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All stories © 2005-11 KmCarey
“The Scary Song”
It was never my intention to purposely set out to create a scary song, but I have and I’m sorry. I’m sorry that this song
has frightened some if not most of those who have listened to it. And these are my friends who have been subjected
to this madness? Yes! And why, why would I do this?
I had a real nice conversation with a good fellow tonight (no, he’s not Italian - I think?). We spoke of the scary song.
When he first mentioned that he had listened to “Do You Really Care to Know”, I expressed in no certain terms that I
preferred that he reserve comment on the piece, as I had already received an unflattering review by a mutual friend of
ours. He respected my wishes for two weeks time and until after a new, not scary song had been released. Once he
had given my new song a listen and acknowledged that it was decent and definitely not even close to scary, he felt
compelled to open up about the scary song. Not that it was dissected to any degree; just overall he deemed it a very
scary song. He asked me, “Have you taken it off your site?”
How could this be a real nice conversation? I mean, the good fellow labeled my song scary, and asked if I hadn’t
already thrown it away. It was a fantastic conversation because of the laughter! I love to hear Mike laugh, there is no
better sound in this world – and the laughter was pure and contagious! And it felt so damn good; so much better than
a good cry. And within this free-falling laughter a point, a reason, an understanding was revealed to me. The scary
song was a part of a process; a part of whatever it is that compels me to share with first myself and then others my
creative expression. I said to my good friend that I believe if it hadn’t been for the scary song, I wouldn’t have written
and brought to life “Take Me There” – the new un-scary song, which happens to be my best 4 track home recording
to date.
Come to think of it, I’ve got some pretty scary pieces of art, and scary poems, and scary journal “my time” entries; all
part of my sometimes scary process.
What makes something good-better-great and not scary? Why does scary have to be an ingredient at all? Why
would I even want to risk people – my FRIENDS from telling me to “move on!”, “your song is scary”, “It’s not my
favorite”. Why? Hey, number one I got nothing to lose. And when I share my feelings, there is the potential of
receiving in return the feelings of others; I should expect and embrace that bonus – right? What would it be like to
just hear my own voice - echo, “hello, hello, hello..”? Sad and alone! Maybe if you were to write and sing nothing
but scary songs, you would be all of this. Apparently this is not all that I want – yet.
“The process”: maybe this would have made a better essay title - better than "scary story". Because this process has
become one hell of a crazy emotional balancing act. How high is the wire now, one foot above the ground or far
above? In any case, unlike prior acts of pseudo courage, I don’t believe there is a net for me this time.
And are these feelings that I have/express credible? We know they can be scary for sure! I am NOT the
“fountainhead”, the waters of intellectual refreshment and spiritual enlightenment do not flow from my creative spigot
(which I over imbibe in at times). What do I mean when I wail “I have a mountain to climb” and “Do you really care to
know”, “How long will this go on” (all in the scary song)? What is my motivation?
<Hum> I have a better title for this essay – “scary essay”.
I bet the next one will be decent.
"RELEASE"
Is it me or do I even know where the week went? What happened? What did I do? Was there anything unusual to –
What’s for dinner? What do I feel like? I am hungry that’s for sure!
I don’t want to talk to anyone – I know <laughing> I want to be quiet with someone – just read each other’s minds.
Count fingers, then toes; pull on them and see if they will crack.
Maybe I’ll just finish that magazine article, “Divorce and Diet tips”. That author has some balls, yes, by T. Harper; I’m
saying she’s a MAN. I’m confused. I’m hungry!!
I’m ready! You know I’ve gone through every scenario, and every ending is not a happy one. I’m out of love, it’s just
not there and I’ve searched and searched….. It’s not even dark anymore! Before it was dark and difficult to see, I kept
bumping into things. I could not be sure that love wasn’t there, hiding out, I just couldn’t see it? But light is not the
problem now, maybe too much light? And everything is so damn bright and loud – and I’ve lost my appetite!
The drive home is somehow different now. I don’t know what happened this week or last week, but I know what has
been racing through my head these last few miles and they are hard memories – memories that burn. As I look
through my eyes in the rear view mirror, I can see the embers glow.
And my lips are dry and bored. What would it be like to taste a kiss again? These lips that form such perfect vowels –
Hah! Who has time for such thoughts? I can’t remember thinking such things as this, except when I was putting my
lips against his – his tasteless lips.
