izzyzblog

DOCTOR WHO?

2009-06-14T02:10:00.000-07:00

Doctor Who?

A True Story by Izzy Sommers, MD

About ten years ago, here in Welland, I started writing letters to the editor. Most of them were certainly pet peeves but some of them were complimentary to the city fathers regarding their sprucing up of the city and making it safer. After perhaps 10 letters published in as many weeks, including a Longfellow type, 50 line poem about a Sunday walk in one of our parks one Sunday morning, some of my acquaintances in town started calling me Joseph. They were somewhat disbelieving when I said, “No, my real name is Izzy, really.”

After about a year of this, I noticed that a frequent letter writer to the editor in the Welland Tribune was Joseph Somers. Joseph called me one morning and laughed. “I think I’m getting blamed for what you wrote and I’m sure you’re getting blamed for what I wrote.” Joseph and I have become good email friends in the meantime. About 3 years ago, I was getting little response from my letters and mentioned this to Joseph. He was very complimentary about my ideas and writing, and said it would be a great loss to him and the community, if I stopped. I still get little response except from Joseph, but now I also get little or no response from The Washington Post, The New York Times, the International Herald Tribune, the Toronto Sun and the Toronto Globe and Mail, as well. It’s actually a lot of fun.

One of the reporters for the Washington Post did send me an email in response to some comments about Obama. It simply said, “well said!” It made my day, my week and my whole career as a letter writer. The most fun is the open Question and Answer forum on Canadian Yahoo! The feedback is often instantaneous and very funny. I have the unreasonable distinction of having had about 60 letters published in the Welland Tribune, over a hundred posts on Yahoo’s Q&A service and over a hundred letters posted in various electronic newspaper services, especially the Washington Post, which makes it most convenient to post one’s comments directly under the articles of the reporters, some of whom are very well known, like George Will and Armin Specter. I even have a published letter about zebras in the Canadian Reader’s Digest.

THE END

© Izzy Sommers, MD, retired, Welland, Canada, June 13, 2009

Nicotine Revisited

2009-06-14T02:08:00.000-07:00

canadizzy wrote:
Dear Lyndsey Layton,

Thank you for your excellent reporting of this controversial subject.

I believe the push to stop folks from using tobacco, a source of nicotine, is like getting them to throw the baby out with the bath water. Nicotine, like caffeine, morphine and alcohol, have been used for centuries by entire civilizations to reduce stress and perform ceremonies. Nicotinic acid is a naturally occuring substance that comes from plants and is accepted by the brain and nervous system in a healthy, normal, physiological system. There are receptor sites, with which we are born that accept it in a kind of biological receptor site wherein the nicotine locks into the cell membrane and induces the cells to produce biologic substances which stimulate brain cell growth and brain cell function. The North American Aboriginals used the "Peace Pipe" to make discussions of conflicts and histories more acceptable to the participants, mainly within the elderly population. The medical community used nicotinic acid in the form of pills and elixirs to treat stroke victims with success in the early 20th century. Studies show that folks that use tobacco products have more brain pathways and play Euchre better that those that don't. The same is true of caffeine product users. In a nursing home, the elderly folks that smoke and drink coffee tea or chocolate, do crosswords better than those that don't. Cigar and pipe smokers live two years longer than those that don't, and so on. It seems to me the problem with cigarettes is their adulteration with nicotine and other substances and the use of cigarette paper which burns with the tobacco and produces toxins like carbon dioxide and carbon monoxide. It is conceivable that cigarettes with unadulterated tobacco, wrapped in tobacco leaves, would be completely harmless and would provide the benefits of a natural, positive psychoactive substance. If cigarette manufacturers are not allowed to poison us with commercially driven additives, including the paper, then all would be honky-dory.

There is not enough space in the world of electronic newspapers to cover the wide spectrum of problems introduced by profit driven manufacturers who have no moral inhibition to make products that are untested and dangerous. I will only give as an example that before antihistamines were sold, no child ever died of asthma. In the past few years, the warnings for use in asthmatic children and adults have finally been heralded. I daresay that many more lives would be saved if strong alcohol, for which the brain has no receptor sites, would be banned, rather than cigars and pipes. Untold numbers of deaths are due to alcohol abuse with a resultant high cost to everyone else. Banning hand guns and gasoline engine cars would save more lives. Banning nuclear bomb manufacturing would save us from annihilation. Bringing back good beer and good wine, steam cars and hand to hand combat would be a blessing.

Thank you in advance for allowing me to post these humble comments right underneath your fine article.

Sincerely,

Izzy Sommers, MD, retired,
Welland, Canada
6/13/2009 8:39:09 AM

North Korea Says

2009-06-14T02:02:00.000-07:00

THE WASHINGTON POST

washingtonpost.com > World > Special Reports > North Korea

www.washingtonpost.com

TODAY'S NEWSPAPER

Your Comments On

North Korea Says It Will Start Enriching Uranium
TOKYO, June 13 -- North Korea adamantly denied for seven years that it had a program for making nuclear weapons from enriched uranium.
-
By Blaine Harden [USA and Stella Kim, Korea]
COMMENTS:

canadizzy wrote:
Dear Mr. Harden and Ms. Kim,

Hasn't anyone considered the great “solution” to the "problem" with North Korea, reunification of Korea. Like the split of Germany during the Cold War between USSR and USA and their respective allies, the split of North and South Korea has had little advantage in terms of progress of North Korea. Commercially, it seems to me, the South Koreans have been far more successful in world trade and politics than the North Koreans. I would never have believed how resistant the East German folks were to reunification, but then again, I'm sure I was not privy to all the information. And, I’m sure that my view of which is more successful is slanted by the political milieu in which I live. What I did know was that there were many Germans in the neutral country of Switzerland in 1968 that were politicking for reunification. Is there a movement for reunification for the Koreans? It would not be simple or uncomplicated. It would be hard work, internally and internationally. It would, it seems to me, to be the ultimate solution to the problems of Korea, both North and South. Certainly it would be better than annihilation. The "areas" of interest for the Russians and the Americans would best be dissolved, I believe, so that unreasonable leaders in one area are handled internally rather than by the people of the world at large. It makes sense to me. I'm not sure why it doesn't make sense to everyone else, on both sides. I’m willing to consider that I don’t know the feelings of the Koreans themselves..

Thank you in advance for this article and for allowing me to post my comments directly under yours. Canada and the USA split at the time of the American Revolution. The conflict with the English and their colonies was over taxes and land ownership, I believe. The continued problems between the USA and Canada still continue under the recent NAFTA provisions. Border crossings and trans-border trade are presently getting tougher, rather than better, but overall, the relationships between Canada and the USA have allowed both to flourish fairly well. Certainly the same can be said for the artificially divided East and West Germany and North and South Vietnam. Korea needs to be a united, successful country, as all countries do, solving its own problems with it's own cultures and its own language. The North and South Koreans would re-unite their families and work together for commercial success, better golfers, inner and outer peace and prevention of annihilation, I believe. This would allow the East and West to be more co-operative and help them out rather than remain antagonistic.

Sincerely,

Izzy Sommers, MD, retired, Welland, Canada.
6/14/2009 4:31:25 AM

Ahmadinejad Vows

2009-06-14T02:00:00.000-07:00

Ahmadinejad Vows New Start As Clashes Flare

TEHRAN, June 13 -- President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad declared a "new beginning" for Iran late Saturday after he was declared victor in the presidential election, but as he spoke on national television violent demonstrations rolled through several areas of Tehran. Supporters of defeated candidate Mir...
By Thomas Erdbrink

THE WASHINGTON POST
TODAY'S NEWSPAPER
washingtonpost.com > World > Middle East > Iran

OPINION:

canadizzy wrote:
Now, this is what free elections are all about! Americans and Canadians should take note of the passions that can be fired by really good choices at election time. We could learn something of what enthusiastic elections and candidates could engender. This is "hot" stuff and gets everyone involved in the running of his own country. Of course, now they have to learn to run their own country and not try to run the countries of other folks... Thanks for listening.

6/14/2009 4:47:48 AM

The Chambermaid of Elsinore

2009-06-11T08:08:00.000-07:00

A Silly Sonnette by Izzy Sommers

Methinks the governor of Elsinore
Adored the chambermaid from Corridor
Who loved the Spanish born Conquistador
Who yearned for Isidore, the Matador.

Suffice to say, one moonlit night of love,
The super novas, brightly from above
Shone for a busy Izzy’s turtle dove
When Ellsinore’s maid made a little shove.

The maid, whose name, Penelope entranced
The Governor who did a whirling dance,
Removing all his clothes when Penny pranced
With her Conquistador in Paris, France.

The maid was made by every man who dared
To pay high homage to the scared old Laird.

