Engineering Doom

The Dark One sat in his element, face hidden in the infinite shadow of a hood. The other sat across from him, nose sharp, eyes blinking the cold twinkle of a knife in a candle's flicker.

Their fingertips traced the rims of guilded cups. Beyond the chamber door raged the tortured sounds of an innumerable human throng.

"And how shall we bring them to this doom, Master?"

"Slowly," the Dark One said. "Slowly. They shall erect their own cage. We'll need to do little.

The Father of the Man

One night, we were watching old family videos. One section of footage, originally shot on an old 8mm camera on a hot summer day in Philadelphia, circa 1968, would bring me to tears.

There was me, just learning to walk, in dark shorts, white shoes and a striped shirt, face surrounded by a reddish-brown, curly mop of hair. The sunlight in my tiny heart -- as in the hearts of all babies -- was more than a match for the light that shone off of the car fenders and windows of the row-homes.

My mother helped me to stand, holding my hands high as I faced away from her, and when I mustered the courage, I would waddle away, about six steps, into the waiting arms of my uncle, and then turn for the return journey.

Worthless Pride

Meet Icarus. No, down in the water. (Click to enlarge)

Somewhere along the line, a switch flipped in my head. But in the past, things were different . . .

I remember being a little kid and getting teased on the playground. I remember crying about it.

Years later, during the search for our first house, I took a family member through the place we had decided to buy. She said: "I hate it." At the time, I got mad -- I remember feeling the anger burning in my stomach. She had insulted our taste. This was to be our home. How dare she?