I think I’ll go with fish tonight, simple with lemon, pepper and some of that Cajun rice.
I’ll paint my nails white.
I’ll shave my legs.
I’ll contemplate my first next kiss - my first next tender touch.
Somehow I know that when tomorrow comes this conversation will not become a victim of “yesterday’s blur”. My life is
not so dark now that I struggle to see, or too bright and loud that I scream out in frustration. My feelings have risen up!
"The Mission Loop"
Let me think back to that day. It was beautiful I know. They were all beautiful - those walks. And my eyes were wide
open, as were my ears and my nose. This day I wrote to memory occurrences that struck me. It wasn’t a plan, but
after the second or third occasion of “hum”, it became one. What more would I encounter/discover along the Mission
loop?
Up ahead a woman of Asian descent pushing a stroller downhill and exercising at the same time. Her left arm
swinging rhythmically as the carriage wheels barreled through the soft gravel. She seemed forever in balance. As I
approached her, the pattern on her light pajama style pants came into focus – Mickey Mouse. Her hair was without a
“style”, yet naturally beautiful. I passed on the farthest right, as it was still early and I didn’t wish to startle her. She
asked me, “What time is it now?” I replied, “7:35”. And away we went.
A man with a dog approaches. He says, “Hello” from twenty paces. I ask, “How’s the dog today?” He replied with a
smirk in his tone, “She’s behaving a little bit”.
The Mission bell towers strike a pose against the baby blue beyond, as a photographer checks the lighting.
I brush my finger tips across the Rosemary hedge that spills across the sandstone wall. Its oil is strongly scented and
I bring the fragrance to my nose on 1-2-3, 1-2-3 counts…. I want to smell more! I want to run my fingers across
everything; anything within reach! The rod iron fence that I am “moving along” is perfect, solid, evenly spaced and
fun.
I hear but don’t see Doves. Their coos do not blend easily with the cries of a troubled child. “Don’t whine”, the father
implores. The boy is bundled up as if to go tobogganing!
Birds singing their songs as I begin my assent back up the hill.
Whoosh! And I’m frightened, as two cyclist scream around the tight corner like an express train.
Water calmly trickles past my feet.
*"Jerry Bevans"
*Author’s note: “Not published” (sort of)
I am very pleased that I decided to forgo my “novel” idea. This is so much more entertaining. And if you get some
entertainment out of it, God help us all!
It’s all about “filler”. A lot of filler going on out there, and don’t kid yourself that there isn’t! So why then should
KmCarey.com not include some filler? In fact, a whole crap load of filler. I just simply think that I should include (up to
where I left off/finished), my novel that will never live on past where it exists now.
Let’s give it a decent burial - now let’s!
The old church bells rang out, thus threatening a temporary loss of hearing for those unfortunates too close to the
towers and caught off guard. There were however the locals, who have adapted to this ceremonial nuisance by
either wearing ear protection while in the general vicinity, or simply by clock watching and covering their ears at the
appropriate time. It must be a strange sight indeed for a first time visitor to Saint Catherine’s Cathedral at just about
noontime and witness an event such as this; a multitude of people with their hands and fingers covering their ear
canals. What a strange crazy little custom they must wonder, probably religious in nature? And then - DONG!
DONG! DONG (…. Twelve “DONGS“)! And the obnoxious DONG that clangs out from these centuries old time
tellers apparently just keeps getting worse they say. Something about the physical properties of the bells, their age,
and the deterioration brought about by the forces of nature (God included in this category).
“My God how could they get any worse!” was the common cry scratched out of Marta Van Dam's tobacco scarred
throat.
Jerry Bevans was one of the unfortunates this day, and spent a good deal of his afternoon announcing, “I’m sorry?
Come again? Could you please…..?” And “not again!” Jerry didn’t always get it the first time, nor the second or
third. Sometimes Jerry just didn’t get the blasted thing at all. This was not the first time the bells of Saint Catherine
had provided him extreme discomfort, and odds were it would not be the last!
Outside of the bells, Jerry did love the little village of Santa Miguel and always looked forward to doing business
there. It was the absolute perfect combination of profit and relaxation. How in the hell can gearing up for business be
anything but relaxing? Two things are clear in this regard, Jerry had a sweet little product and his clients didn’t much
like to haggle. And they were loaded!