THE END

© Izzy Sommers, MD
Welland, Canada
June 2, 2009

Letter to The Washington Post re Palin

2009-06-11T08:05:00.000-07:00

canadizzy wrote:
Dear Ms. Parker,

I'm not an American with a vote but I would vote for Palin without hesitation and without reservation. She’s fresh and painfully honest about her inability to toe the line and learn the language. She has her own language and her own agenda. She is unaffected by the likes of Cheney, Gingrich and McCain, who have the demonstrated power to blackball her.. If one of her Republican commanders would have recognized the value of a Palin to them, they would have smiled benignly and laughed along with everyone else including a tremendous crowd of fans that she accumulated. I judge her to be a stranger in the Promised Land, a Type B personality amongst a lot of Type capital A's and a master of being down to Earth. She speaks the language of the people and has shunned political rhetoric in favour of street, American English. The comedians of SNL recognized her value to their show and ran with it.

There's no doubt in my mind that she is a master at getting sympathy and votes from hard working, tax burdened citizens, a group not often touched by Republicans. As you said, she rivaled Obama for air time and newspaper space and fund raising and no wonder. Her attitude and aptitude attracts the common man and striving to be independent woman, not the bankers, administrators, brokers or insurers making all those bucks and hoarding all that gold. All McCain would have had to do was to lose his school teaching, fathering, preaching and moralizing attitude toward her and sat back and won the presidency. That's what I said last year and I'm saying it this year. Let her be and she'll win against Obama, easily. Try and make her into a Republican animal and she'll balk and refuse to participate. The Republicans would do well to get in line behind her instead of standing in front of her, impeding her successes and putting her in a protective pen.. At present, the old boys club of Republicans are going to be annihilated unless they see the writing on the wall. A fatherly, priestly, moralizing leader is not what the Americans require today. They need a free spirit and an honest, plain-talking one to lead them to the Promised Land and to a fulfillment of the American Dream for everyone.

Sarah Palin has the first historic Republican groundswell of admiring Americans for her spunk and honest values. She could win it all with very little help from her fellow Republicans. She’s not as smart as Thomas Jefferson, JFK or Bill Clinton, but she has the stuff of which Ben Franklin and Jimmy Carter was made and she seems to have more fun.

Thank you for listening and thank you for allowing me to post my comments directly under yours. Your reporting was excellent and I appreciate your candid observations. Best personal regards.

Sincerely,

Izzy Sommers, MD, retired, Welland, Canada.
6/10/2009 2:39:35 PM
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Your Comments On...
Half-Baked Alaska
Sarah Palin still isn't ready for the Big Game Hunt of national politics.
-
By Kathleen Parker

AN EIGHT-HANDED MAN

2009-05-29T05:31:00.000-07:00

A Man With Eight Hands

A Sonnette
By Izzy Sommers, MD

I met a man from Western Inner Bands
Who demonstrated that he held eight hands
Which represented East, West, North and South
In Duplicate, last year, by word of mouth,
Which won for him and Genevieve the prize
Of Twenty thousand Deutsch Marks and some Gold
Left over from the World War II from bold
And schizophrenic egomaniacs.
Perhaps, the egomaniacs have had
Their traumas and anxieties, expressed
Their anger at some scapegoats and some aliens
As part of xenophobia and social
Phobias, when covered up, are deadly
If their power is not curbed by TRUTH.

The End

© Izzy Sommers, MD
Welland, Canada
May 29, 2009

ANOTHER MISUNDERSTOOD BERGMAN

2009-05-29T05:29:00.000-07:00

At last, another Bergman has arisen to confound and thrill us with his artistry and imagination, his insights into interpersonal and inter-spiritual relationships and his exciting artistry. Now, he is forced to "clean it up" for monotheists, around the world, so they can't see the raw values for which they stand: human sacrifice and striving for fundamentalist perfectionism, control and subjugation. Let him be! Let his stark pictures thrill us and stimulate and disgust us. Otherwise true insight and understanding is out.

Danish 'Antichrist' provides Cannes' annual scandal
• Sun May 24, 9:58 PM
CANNES, France (AFP) - Cannes nearly always has its scandal and this year it came in the form of a Danish "Antichrist" that provoked such a storm its director promised a cleaner "Catholic" version for US audiences.

FOR mr. HARDEN OF THE washingtonpost.com

2009-05-29T05:23:00.000-07:00

Dear Mr. Harden,

Thank you for your article on the latest fiasco from North Korea. I believe it is just such an article that was expected and "planned" by the North Koreans, who are in the midst of a leadership struggle and an international scandal. Publicizing this as an atrocity, only fires the fuel of the bullies in North Korea who seek control, internal and external. They have successfully scared us and their own people to provoke a certain kind of voting behaviour and a certain kind of diplomatic ado. It's the world wide and nation wide propaganda they seek to get re-elected and show the country and themselves that they have the power and deserve to be voted in, again.

I suggest, perhaps naively, that the world stop seeing their activities as dangerous. The only people who will be truly harmed are the common North Korean folks who have as much of a distaste for a leader who threatens annihilation as we do. Give the space and the rope to destroy themselves without harm to the populaces of the world and their own populace. Turn off the satellite surveillances. Pay no attention to their propagandas. Continue to take the high road: offer help until they smarten up and see that threatening death will get them nowhere! Turn the other cheek. Forgive thine enemies as they will eventually forgive you. Offer love and forgiveness, not anger and fear. See if, eventually, they will do the same.

Share a bowl of chicken soup and some great lo mien with them. Let the sensible common folks say hi across the backyard fence and share a BBQ hamburger or kabob with them. They are people. We are people. We want to feed our families and have a satisfying job which has a reasonable wage. We want to worship our deities in peace and without interference. Amen.

Thank you for letting me post these comments right after your excellent article, on the extremely convenient website, www.washingtonpost.com.

Sincerely,

Izzy Sommers, MD, retired, Welland, Canada.

canadizzy wrote:
Dear Mr. Harden,

Thank you for your article on the latest fiasco from North Korea. I believe it is just such an article that was expected and "planned" by the North Koreans, who are in the midst of a leadership struggle and an international scandal. Publicizing this as an atrocity, only fires the fuel of the bullies in North Korea who seek control, internal and external. They have successfully scared us and their own people to provoke a certain kind of voting behaviour and a certain kind of diplomatic ado. It's the world wide and nation wide propaganda they seek to get re-elected and show the country and themselves that they have the power and deserve to be voted in, again.

I suggest, perhaps naively, that the world stop seeing their activities as dangerous. The only people who will be truly harmed are the common North Korean folks who have as much of a distaste for a leader who threatens annihilation as we do. Give the space and the rope to destroy themselves without harm to the populaces of the world and their own populace. Turn off the satellite surveillances. Pay no attention to their propagandas. Continue to take the high road: offer help until they smarten up and see that threatening death will get them nowhere! Turn the other cheek. Forgive thine enemies as they will eventually forgive you. Offer love and forgiveness, not anger and fear. See if, eventually, they will do the same.

Share a bowl of chicken soup and some great lo mien with them. Let the sensible common folks say hi across the backyard fence and share a BBQ hamburger or kabob with them. They are people. We are people. We want to feed our families and have a satisfying job which has a reasonable wage. We want to worship our deities in peace and without interference. Amen.

Thank you for letting me post these comments right after your excellent article, on the extremely convenient website, www.washingtonpost.com.

Sincerely,

Izzy Sommers, MD, retired, Welland, Canada.
5/26/2009 7:05:07 AM

TODAY'S NEWSPAPER
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washingtonpost.com > World > Asia/Pacific

Your Comments On...
North Korean Nuclear Blast Draws Global Condemnation
TOKYO, May 27 -- North Korea's detonation of a nuclear device Monday appears not to have been a significant technical advance over its first underground test three years ago. But it has triggered a swifter, stronger and more uniform wave of international condemnation, most notably from the isola...

BANKING REGULATION THESE DAYS

2009-05-29T05:17:00.000-07:00

Dear reporters and writers of the excellent article on banking regulation in today’s Washington Post:

Canada's banks are under central control and private banks are few, but include several participating local depositories called "trust" banks, with local and international branches which sell stock to their depositors and are allowed to supply checks and debit cards. The Bank of Canada, a Federal agency, is equivalent to the USA's Federal Reserve and regulates the interest rates as it loans money to the other big banks and their local and international branches, namely, The Bank of Nova Scotia, the Royal Bank of Canada, The Bank of Montreal, The National Bank and the Canadian Bank of Commerce. The present lending rate from the Bank of Canada is under 1% and the equivalent of the USA’s CD’s, earn less than 3% at this time, even with a 5 year commitment.

