theater and me were scrying his tune in ways that pushed him out of his tonal comfort zone. He tried looking into the darkness past the stage and pretended to be inspired by something beyond our reach. But we could see through that too. 

Yet, I wasn't there to heckle. Instead, I wanted to hop up on stage and evangelize. That within Chad's music were some very solid and long ranging potentials. Like he could collaborate with Gyorgy Ligeti or Karlheinz Stockhausen and trigger some kind of reverse engineered liberation within the Country Western industry. I mean let's up and imagine Hank Williams rising from the grave, his megaphone heart blasting out some syntonic temperament that would make Pythagoras weep. Then you'll get the idea.

But before I could share the good news, me and Rihanna were grabbed by some of Brock's thugs and tossed out onto the street.  Odd how they padlocked the doors and couldn't get in themselves. Maybe they didn't want to.

We all heard a combine start up inside on the stage. Some unearthly harvest was happening of which I'm sure I'll be able to describe before I get myself Baker Acted by the for real Chad himself when he reads this.

TBC

(C)2015-Jaye Beldo