- THE END -
"Cornish Game Farm"
Did I ever tell you about (I love it when the “hook” gets set like this!) my Uncle Steve’s Cornish Game Farm? I figured
not.
My Uncle Steve (on my mother’s side) had this one hundred acre Cornish game farm. It was located in Bayou
country, southeast Louisiana. The land there is fairly wet as you can imagine. In fact it got so wet there at times that
only five of the one hundred acres would stand above water. In those times of over saturation, the little game hens
would have to huddle almost on top of one another to avoid drowning.
It was during the great rains of 1979 that I spent some time down there on that Cornish game farm. My parents were
having “difficulties” and thought it best that us children go off and give them time to sort things out. We were
scattered throughout the lower forty eight. We all drew straws and seeing that I drew the shortest, it was off to Uncle
Steve’s for me. We weren’t exactly afraid of Uncle Steve; he was just the “unknown relative”. He typically never
made an appearance in conversation, but there were back room stories and a few old pictures of the – um, farm.
I had just turned fifteen when I boarded that Greyhound in Southern California and headed out toward the rising sun.
For those of you that never traveled via “coach” in the 70’s, it was a blast! A virtual potpourri of the human condition
all squished together traveling the open road. It was a lot more main-stream in those days, as middle income America
didn’t shy away from this mode of transportation. I had traveled on the bus many times before, but never across
country and never for more than an eight hour stretch. I was going to set all time records on this adventure!
As in my past bus excursions, I was always a little anxious to discovery who I would end up sitting with. Could it be
that this time I would get that girl of my dreams? I would generally be one of the first passengers to board, and just as
promptly I looked to find a place in the back next to a window. I didn’t care about being up front with the driver where
it was more “safe”. I liked being in the back where it was maybe not so safe, there I could keep an eye on all the
people in front of me. I kept my carry-on sweatshirt draped across the vacant seat next to me, as if to say this seat is
saved for the cutest girl on the bus. I would scan the new arrivals as they would walk up the steps and make their
way to a seat. There she is! I would think, as the perfect candidate for my “saved seat” would step on stage. Oh the
pain when she made an abrupt right pirouette and disappeared behind the driver. She was now only twenty rows
away, but it might as well been an eternity!
Three days later I arrived in Matalucia, Louisiana. I was greeted at the station by my cousin Larry. Uncle Steve had
six children; one boy, Steve and the rest all girls. Steve at sixteen was the youngest, as I guess they kept trying.
(this “short” story to be continued………)
“The Scary Song”
It was never my intention to purposely set out to create a scary song, but I have and I’m sorry. I’m sorry that this song
has frightened some if not most of those who have listened to it. And these are my friends who have been subjected
to this madness? Yes! And why, why would I do this?
I had a real nice conversation with a good fellow tonight (no, he’s not Italian - I think?). We spoke of the scary song.
When he first mentioned that he had listened to “Do You Really Care to Know”, I expressed in no certain terms that I
preferred that he reserve comment on the piece, as I had already received an unflattering review by a mutual friend of
ours. He respected my wishes for two weeks time and until after a new, not scary song had been released. Once he
had given my new song a listen and acknowledged that it was decent and definitely not even close to scary, he felt
compelled to open up about the scary song. Not that it was dissected to any degree; just overall he deemed it a very
scary song. He asked me, “Have you taken it off your site?”
How could this be a real nice conversation? I mean, the good fellow labeled my song scary, and asked if I hadn’t
already thrown it away. It was a fantastic conversation because of the laughter! I love to hear Mike laugh, there is no
better sound in this world – and the laughter was pure and contagious! And it felt so damn good; so much better than
a good cry. And within this free-falling laughter a point, a reason, an understanding was revealed to me. The scary
song was a part of a process; a part of whatever it is that compels me to share with first myself and then others my
creative expression. I said to my good friend that I believe if it hadn’t been for the scary song, I wouldn’t have written
and brought to life “Take Me There” – the new un-scary song, which happens to be my best 4 track home recording
to date.
Come to think of it, I’ve got some pretty scary pieces of art, and scary poems, and scary journal “my time” entries; all
part of my sometimes scary process.