This system did not prevent the near collapse of these major banks and trust companies for the same reasons as in the USA: fear of unpaid loans and mortgages, despite lowering of interest rates, close to zero. Ironically, almost all fees and interest rates have risen sharply for credit cards and other services making Canadians loath to use their credit cards and the bank services as they are being nickel and dime’d to death with exorbitant credit card interest, some over 20%, and fees for simple services which used to be free, like checking accounts. Bank interest for savings has fallen to about 1% making Canadians unwilling to bank their money, altogether.

Therefore, Federal regulations have the made the banks "unfriendly" to citizens. Thus, the idea of a central, single agency for regulation is not the answer to banking woes, I believe. It seems to me that simple competition is the answer. Allowing banks to raise their rewards for saving and lower their fees for borrowing, would make one bank more attractive than the next, rather than having all banks with approximately the same fees and interest. A bank after all makes money by lending and issuing mortgages, etc. At this time, it is unattractive to get mortgage loans and business loans and the banks are restrictive rather than friendly, reducing overall the money supply and availability for homes and businesses.

Most large banks were exultant several years ago, reporting obscene profits of over 2 billion for their executives and shareholders. With the recent crunch, they whined when their profits dropped to 1 billion. They stopped lending money, raising their already unfriendly interests for credit and fees for services. I believe that mattresses, once again, became a safer place to keep ones hard earned cash. Buying small or big ticket items became uncommon, dropping the economic confidence for manufacturers and services.

This overview may be inaccurate and naive, but that's the way it looks to me as a retiree, in Canada. I'm not sure what the solutions are, but bailouts for banks and their executives seem counterproductive and only solidifies unfavourable banking services. Allowing them to go bankrupt may be a wake-up call for all banks who will have to be more friendly to their customers and not nickel and dime them out of the marbled bank lobbies, which remind one of churches and temples. The local trust companies draw more customers because they appear to be more co-operative, more sharing and more understanding of the needs of the citizens. I feel the days of the evil banker foreclosing the mortgage on the unfortunate citizen, with a frown on the citizen's face and a grin on the banker's face, are over, or should be.

Perhaps both the citizens and the banks have had their wake-up calls regarding loans and credit. Perhaps "consumerism" is no longer an acceptable attitude for both entrepreneurs or citizens. All of us need reasonable housing, transportation, food, clothing, toys, education, health care, dental care and welfare. All of us need to make a reasonable income at a satisfying job where we can participate in decisions for manufacturing and services. Unreasonable salaries and banking practices are counterproductive and destructive to the American/Canadian Dream. The bubble has burst in 2008-9 as it did in the 1930's. Enron, Lehman Brothers and Martha Stuart got their comeuppance early. The rest of us are getting ours now.

A central agency without insight and respect for the hard working, tax-burdened citizen trying to support a family in a healthy, optimistic atmosphere, would be useless, and even worse than useless, as it would tend to maintain the status quo. A little competition and a fiat against "price fixing" of interest rates and fees, might help.

Thanks in advance for allowing me to post these comments below your article at www.washingtonpost.com.

Sincerely,

Izzy Sommers, MD (ret.) Welland, Canada

canadizzy wrote:
Dear reporters and writers of the excellent article on banking regulation in today’s Washington Post:

Canada's banks are under central control and private banks are few, but include several participating local depositories called "trust" banks, with local and international branches which sell stock to their depositors and are allowed to supply checks and debit cards. The Bank of Canada, a Federal agency, is equivalent to the USA's Federal Reserve and regulates the interest rates as it loans money to the other big banks and their local and international branches, namely, The Bank of Nova Scotia, the Royal Bank of Canada, The Bank of Montreal, The National Bank and the Canadian Bank of Commerce. The present lending rate from the Bank of Canada is under 1% and the equivalent of the USA’s CD’s, earn less than 3% at this time, even with a 5 year commitment.

This system did not prevent the near collapse of these major banks and trust companies for the same reasons as in the USA: fear of unpaid loans and mortgages, despite lowering of interest rates, close to zero. Ironically, almost all fees and interest rates have risen sharply for credit cards and other services making Canadians loath to use their credit cards and the bank services as they are being nickel and dime’d to death with exorbitant credit card interest, some over 20%, and fees for simple services which used to be free, like checking accounts. Bank interest for savings has fallen to about 1% making Canadians unwilling to bank their money, altogether.

Therefore, Federal regulations have the made the banks "unfriendly" to citizens. Thus, the idea of a central, single agency for regulation is not the answer to banking woes, I believe. It seems to me that simple competition is the answer. Allowing banks to raise their rewards for saving and lower their fees for borrowing, would make one bank more attractive than the next, rather than having all banks with approximately the same fees and interest. A bank after all makes money by lending and issuing mortgages, etc. At this time, it is unattractive to get mortgage loans and business loans and the banks are restrictive rather than friendly, reducing overall the money supply and availability for homes and businesses.

Most large banks were exultant several years ago, reporting obscene profits of over 2 billion for their executives and shareholders. With the recent crunch, they whined when their profits dropped to 1 billion. They stopped lending money, raising their already unfriendly interests for credit and fees for services. I believe that mattresses, once again, became a safer place to keep ones hard earned cash. Buying small or big ticket items became uncommon, dropping the economic confidence for manufacturers and services.

This overview may be inaccurate and naive, but that's the way it looks to me as a retiree, in Canada. I'm not sure what the solutions are, but bailouts for banks and their executives seem counterproductive and only solidifies unfavourable banking services. Allowing them to go bankrupt may be a wake-up call for all banks who will have to be more friendly to their customers and not nickel and dime them out of the marbled bank lobbies, which remind one of churches and temples. The local trust companies draw more customers because they appear to be more co-operative, more sharing and more understanding of the needs of the citizens. I feel the days of the evil banker foreclosing the mortgage on the unfortunate citizen, with a frown on the citizen's face and a grin on the banker's face, are over, or should be.

Perhaps both the citizens and the banks have had their wake-up calls regarding loans and credit. Perhaps "consumerism" is no longer an acceptable attitude for both entrepreneurs or citizens. All of us need reasonable housing, transportation, food, clothing, toys, education, health care, dental care and welfare. All of us need to make a reasonable income at a satisfying job where we can participate in decisions for manufacturing and services. Unreasonable salaries and banking practices are counterproductive and destructive to the American/Canadian Dream. The bubble has burst in 2008-9 as it did in the 1930's. Enron, Lehman Brothers and Martha Stuart got their comeuppance early. The rest of us are getting ours now.

A central agency without insight and respect for the hard working, tax-burdened citizen trying to support a family in a healthy, optimistic atmosphere, would be useless, and even worse than useless, as it would tend to maintain the status quo. A little competition and a fiat against "price fixing" of interest rates and fees, might help.

Thanks in advance for allowing me to post these comments below your article at www.washingtonpost.com.

Sincerely,

Izzy Sommers, MD, (retired,) Welland, Canada
5/28/2009 7:10:50 AM
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Your Comments On...
U.S. Weighs Single Agency to Regulate Banking Industry
Senior administration officials are considering the creation of a single agency to regulate the banking industry, replacing a patchwork of agencies that failed to prevent banks from falling into the worst financial crisis since the Great Depression, sources said.
-
By Binyamin Appelbaum and Zachary A. Goldfarb

FOR DAVID IGNATIUS, WASHINGTON POST

2009-05-29T05:13:00.000-07:00

Dear Mr. Ignatius:

Thank you for reporting your interview with Bernanke, the brave steward of the Fed. We all thought that Alan Greenspan, once a disciple of Ayn Rand and her principles of Logical Positivism, was the best. Now it looks like Bernanke has been up to the job. His view of history and the psychology of investors and investment are outstanding. His ability to adapt to rapidly changing conditions and challenges is outstanding. His logic and morality seem to be unquestioned.

I vote a resounding "Yes!" to Bernanke’s having another term at the post of Fed Chair. I think Obama would be ill advised to replace him, unless of course, Bernanke requests some peace and quiet for a year or two. Should he desire to be in the midst of the action, then he should be given the chance to show his stuff, again. If he burns out or makes a serious misjudgment, which seems unlikely, then it would be time to replace him. Perhaps Summers or even Greenspan, or both, could be hired to work with him and support his analyses and decisions. A shared responsibility might be stronger than just one man at the helm. A little more openness in the decision-making processes might also be re-assuring for the rest of us.

Thank you in advance for listening and allowing me to post my comments right below yours at www.washingtonpost.com. Congratulations on an excellent interview and an insightful report.

Sincerely,

Izzy Sommers, MD, retired, Welland, Canada

canadizzy wrote:
Dear Mr. Ignatius:

Thank you for reporting your interview with Bernanke, the brave steward of the Fed. We all thought that Alan Greenspan, once a disciple of Ayn Rand and her principles of Logical Positivism, was the best. Now it looks like Bernanke has been up to the job. His view of history and the psychology of investors and investment are outstanding. His ability to adapt to rapidly changing conditions and challenges is outstanding. His logic and morality seem to be unquestioned.

I vote a resounding "Yes!" to Bernanke’s having another term at the post of Fed Chair. I think Obama would be ill advised to replace him, unless of course, Bernanke requests some peace and quiet for a year or two. Should he desire to be in the midst of the action, then he should be given the chance to show his stuff, again. If he burns out or makes a serious misjudgment, which seems unlikely, then it would be time to replace him. Perhaps Summers or even Greenspan, or both, could be hired to work with him and support his analyses and decisions. A shared responsibility might be stronger than just one man at the helm. A little more openness in the decision-making processes might also be re-assuring for the rest of us.

Thank you in advance for listening and allowing me to post my comments right below yours at www.washingtonpost.com. Congratulations on an excellent interview and an insightful report.

Sincerely,

Izzy Sommers, MD, retired, Welland, Canada
5/28/2009 4:03:51 PM
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Quiet Tiger at the Fed
Will the president stick with Ben Bernanke, quiet hero of the financial crisis?
-
By David Ignatius

SAMANTHA REVISITED

2009-05-29T04:58:00.000-07:00

Samantha Revisited

A Silly Sonnette by Izzy Sommers, MD

Samantha had a crush on Jonathan,
While Jonathan desired Persephone
And she was in the clouds for Jennifer
Who would have climbed a mount for Michael John.
While Mikey had a thing for Marilyn,
Who sang the praises for her Cantonese
Pool cleaner, Ken Xi Chen, ‘twas Chen who had
A yen for Mimi, Salamander’s maid,
A lovely lass who took a class in bass
To get a little closer to the fast
And handsome, Peter Herbert Demitasse,
The leader of the trumpet band in Bonn.
Samantha settled for the metaphor
Which goes around becomes a matador.

THE END

© Izzy Sommers, MD
Welland, Canada
May 28, 2009

A KIND WORD

2009-05-29T04:55:00.000-07:00

A Kind Word

A Silly Sonnette
By Izzy Sommers, MD

I wrote some letters to the editors
And then I wrote a hundred more, but
Never did I see responses or get feedback,
‘Til today! The email said, “well said.”
Oh joy and happiness! Of letters that
I’d sent, I never knew if they were read
Or liked or totally ignored. Today,
I feel a million bucks! Oh thank you! Thank
You Mr. David (Sir) Ignatius.
You’ve made my day, my week, my month, my year,
My life! Perhaps at one and seventy
There’s very little function for the satisfaction
That I yearn, except for just
A word or two of kindness, praise or lust.

THE END

© Izzy Sommers, MD
Welland, Canada
May 28, 2009

The Garden of Eden

2009-05-27T05:35:00.000-07:00

THE GARDEN OF EDEN

A Poem in Iambic Pentametre
In Aboriginal Circular Thinking

By Izzy Sommers, MD

Instead of turning ‘round, Penelope
Continued walking in her bathing suit
Toward the beach she knew to be behind
Abandoned cottages on Lake Pierre,
Ontario, once held by Mississauga
Aboriginals before the Europeans
Swept the USA and Canada
Obsessively-compulsively,
Just like the Spaniards and the Portuguese
Cleaned Mexico and south to Argentina,
Chile and Brazil, while hardly integrating
Or assimilating cultures
Far superior to theirs in terms
Of happiness and inner peace, the masonry
And architecture, agriculture
And the happiness of families with
Great art and sculpture with a moral ethic
Aimed at worshipping, respecting and
Preserving nature and each other, eh?

Just few could see the inspiration and
The way that aboriginals survive,
Enjoy their families and stay alive.

Penelope met Quidashay and jived
The way the aboriginals contrived
To sing and dance the night away, today.
Tomorrow they will greet the sun and play
And propagate like animals, they say,
As natural as God would have his way.

The End and the Beginning

© Izzy Sommers, MD
Welland, Canada
May 27, 2009
Or Anytime and Place

Penny and the Arc

2009-05-15T07:53:00.000-07:00

Penny and the Arc

A Silly Sonnette
By Izzy Sommers, MD

Because of elephants in cherry trees,
Penelope designed an elephant
For hanging up on all her walls, instead
Of pictures of her movie stars of yore.
In years to come, photographers who took
Her portrait to the public in her skimpy
Bathing suits, observed that more and more
She sought the company of elephants
And silverbacks instead of bachelors.
Suffice to say when she announced her thoughts
To have an elephant and silverback
Aboard her yacht, they quickly guessed that she
Preferred the manly type with tusks and lumps
That emulated camels with two humps.

THE END

© Izzy Sommers, MD
Welland, Canada
May 14, 2009

2009-04-16T02:59:00.000-07:00

Dear Joseph,

Maybe, my friend, maybe there is a God...

Thank you for the update and the inside information. The machinations of ill-advised, vested interest folks are fascinating and often underhanded and deadly. Bottom-line politics sucks! Caring for the citizens seems to go by the wayside. Compassion, love and forgiveness is needed, desperately! Where is the Holy Ghost when he is most needed? Don't folks know that it's harder to get a rich man into heaven than it is to thread a Model T Ford through the eye of a needle? Are we to abandon the health and welfare of the folks in this area for a paltry few dollars?

God Bless you, my friend. Your vigilance is outstanding. Your ferreting out of uncaring folks is perspicacious. I hope someone is listening to you and your fellow crusaders for Truth and Charity. May you all have good health and perserverance, despite what the self-centred idiots are trying to do. We're all in this life and bailywick together. The least we can do for our fellow man is share the load, not letting the impoverished and hungry fall through the cracks made by some misdirected rotten apples who are hoarding all the gold, frankincense and myrrh for themselves.

Take care of yourself, my friend. It looks like you'll need a heap of energy to stay on watch.

Sincerely,

Izzy.
(C) Izzy Sommers, MD
Welland, Canada
April 14, 2009

The McPherson Story

2009-04-16T02:54:00.000-07:00

Jennifer Anne McPherson was fifty-one. Her heritage was mainly Western European, mainly Scotch, English and Welsh. Her ancestors claimed to have obscure Royal connections to Queen Elizabeth and hence Mary Queen of Scots and Henry VIII. A touch of Danish, Swedish and Norwegian gave her statuesque proportions. At five foot nine, her beauty was outstanding, not too short of many famous movie stars. She often wore her daughter’s clothes, the designer jeans and tight fuzzy sweaters, high heeled boots and stunning hats. Without more than a slight amount of mascara, she looked like a slightly older Sue Lyons who played Lolita in Lolita as the disturbing teenage sexpot who had a love affair with a sixty year old man who had married her mother and caused her death. Jennifer was proud to say she had been asked her age at a bar within the last two months. She had natural long blond hair. A pony tail and NY Yankees baseball hat made her look twenty years younger. Men flocked to her at bars. She boasted that she could bed a dozen men at any one time, anytime she wanted.

What surprised most men is that she was a genius and a super athlete and had the credentials to back it up. Jennifer had been a champion of intercollegiate tennis and skiing. She had been enrolled at the University of Chicago Schools for gifted children, as the youngest in her classes. Mathematics, Physics and English were her majors as she achieved a Ph.D. in English at the tender age of twenty-eight. She took a year of Law School, at the University’s School of Law; she dropped out to get married to a man much less gifted than she. The marriage became boring to her after she bore him three girls, all looking, acting and operating like their mother. Michael O’Brian, her husband, was simply overwhelmed by his four intelligent, athletic beauties. She decided to teach English at a college in Hinsdale, a wealthy suburb, about twenty-five miles southwest of the centre of Chicago. It was near La Grange Park, where the O’Brians had a moderately large home and the daughters attended public schools. Michael became a manager at the GM factory in nearby Lyons, a 10 minute drive from their home. His salaries and bonuses were substantial. Jennifer drove a black Jaguar XKE. Michael drove a Ford Country Squire station wagon which easily accommodated the entire family of five, plus two Yorkshire Terriers and a Chinese Tabby.

Jennifer had her own money, her wealthy parents having left her millions when they died. Jennifer was the youngest of four wealthy sisters. Jennifer seems to have cornered the market on beauty, brains and athleticism amongst her siblings. Her mother and father, grandparents, aunts and uncles were brainy and athletic. Some had owned companies. Others had played professional sports. Virtually all were CEO’s, doctors, lawyers, dentists and physiotherapists.

Jennifer left her husband and moved into a large house in Western Springs, adjacent to Hinsdale. The two oldest daughters, and the Tabby, stayed with their dad by mutual agreement. The two dogs and the youngest daughter, Sophia, moved with Jennifer. Sophia entered the University of Illinois in Champaign-Urbana, about a two hour drive south from Chicago. Her talents were much like her mother’s; she was one of the youngest women to ever achieve her Ph.D. in Psychology at that institution. She took a very lucrative job offer in industrial psychology at the IBM research centre in Minneapolis, Minnesota. She met and married a computer nerd there, had three boys and settled down peacefully and satisfyingly, in one of the grand old houses in St. Paul, Minnesota, the twin city of Minneapolis, on the Mississippi River steep, cliff-like banks.