What makes something good-better-great and not scary? Why does scary have to be an ingredient at all? Why
would I even want to risk people – my FRIENDS from telling me to “move on!”, “your song is scary”, “It’s not my
favorite”. Why? Hey, number one I got nothing to lose. And when I share my feelings, there is the potential of
receiving in return the feelings of others; I should expect and embrace that bonus – right? What would it be like to
just hear my own voice - echo, “hello, hello, hello..”? Sad and alone! Maybe if you were to write and sing nothing
but scary songs, you would be all of this. Apparently this is not all that I want – yet.
“The process”: maybe this would have made a better essay title - better than "scary story". Because this process has
become one hell of a crazy emotional balancing act. How high is the wire now, one foot above the ground or far
above? In any case, unlike prior acts of pseudo courage, I don’t believe there is a net for me this time.
And are these feelings that I have/express credible? We know they can be scary for sure! I am NOT the
“fountainhead”, the waters of intellectual refreshment and spiritual enlightenment do not flow from my creative spigot
(which I over imbibe in at times). What do I mean when I wail “I have a mountain to climb” and “Do you really care to
know”, “How long will this go on” (all in the scary song)? What is my motivation?
<Hum> I have a better title for this essay – “scary essay”.
I bet the next one will be decent.
"RELEASE"
Is it me or do I even know where the week went? What happened? What did I do? Was there anything unusual to –
What’s for dinner? What do I feel like? I am hungry that’s for sure!
I don’t want to talk to anyone – I know <laughing> I want to be quiet with someone – just read each other’s minds.
Count fingers, then toes; pull on them and see if they will crack.
Maybe I’ll just finish that magazine article, “Divorce and Diet tips”. That author has some balls, yes, by T. Harper; I’m
saying she’s a MAN. I’m confused. I’m hungry!!
I’m ready! You know I’ve gone through every scenario, and every ending is not a happy one. I’m out of love, it’s just
not there and I’ve searched and searched….. It’s not even dark anymore! Before it was dark and difficult to see, I kept
bumping into things. I could not be sure that love wasn’t there, hiding out, I just couldn’t see it? But light is not the
problem now, maybe too much light? And everything is so damn bright and loud – and I’ve lost my appetite!
The drive home is somehow different now. I don’t know what happened this week or last week, but I know what has
been racing through my head these last few miles and they are hard memories – memories that burn. As I look
through my eyes in the rear view mirror, I can see the embers glow.
And my lips are dry and bored. What would it be like to taste a kiss again? These lips that form such perfect vowels –
Hah! Who has time for such thoughts? I can’t remember thinking such things as this, except when I was putting my
lips against his – his tasteless lips.
I think I’ll go with fish tonight, simple with lemon, pepper and some of that Cajun rice.
I’ll paint my nails white.
I’ll shave my legs.
I’ll contemplate my first next kiss - my first next tender touch.
Somehow I know that when tomorrow comes this conversation will not become a victim of “yesterday’s blur”. My life is
not so dark now that I struggle to see, or too bright and loud that I scream out in frustration. My feelings have risen up!
"The Mission Loop"
Let me think back to that day. It was beautiful I know. They were all beautiful - those walks. And my eyes were wide
open, as were my ears and my nose. This day I wrote to memory occurrences that struck me. It wasn’t a plan, but
after the second or third occasion of “hum”, it became one. What more would I encounter/discover along the Mission
loop?
Up ahead a woman of Asian descent pushing a stroller downhill and exercising at the same time. Her left arm
swinging rhythmically as the carriage wheels barreled through the soft gravel. She seemed forever in balance. As I
approached her, the pattern on her light pajama style pants came into focus – Mickey Mouse. Her hair was without a
“style”, yet naturally beautiful. I passed on the farthest right, as it was still early and I didn’t wish to startle her. She
asked me, “What time is it now?” I replied, “7:35”. And away we went.
A man with a dog approaches. He says, “Hello” from twenty paces. I ask, “How’s the dog today?” He replied with a
smirk in his tone, “She’s behaving a little bit”.
The Mission bell towers strike a pose against the baby blue beyond, as a photographer checks the lighting.