Jennifer’s job was with Hinsdale Community College, a branch of the University of Chicago system, teaching English to serious students of English who would go on to professorships. Jennifer became an assistant professor of English and second in command in the department. Within five years she achieved tenure and was made the Head of the Department. The next year, she was asked to take over the Department Chair at the main campus of the University of Chicago, in the Hyde Park area, near the Midway, a rebuilding, resurgent part of the South Side.

Dr. Jennifer Anne McPherson was a popular teacher and drew many students to enroll in her classes. She wrote several papers on Medieval English. On her University supported Sabbatical, she moved to London, England, for two years. Her research on Medieval English, Shakespeare, Queen Elizabeth, the Protestant Bible and the White Witches resulted in hundreds of popular papers and four text books. She wrote some fiction and poetry. Two of these became best sellers; this added substantially to her income. The books were titled, “Queen Elizabeth’s Secret Love,” and “The White Witch of Wickenham.” Both books were steamy romances, liberally sprinkled with poetry and heavily invested in real history and geography. Her down-to-earth writing style was given high marks by the literary critics. She was on the short list for many prestigious prizes.

In contrast, her reality was nothing like the stories she wrote about wild men and women and equally wild romances and adventures. Her main characters were consistently very smart and very attractive, very athletic and very wise. The men and women that knew Jennifer well saw her as conservative and aloof, shy and independent and, of course, brainy and physically active. She continued to play tennis at local tennis clubs and ski at famous European and American ski resorts. Though men flocked to her at pubs in London and bars in America, she always went home alone, as far as one could tell. She still boasted that she could bed a number of men, anytime and anyplace. She was always quick to add that no one intrigued her enough to make her bed messy and wet, as she put it.

Jennifer was plagued by two kinds of rumours that followed her everywhere. One was that she was a lesbian and had a secret lover that visited her at night. The other was that she had a married boyfriend that kept out of sight for obvious reasons. Certainly these rumours proved to be true about many other women with whom she worked and played.

Samantha Leah Weiss, a Jewish Professor of English at the University of Chicago, in Jennifer’s department as the Assistant Chairperson, was Jennifer’s best friend. She was a dazzling looking redhead who did bed most of her men, singly and in pairs. At bars and pubs, the two of them drew large numbers of admirers. Sam went home with one or two of them, most of the time. Sometimes, Sam went home with Jennifer and spent the night talking, drinking, dancing, cuddling and sleeping. Everyone was sure that they were lovers, but they knew the truth. They were just good friends who sometimes had some good, old-fashioned pajama parties. They had met casually in the gifted programme and had enjoyed many athletic and social activities together through the years. Samantha never married. They had arranged to take their academic sabbaticals at the same time and place, sharing a small, two bedroom flat in London.

“I really don’t like sex,” said Jennifer one night. “It’s messy and unpredictable. I can get as much pleasure as I want when I diddle myself.” Jennifer was in a silk, sexy black teddy which revealed her entire body, provocatively.

Samantha was dressed in a silk nightgown which revealed her lovely contours. Like Jennifer’s, her long hair tumbled on her bare shoulders. “I love it Jennifer. The whole gymnastic act of making love and feeling great is unequaled by anything I can do for myself.”

Jennifer arose gracefully from the couch on which they were both sitting and listening to Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto, Number three. She went to her bedroom and retrieved her prize. It was a rubber monk in a hood which vibrated. From the back it looked an erect phallus; from the front, it looked like a monk wearing a hooded robe. It had the outlines of a rope belt and a large cross handing from the belt. It had a soft light and it vibrated, there being a D cell battery inside. “It can’t be any better than this!” declared Jennifer. “Wait a second and I’ll demonstrate.” Jennifer went to her bathroom and retrieved a large beige fluffy bath towel. She put it down on the seat of the couch and sat on it after hiking up her teddy to be bare from the waist down.

Dear Reader, If graphic sexual writing disturbs you, please skip this next paragraph. I feel that it sets the mood for the scene I’m describing, but I know it is very disturbing to some people. Frankly, I put it in to round out Jennifer’s real personality.

She spread her legs and stimulated herself with her finger first. “I’m moist and ready for pleasure. Watch closely.” Jennifer lay back against the couch and lifted her hips to accept the monk’s head into her vagina. Her upper and lower lips parted as she slowly pushed the monk into herself, up the hilt. Only the closed lid of the battery receptacle could be seen. She closed her eyes and started moaning. Within seconds, she grunted and gasped. She lay back and relaxed. “See,” she said. “Neat and clean and exciting. No fuss, no muss and no man’s ego to deal with.”

Samantha smiled as Jennifer handled the towel gingerly and took it to the clothes hamper in the bathroom. She cleaned herself with a soapy washcloth, rinsed everything with water and toweled off.

Samantha asked, “May I?”

“Of course,” said Jennifer. She readjusted her teddy to cover up. Then she carefully washed with soap the little monk and dried it thoroughly. “Here,” she said as she handed it to Sam with a fresh towel.

Dear Reader: Sorry. The next paragraph is steamy.

Sam sat on her towel. She’d dropped her nightgown in a heap and was completely naked. She lay back and thrust the vibrating, lit up monk inside of her, burying it completely. Then she stretched and clamped her legs and buttocks, tightly. Then she arched her back and closed her eyes. Within seconds, she screamed and writhed, repeatedly.

Jennifer approached and put her hand over Samantha’s mouth which only served to make Samantha’s spasms harder and more frequent. Jennifer tried unsuccessfully to shush her up.

Finally, after several very hard convulsions, Samantha seemed to settle down. Her spasms became less frequent and less forceful. Her screams subsided to whispered gasps. At the end, she sat up and opened her eyes and laughed heartily. “It was great Jennifer. You’re right: no fuss, no muss, no fragile ego. It’s neat and convenient. Where’d you buy the monk?” she asked as she squeezed him out unto a thoroughly wet towel.

Jennifer hustled to get another two towels and helped Samantha clean herself and the couch up. “The couch is Scotch-guarded. The puddle you made should clean up just fine with a little water and laundry detergent and a Tide-To-Go stick.”

“Sorry!” said Samantha, sincerely. “I’m sorry for the noise. I couldn’t help it. That was the most intense orgasms I’ve ever had. That monk is great. I’ll have to get me one.” She smiled.

“The neighbours…” began Jennifer.

“Yes, I know,” said Samantha. “This flat has thin walls, doesn’t it. I’ll be quieter next time.”

“There won’t be a next time, my old friend,” said Jennifer in a guilt-provoking manner. “Thanks for the show, but no thanks. I don’t want to see the show again. The men and women you do it with must love you for your performances.”

“Sorry, Jen,” responded Sam. “That was no show. It was genuine. I repeat: that was the best I’ve ever had. I’ll do it privately next time as soon as I get my own monk, or a bigger monk, if available.

“Braggart!” said Jennifer and smiled. “That really was genuine, eh? You must have special equipment. I don’t ever respond like the way you did. My husband used to accuse me of holding back. Honestly, Sam, I was doing the best I could.”

“I can’t be sorry for you Jen, my friend,” said Samantha. “It’s obvious that what you had was all you have. Your talents are obviously in other sports and academics. I guess I’m lucky. I love sex. I do put up with funny personalities but the end result is highly pleasurable. It always has been since I’ve been a preteen.”

Both women became quiet and pensive. Jennifer retrieved heavy duvets for both of them. Like two moving teepees, they moved quietly to their respective bedrooms to the music of Tchaikovsky’s Pathatique, closed the doors and went to bed. Samantha slept deeply and dreamt of the last threesome she had. Jennifer slept only after an hour of restless legs and then fitfully. She had nightmares of being in a flood and having to swim to safety. The dream became really frightening as she fought a losing battle to keep her apartment from being flooded with smelly mud. When she awoke with a muffled scream, she arose and cleaned up the little monk. She tied it with a multi-coloured ribbon and attached a sticky note with the words, “Sam, It’s yours. Enjoy!” She re-read her message and added another sticky note. “It’s clean and sterile and all yours, with love, Jen.” She added yet a third note: “The battery is new.”

Jennifer started packing the next morning. To a sad-looking Samantha, she explained that the apartment was not large enough for them and that she would move into the student’s dormitories as soon as she could get a room. She was sure there would be a suitable large place open somewhere. She recalled she had seen several rooms for students in the residential areas surrounding the University.