I brush my finger tips across the Rosemary hedge that spills across the sandstone wall. Its oil is strongly scented and
I bring the fragrance to my nose on 1-2-3, 1-2-3 counts…. I want to smell more! I want to run my fingers across
everything; anything within reach! The rod iron fence that I am “moving along” is perfect, solid, evenly spaced and
fun.
I hear but don’t see Doves. Their coos do not blend easily with the cries of a troubled child. “Don’t whine”, the father
implores. The boy is bundled up as if to go tobogganing!
Birds singing their songs as I begin my assent back up the hill.
Whoosh! And I’m frightened, as two cyclist scream around the tight corner like an express train.
Water calmly trickles past my feet.
*"Jerry Bevans"
*Author’s note: “Not published” (sort of)
I am very pleased that I decided to forgo my “novel” idea. This is so much more entertaining. And if you get some
entertainment out of it, God help us all!
It’s all about “filler”. A lot of filler going on out there, and don’t kid yourself that there isn’t! So why then should
KmCarey.com not include some filler? In fact, a whole crap load of filler. I just simply think that I should include (up to
where I left off/finished), my novel that will never live on past where it exists now.
Let’s give it a decent burial - now let’s!
The old church bells rang out, thus threatening a temporary loss of hearing for those unfortunates too close to the
towers and caught off guard. There were however the locals, who have adapted to this ceremonial nuisance by
either wearing ear protection while in the general vicinity, or simply by clock watching and covering their ears at the
appropriate time. It must be a strange sight indeed for a first time visitor to Saint Catherine’s Cathedral at just about
noontime and witness an event such as this; a multitude of people with their hands and fingers covering their ear
canals. What a strange crazy little custom they must wonder, probably religious in nature? And then - DONG!
DONG! DONG (…. Twelve “DONGS“)! And the obnoxious DONG that clangs out from these centuries old time
tellers apparently just keeps getting worse they say. Something about the physical properties of the bells, their age,
and the deterioration brought about by the forces of nature (God included in this category).
“My God how could they get any worse!” was the common cry scratched out of Marta Van Dam's tobacco scarred
throat.
Jerry Bevans was one of the unfortunates this day, and spent a good deal of his afternoon announcing, “I’m sorry?
Come again? Could you please…..?” And “not again!” Jerry didn’t always get it the first time, nor the second or
third. Sometimes Jerry just didn’t get the blasted thing at all. This was not the first time the bells of Saint Catherine
had provided him extreme discomfort, and odds were it would not be the last!
Outside of the bells, Jerry did love the little village of Santa Miguel and always looked forward to doing business
there. It was the absolute perfect combination of profit and relaxation. How in the hell can gearing up for business be
anything but relaxing? Two things are clear in this regard, Jerry had a sweet little product and his clients didn’t much
like to haggle. And they were loaded!
- THE END -
"Cornish Game Farm"
Did I ever tell you about (I love it when the “hook” gets set like this!) my Uncle Steve’s Cornish Game Farm? I figured
not.
My Uncle Steve (on my mother’s side) had this one hundred acre Cornish game farm. It was located in Bayou
country, southeast Louisiana. The land there is fairly wet as you can imagine. In fact it got so wet there at times that
only five of the one hundred acres would stand above water. In those times of over saturation, the little game hens
would have to huddle almost on top of one another to avoid drowning.
It was during the great rains of 1979 that I spent some time down there on that Cornish game farm. My parents were
having “difficulties” and thought it best that us children go off and give them time to sort things out. We were
scattered throughout the lower forty eight. We all drew straws and seeing that I drew the shortest, it was off to Uncle
Steve’s for me. We weren’t exactly afraid of Uncle Steve; he was just the “unknown relative”. He typically never
made an appearance in conversation, but there were back room stories and a few old pictures of the – um, farm.
I had just turned fifteen when I boarded that Greyhound in Southern California and headed out toward the rising sun.
For those of you that never traveled via “coach” in the 70’s, it was a blast! A virtual potpourri of the human condition
all squished together traveling the open road. It was a lot more main-stream in those days, as middle income America
didn’t shy away from this mode of transportation. I had traveled on the bus many times before, but never across
country and never for more than an eight hour stretch. I was going to set all time records on this adventure!