Sam felt bad and she offered to move out. She had had several offers by several men for accommodations. Also, there was the Jewish Women’s Fraternity House, to which she had some connections. Three days later, it was Sam who found a professor that she’d met at one of the pubs who said he had an extra room that he’d be glad to rent to her at a reasonable price. She moved out of the flat the next day after some perfunctory good-byes.

Both knew that their friendship was changed, significantly. Though they mentioned they would call each other for coffee, tea or a Guinness, they both knew they wouldn’t call. However, they both knew that their professional relationship would continue. Jennifer, after all, was Samantha’s boss and they both had prestigious positions at the University of Chicago waiting for them to return to the USA.

Actually, it was no surprise to either of them that Jennifer helped Samantha resign and accept a Chair at the University of Illinois in Champaign-Urbana’s Department of English. Like Dr. Jennifer, she was a Doctor of Philosophy, a published author of fiction, non-fiction, texts, poetry and research papers. Search committees were happy to hear from her and easily found the University of Illinois for her to send her resumes.

In the meantime, Jennifer decided to do more research on the work and life of Shakespeare. Also, her genealogy research had located a descendent of both Anne Hathaway and William Shakespeare, living in Stratford-on-Avon. Jennifer made a month long visit to there and stayed at a Bed & Breakfast right next to the preserved home of Shakespeare, now a walk-through tourist attraction. She made notes of the personalities of Anne’s descendent and Will’s descendent. She had some odd flashes and fantasies about what life was really like in the Shakespeare household before William left to go to the “big city,” to make his fortune. She also had some strange thoughts about a visit there by the young Queen Elizabeth. She played with the idea that her personality was like the Queen’s. She thought it was just one of her many flashes that created many of her fictional stories, the steamy ones that sold a lot of copies.

Jennifer formulated a novel about the young princess, who would become the Virgin Queen, making a countryside tour on her own and enjoying the peacefulness of Stratford-on-Avon. She thought that a secret tryst with a poetic young William Shakespeare could have occurred. She conceived that Liz and Will hit it off and formed a deeper relationship based on mutual love of poetry and the intrigues of royalty. Of course, Elizabeth would have known all the palace scuttlebutt about King’s and Queen’s of England, Scotland and Denmark. Shakespeare would have joined Elizabeth in making up stories based partially on real history, the Christian Crusades in Europe and the Middle East, the special Magna Carta signing by King John after King Richard III had bankrupted the country with the war against the Muslims, the colonizations of many countries including the USA, the work on creating a strong Protestant Bible and opposing the still strong Roman Catholic and French influences in England and the strong superstitions involving ghosts and spirits, witches and witch’s brews, goblins and imps, astrology and mythology.

In secret places, still existing, Jennifer also imagined that Liz and Will recited intimate and loving poetry to each other, all in iambic pentameter and mostly in sonnets. She thought that the adolescent Elizabeth might have dressed as a young country boy to disguise her identity for her own safety. She felt that the secret lover that Shakespeare seemed to have when he was writing his sonnets in London might have been the one and only Queen Elizabeth I. She speculated that the Virgin Queen, after whom Virginia and West Virginia were named, populated and cultivated for England’s growing wealth and the very beginnings of the British Empire, “on which the sun never set,” continued to meet William in secret places in the Globe and Rose Theatres. Finally, she conceived that the Shakespearean folio was conceived and written in iambic pentametre by the Queen, herself. Of course she could no more take credit for Macbeth or The Tempest or the other plays as she could take it for the King James version of the Anglican Protestant Bible, which she obviously also wrote. Her linguistics and religious knowledge didn’t hold her back.

In fact, originally, the Queen wanted to write the bible in the poetry it deserved, inasmuch as she recognized that most of the Hebrew of the Old Testament was very lyrical. She noted that the Song of Moses and the Song of David had words with extra syllables to make them lilt, just like Petrarch, Shakespeare and Browning Sonnets. She also noticed the metaphorical nature of the Hebrew language of the Pentateuch and the Greek language of the New Testament. When the King James committee put their genius to it, they saw to it that the words they picked had double and triple meanings, just like the Hebrew and Greek. Unfortunately, they didn’t put in the works excluded by the Popes who generally omitted those passages which displeased them. They omitted the parts about Jesus’ social life and family realities and those gospel writers who were earthier than John, Matthew Luke and Mark. They left out the very important story of Jesus and Martha wherein he was spotted sitting on a hill stroking her flaxen hair. This passage was at the centre of the books by Wallace, “The Book,” da Quieroz, “O Crimo del Padre Amaro,” and Schonfeld, “Passover Plot.” The British Library has several whole Gospels, including the one according to St. James, which were omitted by the Popes around the second and third centuries.

Jennifer came across another biblical metaphor in the Book of Esther. Esther is actually the Persian version of Hadassah. The whole book doesn’t have any of the usual smatterings of references to “Adonai” characteristic of the other OT books. Scholars thought that it was written by a Persian Jew, one of the somewhat liberated Jewish Slaves taken over by Persia from Babylon. Basically, Iraq and Bagdad defeated the Jews of Judea and destroyed the temple of Solomon. They enslaved the Jews and either buried or destroyed the Ark of the Covenant. The Jews apparently vowed never to sing or dance until the Temple was rebuilt. Esther was perhaps fourteen and chosen for her beauty to be taken care of by the king’s eunuchs for the eventual pleasure of the king, who was displeased with his wife. Her care taker was her uncle, Mordechai, who became aware that Haman, the king’s Prime Minister, was offering silver for the killing of Jews. With the possibility of death, Esther was encouraged by Mordechai to approach the king and plead for her people. She did and was successful in revealing Haman’s anti-Semitic plans. Haman was hung and Esther became the Queen of Persia, according to the OT book. Mordechai was chosen to be Prime Minister of Persia, preceding Daniel, who miraculously survived the lion’s den to be recognized as a special Jew who was protected by his God.

Jennifer took the Persian legend of Scheherazade and found that there was an interesting parallel with the concubines. The Persians, under Xerxes I, do not mention the Jewish slaves at all. Scheherazade guessed rightly that the young virgins of the harem were being cleansed and prepared for spending the night with the king. In the morning, the freshly deflowered young woman was killed. When Scheherazade’s evening came, she started telling fictional adventure stories which so intrigued the king that he saved her life for another night so that she may continue. The stories of course are still famous: “Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves,” “Sinbad, the Sailor,” Aladdin and his Magic Lamp,” etc. They are part of the book, “1001 Arabian Nights,” supposedly covering more than three years of nightly serialized stories. Shah Xerxes, seemingly, gave up the nightly virgin routine and married Scheherazade, making her the Queen of Persia.

“Esther must have been Sheherazade!” declared Jennifer to herself one night, to herself. “Their histories are parallel and contemporary. Each woman was exceptionally brave and probably very attractive. Both of them are depicted by artists as partially undressed, extremely young, extremely beautiful adolescent women. Both of them changed history and culture values, significantly. The differences in their biographies is purely cultural. Their personalities and historical eras, and geographical regions, are practically the same. They’ve got to be the same person!”

“Esther and Scheherazade, ONE AND THE SAME, Twin Legendary Biographies,” became an international best seller for Jennifer. It made the most money for her than any of her other published works. Movie rights brought a bundle. The movie starred the young starlet, Jennifer Aniston, who won the Academy Award. King Xerxes I was played by Nicolas Cage. The movie was shot on location in Tehran at a time when the Shah of Iran was very friendly with the USA. The Shah appeared as a cameo which added to his popularity at home and abroad. Jennifer wrote the award winning, lucrative screenplay. It made her a candidate for several more screenplays which also added a lot to her income.

Professor McPherson left out another intriguing idea. Her linguist expertise allowed her to play with the name Xerxes. In Greek, Xepxeswould be pronounced like the Spanish, Jorge. This makes it likely that Xerxes is the equivalent of George. Thus King Xerxes I of Persia, would have been King George I of Iran! A Divinity student friend of hers said simply, “that’s funny enough to be true!”

The book about Elizabeth I and William Shakespeare, “The Royal Ghost Writer,” hardly made any money at all. It wasn’t her usual steamy romance novel but was more in the style of Irving Wallace’s and James Michener’s historical novels. It was also converted to a Hollywood film, nowhere near the blockbuster that was the Scheherazade/Esther film.

Shakespearean Escort Service

2009-04-16T02:50:00.000-07:00

Shakespearean Escort Service

A Silly Single Sentence Sonnette
By Izzy Sommers, MD

The Shakespeare that was known to everyone
Was also known to count to twenty-one
When he was with Louisa Alder, Ton
O’ Laughs proprietor of Hamilton,
Who cornered younger women in the night,
Enrolling them in Trader’s Cove, alright,
The Den of Hospitality, on sight,
For purposes of lucrative and light
Escorting of the single men and men
Of open marriages who wanted ten
Or twelve experiences to attend
Societies at play in Sophie’s Den,
Where poetry was sung by minstrels of
The Art of Turtle Dove and Birdie Love.

THE END

© Izzy Sommers, MD
Welland, Canada
April 15, 2009

Bailouts without monitoring sucks!

2009-04-16T02:47:00.000-07:00

TODAY'S NEWSPAPER Washington Post, washingtonpost.com

Your Comments On...
Lending By Bailout Recipients Falls Again
Lending by the nation's largest banks fell 6 percent in February from the previous month, continuing a downward trend that began in October with the financial crisis, according to data published yesterday by the Treasury Department.
-
By Binyamin Appelbaum

Comments

canadizzy wrote:
As expected, the banks response to bailouts is to lend less and ask for more bailout money. A bank has no vested interest in making loans in a shaky economic atmosphere. Banks are not normally risk takers; those that were got burned recently. Bailout money filled the coffers of the banks without risk. Why should they loan money if they have bailout money to balance their books. It's the policy of banks that need to be changed, not their capital reserves.

There are banks which have taken chances recently. One very clever banker loaned money to Amish and Mennonite farmers in the Pennsylvania area, where folks are so conscientious about borrowing money that they rarely do. When they do, they have moral reasons to repay in full, on time, and, if possible, early. That bank has been doing really well despite the lack of papers which ordinarily make banks loan their money. The hard working, generally self-sufficient, farmers of the area have no loan history and hence, on paper, are not good candidates for loans. What they do have is the correct attitude toward borrowed money and the bank that took the risks with them has been rewarded handsomely. That bank needed no bailout. Like Ford, they stated up front that they do not need bailout money. Their risk taking is logical and remunerative. Bailouts, without strict monitoring, have favoured the hoarders and not rewarded the logical risk takers.

Thanks for listening.
4/16/2009 5:23:39 AM

The Destiny of Soul-Mates

2008-08-11T03:16:00.000-07:00

The Destiny of Soul-Mates

A Developing Novel

By John Henry Smyth

CHAPTER ONE

In Chicago, in 2012, I met Sara Leah Hussein. She was standing in front of the Prussian Blue, cut glass masterpieces and windows done by Marc Chagall. Her eyes reflected her own deep blue spirit in combination with the Chagall blue. Her skin was an olive colour, darker because of the windows. Her hair was a black brown and she wore a golden headband sweeping her hair back, making the ends form two curly triangles from her ears to her shoulders. Visions of Eve, Lillith, Cleopatra, Salome, Sandra Bullock, the Botticelli Venus and the Queen of Sheba floated across my inner visual cortex. She was about 5 and a half feet tall. She wore a black sheath dress designed to cover but not modify the shape of her perfect Venus da Milo body, before it suffered amputation of her arms. She wore a golden necklace which lay on her upper chest like the Egyptian princesses in her ancestry. She had wide golden bracelets on her right arm and a gold rectangular watch with a gold chain mail band on her left wrist. She wore golden spiked shoes with golden thin straps which were wound high on her shapely calves.

I, Benjamin Applebaum, cleared my throat and with some difficulty managed to approach her and say, “Marc was something, wasn’t he? He really liked that blue. Did you see his mosaic block in the First Chicago Plaza?”

She turned her head to look at me. She took a long time to smile and extend her hand. “Hi. I’m Sara,” she said with a Royal British accent. “No, I didn’t see the mosaic. I’m from Cairo and I’m staying at the Palmer House for a week. I just arrived yesterday and I’m still fighting jet lag. I came two days early to get acclimatized so that my mind would be clear for my presentation at the Society for Clinical Investigation Annual Meeting. I’m more than a little nervous, too.”

“Great!” I managed to say. I was dazzled by her appearance and demeanor. If she was nervous, she certainly hid it well. Her handshake was firm and her palms were dry. “I’m here for the conference, too. I presented my paper on The Effects of Quinidine on Action Potentials in Heart Muscle Fibres, two years ago.”

“You must be Doctor Benjamin Applebaum. I read your extract. When are you publishing your article? I kept looking for it in the Journal of Applied Physiology.”

“It’ll be in the next issue of the Journal for Clinical Investigation.” I must have beamed. I felt myself relax and smile from ear to ear. Such recognition was special for me.

“Oh. OK. I’ll look for it. I wanted to read the Methodology. My paper is about the Effects of the Human Voice on the Electrophysiology of Giant Squid Axons. My methodology was taken from the Andrew Huxley papers on Electrophysiology of Nerve Fibres which won him a Nobel Prize. I worked with his group at Cambridge for five years. I set up a similar lab in the Physiology Department of the Medical School, at the University of Egypt, at Cairo. I had always been interested in the dramatic effects on people of the sounds of other peoples’ voices.”

It was indeed dramatic. The sound of Sara’s voice on my psyche caused me to be calm and more confident. My attraction to her increased greatly. I heard, “Love At First Sight” echoing through my brain. “I’m from Hinsdale, Illinois, about twenty-five miles southwest of here.”

“That’s cool. Maybe you can give me the skinny on some stuff I need to see while I’m in Chicago as well as restaurants and clubs, etc.”

I was pleasantly surprised at her use of the American vernacular. “It would be my pleasure. Perhaps we could have coffee at the Art Institute’s café. I can make a list of restaurants and night spots for you and suggest visiting some great museums they have here. The Palmer House should have given you a copy of Chicago Magazine, which has a lot of things in there about restaurants and things to see and do.”

“Yes. I have it here in my purse.”

“Great! How ‘bout coffee?”

“I have a better idea,” said Sara. “I need to retrieve some things from my room at the Palmer House. We can get room service to bring up coffee and something to eat and have our tour guiding start there. Whaddya think?”

“I think you have the better idea!” I said as I felt my heart thumping. I hoped she didn’t see my chest heaving until I saw her chest heaving a little. “Shall we?” I offered my arm and she took it snuggly. We exited the Art Institute and headed across Michigan Avenue, up Jackson Street to Wabash Avenue and the Palmer House. We held hands most of the way. Like having a dog on a leash, I wasn’t sure who was leading whom.

Sara had booked a luxury suite on the tenth floor. It had a small balcony with a glass and wrought-iron patio set of chairs, table and umbrella. There was also a large potted palm and ferns in one corner and a large split-leaf philodendron plant in the other corner in huge colourful, obviously hand-painted ceramic pots. The French doors leading out to the balcony were draped with heavy paisley silk, as was the bed sheets and canopy of an old American antique four poster bed with very expensive-looking, hand-carved head and foot boards. The suite, itself was extra large. There was a small room containing a roll top desk convenient to multiple electrical outlets for power, telephone and computer connections. Sara’s Macintosh laptop and cell phone were on the desk top being charged. There was also a generous space for an antique, colonial, highly lacquered dark cherry wood, dining room set of four upholstered, high-backed arm chairs, an expandable oval table, a leaded glass, a credenza and a china cabinet stocked with antique dinnerware and silver. On the credenza were an indoor barbeque grill and a large Polish crystal bowl for ice and large silver tongs. On the wall, opposite the bed, there was an oversized, large flat-screened, plasma television monitor. Around the room there were comfy couches and reclining rocker chairs, and several antique arm chairs, matching those of the dining room set.

“Do you mind if I change out of these clothes?”

“No, of course not,” I managed to say.

“In fact, I feel the need for a bubble bath to help me relax and get rid of this jet lag I’m having. Do you mind?” Sara didn’t wait for me to say, “No, I don’t mind.” She added. “Would you like to join me? The tub is very large and it has those delightful jets we could turn on.”

“Of course, I’d like to join you,” I replied, without hesitation.

Sara went into the bathroom and retrieved two white terrycloth robes embroidered with the Palmer House Crest on the breast pocket. She threw one to me and threw the other on the bed. Without hesitation, she undressed and threw her clothes on the bed. She wasn’t wearing any underwear to remove.

I did my best to stay calm. I undressed and threw my clothes over the back of the couch. She didn’t glance at me. As I donned the robe, facing her, she did look and she smiled. “Nice,” she smiled widely. Nice? I’d never been called “Nice” before. I closed the robe and tied the belt as she stood before me. It was an invitation to look at her. She smiled and said, “I like your appraisal.” Was she reading my mind? “Thanks. I’m very proud of my body. I’ve kept it healthy and trim with olive oil.” She retrieved a large bottle of extra virgin olive oil, EVOO. “I eat it and drink it and use it for sex. Would you like some?” She used a palm full, or so, to rub all over her body. Then she handed me the oil.

I dropped my robe and took the bottle. Imitating her I used a couple of palm’s full to rub on my body. Both of us were now naked and anointed. We rubbed some olive oil on each others backs. Her skin felt very smooth. Under her skin, her muscles were very firm. “Been working out?” I asked automatically.