As in my past bus excursions, I was always a little anxious to discovery who I would end up sitting with. Could it be
that this time I would get that girl of my dreams? I would generally be one of the first passengers to board, and just as
promptly I looked to find a place in the back next to a window. I didn’t care about being up front with the driver where
it was more “safe”. I liked being in the back where it was maybe not so safe, there I could keep an eye on all the
people in front of me. I kept my carry-on sweatshirt draped across the vacant seat next to me, as if to say this seat is
saved for the cutest girl on the bus. I would scan the new arrivals as they would walk up the steps and make their
way to a seat. There she is! I would think, as the perfect candidate for my “saved seat” would step on stage. Oh the
pain when she made an abrupt right pirouette and disappeared behind the driver. She was now only twenty rows
away, but it might as well been an eternity!
Three days later I arrived in Matalucia, Louisiana. I was greeted at the station by my cousin Larry. Uncle Steve had
six children; one boy, Steve and the rest all girls. Steve at sixteen was the youngest, as I guess they kept trying.
(this “short” story to be continued………)
| | | | | | | | |
You must have seen me a good half block or so before I saw you white dog at the fence. But I was thinking about
you – I was thinking about you before I looked up and saw that you were out. Normally with you it is as though you
just appear, or I just appear; and in this moment, I’m always startled! You are such a quiet animal, never so much as a
whimper out of you. I’m embarrassed when this happens – when you startle me.
You make me curious. I feel as though we know each other better; what has it been, as I’ve lost count to the number
of times that I’ve passed by your fence? And I’ve said a few words, so I think you know my voice. And I’ve done my
best to be warm and friendly – and it’s genuine I swear! What does your dog-sense say about all of this? You make
me so curious white dog at the fence!
What is your name? How old are you? Jesus, are you male or female? I’m guessing female and I’m going to take a
peek next time to find this out. Will your gender change my approach with you in any way?
And it’s not every time that I walk down the hill that you are there at your fence; perhaps 50% of the time. But for sure
on my return back up the hill you disappear, as I don’t see you at all from the other side of the street. Why don’t you
wait until I’ve passed one last time? I just don’t get it!
Today was fun. I clapped my hands in excitement to see you, and you in turn showed some uncharacteristic bounce.
But before this you looked at me hard, and for the first time we really locked into each other’s eyes. What did I hear
in my head during this uncomfortable moment? “Don’t ever look a dog directly in the eyes!” Too late, as I soaked up
those golden yellow eyes. I must say white dog at the fence, they were intimidating. Thankfully your bounce promptly
followed the stare-down and helped to neutralize my apprehension.
Wearing a smile without looking back, I envision my fingers brushing lightly along that chain link fence and feeling the
air from your nostrils smelling me out. I hope when this happens I am agreeable to you white dog at the fence.
you – I was thinking about you before I looked up and saw that you were out. Normally with you it is as though you
just appear, or I just appear; and in this moment, I’m always startled! You are such a quiet animal, never so much as a
whimper out of you. I’m embarrassed when this happens – when you startle me.
You make me curious. I feel as though we know each other better; what has it been, as I’ve lost count to the number
of times that I’ve passed by your fence? And I’ve said a few words, so I think you know my voice. And I’ve done my
best to be warm and friendly – and it’s genuine I swear! What does your dog-sense say about all of this? You make
me so curious white dog at the fence!
What is your name? How old are you? Jesus, are you male or female? I’m guessing female and I’m going to take a
peek next time to find this out. Will your gender change my approach with you in any way?
And it’s not every time that I walk down the hill that you are there at your fence; perhaps 50% of the time. But for sure
on my return back up the hill you disappear, as I don’t see you at all from the other side of the street. Why don’t you
wait until I’ve passed one last time? I just don’t get it!
Today was fun. I clapped my hands in excitement to see you, and you in turn showed some uncharacteristic bounce.
But before this you looked at me hard, and for the first time we really locked into each other’s eyes. What did I hear
in my head during this uncomfortable moment? “Don’t ever look a dog directly in the eyes!” Too late, as I soaked up
those golden yellow eyes. I must say white dog at the fence, they were intimidating. Thankfully your bounce promptly
followed the stare-down and helped to neutralize my apprehension.
Wearing a smile without looking back, I envision my fingers brushing lightly along that chain link fence and feeling the
air from your nostrils smelling me out. I hope when this happens I am agreeable to you white dog at the fence.
| "White Dog at the Fence" |