She replied. “Yes. And, it looks like you’re in good shape. Have you been in the gym? If you want, there’s one in the hotel that you could use, as my guest. We could do it together, if you wish. You could show me some American moves.” She handed me the bottle of EVOO.

I took the bottle of an Egyptian brand of EVOO with me to the bathroom as she led me to the bubble bath in the huge Jacuzzi tub. She took the EVOO from me and poured a cup or so into the rising bubbles. She turned off the brass faucets and helped me into the sudsy depths. I extended my hand to steady her as she stepped into the tube. It felt warm and silky and sexy. We were able to sit side by side. She pushed the buttons for all the jets. The bubbles rose up to our chins. It must have been a comical site as one light head and one dark head sat atop the mountain of silky froth. We could see each other in the mirrored walls. We both laughed out loud.

It was by far the most sensuous bath I’d ever taken. Every part of my body was soothed and massaged. I imitated her techniques and she relaxed under my touch. The quivering came gradually and we enjoyed a union that was both tranquilizing and exhilarating. Afterwards, she fell asleep in my arms, our bodies still getting the warm soothing from the Jacuzzi jets. I fell deeply asleep, too, as if drugged.

I don’t know yet how I got into the bed, and covered snuggly by Sara and the silk sheets. Logically, I thought, she must have carried me from the tub to the bed while I was asleep. The picture in my brain of a beautiful dark woman carrying a lily-white, deeply sleeping man, intrigued me. I awoke to her gentle voice reciting poetry in Arabic. It was Gibron. If there was a heaven, I said to myself, this is what it should be like. Her lovely head with its long black curly locks lay on my chest. A lovely black arm and an equally lovely black leg held me to her lovely body. I became aroused. She responded by laughing, as she rolled over me. We coupled and entwined. It was wonderful. Glistening with EVOO, we enjoyed each other as if in a fragrant Garden of Eden, until, exhausted, she fell on top of me and slept deeply, again. I fell asleep, too, firmly encircling and holding Sara to my body with my arms and legs.

It was dark and cool when we awoke some hours later. She kissed me on the lips and rose to retrieve our robes. She went to the phone and ordered a Chateaubriand dinner with a bottle of Burgundy from Burgundy. I arose and donned my robe. We made a handsome couple as we looked in the mirror. We smiled at each other’s reflections. The music was classical. She had already discovered WFMT-FM and had turned on the radio with the remote control. The chateaubriand was tender and tasty. The carrots and broccoli, sautéed in butter, were crunchy and delicious. The hearty wine was smooth and fruity.

“I need to do some work on my presentation. I’m sure you need to do some work also.” We were finishing the small salads for desert.

“Of course,” I said. Thank you for the time of my life. I can’t imagine anything more glorious than what you’ve given me. Danke zehr! Merci beaucoups. Mille Grazzi! Mucho Gracias. Taks a’mal.”

“Cool it, dude. The pleasure was all mine. You are a wonderful lover. I appreciate your creativity and resourcefulness. Of course, it was the olive oil, you know.”

I laughed. “I should have known.”

She laughed. “At least there was something that I could teach you. You taught me a lot about intimacy and attentiveness. Now, please leave,” she said gently, but firmly.

I said my good-byes, ciaos and salaams, having written down her email address, her cell phone number and her hotel room number. We kissed at the door and we smiled a last good-night smile.

I found my lonely car in the underground parking lot under Grant Park. I drove to Hinsdale, via I-55, and my two kittens in my condominium apartment on 55^th Street, in the middle of condominium row. My kittens were happy to see me and purred as I opened a tin of their favourite, scrap shrimp and tuna pate. I sprinkled on the Iam’s crunchies and treated them to some cat nip chewables. I filled their water bowls and cleaned their litter boxes. I fell on the couch still dressed, kicked off my shoes and fell asleep. My cats snuggled up in each of my arm pits and slept with me. I awoke, regenerated, and dropped my clothes for a shower.

I was back in the underground garage by 8:30 am. I grabbed a double-double coffee and buttered French, cheese-croissant and a bottle of orange juice at a kiosk in the Palmer House lobby and headed for the conference rooms. Sitting in the front row, I spotted Professor Sara Leah Hussein on the stage, sitting at a table with microphones with two other participants and a host. At 9:00 am sharp, the host, standing behind the podium with a microphone on a snake, introduced himself and described himself as the chairman of the Agenda Committee of the Society for Clinical Investigation. He announced that the subject for discussion for this morning’s symposium was Trans-Membrane Neurophysiology. Then he introduced the first invited panel member, Professor Sara Leah Hussein, Professor of Physiology, from the University of Cairo Medical School’s Physiology Department. He indicated that she was to stand behind the podium and pointed to his watch. “In the interests of keeping to the scheduled time, please limit your presentations to 20 minutes.” The moderator then took a seat while Sara walked to the podium.

Professor Hussein glanced at me and smiled. She addressed the audience, and began with, “Good morning ladies and gentlemen.” She looked at several audience members and smiled. “I feel privileged standing here before you. I appreciate the efforts on my behalf by the Society. I believe my humble efforts will be of interest to you all. I wish to present my prepared abstract without interruption, thank you. I will be available on stage for 30 minutes, following our three presentations, for questions and comments, which I appreciate in advance.” She took a large breath and relaxed while thumbing through the notes she had brought to the podium. The light made her look mysterious and the lamp looked like the asp one sees drawn on Cleopatra’s breast.

“My research started with a simple idea. Folk lore suggests that it is well known that plants and animals respond to the human voice. However, it has never been proven. I believe the human voice has always had effects on all living things, both favourable and unfavourable. I believe it is speech that changed the human race into a special species that allowed co-operation and conflict, in construction and destruction of some of our most famous efforts and events. My staff and I are suggesting that the human voice, in poetry or prose, in song or in speech, affects more than just our mechanisms for perception of sound. We believe that a neurological response to the intensity, timbre, emotion, lyricism, rhythm, dissonance, repetitiveness and rhyme qualities of speech affect the brain and nervous system far beyond simple hearing and understanding. It is consistent with the concept put forth by Toronto’s Marshall McCluhan: “The Medium is the Message.”

In a few minutes she described her methodology and her results in words and by projected images. She moved about the stage in a flowing manner with her index finger raised to show specific points on her projections. Her projections were outstanding and beautiful, as was her presence on the stage. She interpreted her findings in a concise manner. “The quality of speech affects the trans-membrane electrophysiology of nerve cells. We have demonstrated significantly altered electrophysiological responses to things like a deep voice as opposed to a squeaky voice, a singing voice as opposed to a speaking voice and a poem as opposed to prose. There are alterations in the speed of depolarization and repolarization, the threshold of firing, the minute changes in permeability, the current and the height of the action potential. I believe these effects will be demonstrated in all excitable cells, but further research is necessary.”

Sara turned off her projections with her computer controls on the podium. and asked that the house lights be brightened. She continued, “I believe this research has practical applications in many areas, such as speaking to, and the psychotherapy of, a person with mental illness, speaking to pets, speaking to plants and even speaking to microorganisms. We believe that these responses are quite old and may reach back to the beginnings of speech in Mankind. We believe that this is the basis for the tranquilizing effect of music, the motivating effect of oratory and the loving and agitating response between mates.

“Thank you. Please hold your questions until the other panel members have had the opportunity to present their abstracts.”

Sara smiled at me for an instant and then turned and smiled at the small audience of specialists. There was a smattering of quiet laughter following her final comment and a smattering of reserved applause. I drank my coffee and orange juice and ate my croissant as I listened to the other speakers who discussed “The Microanatomy of the Hippocampus and the Central Nuclei” and “The Differences in Evoked EEG Responses to Bach, Beethoven and Brahms as opposed to those to Mozart, Mendelssohn and Mahler.”

The Chairman rose and asked the audience to direct their questions and comments to the panelists seated at the table. There were microphones in the auditorium. About a dozen people lined up behind the microphones. The chairman asked that everyone identify himself and his origin and limit his questions and comments to less than 30 seconds. A professor Schmidt from Bonn, speaking with a thick German accent, asked Sara if she thought the subservience of the Jews and other victims of WW II was in part due to the orders given to them in harsh, dictatorial tones. She said that she didn’t experiment with dictatorial tones but that it seems like an obvious truth. She said that her laboratory planned experiments along these lines. She used the example of the American experiment with men off the street asked to press buttons with higher and higher numbers no matter what they heard. A soothing, confident tone with the authority that comes with wearing a white coat and having a clipboard and a sheet for recording data seemed to be able to induce ordinary men to press the buttons despite the increasingly loud screams that resulted. Even when the scream was choked off by a death rattle and a desperate cry for help, the buttons were pushed to the highest numbers on the dials by people who seemed to know what the screams meant. The Bonn professor said it was a sad situation when a megalomaniac knows the adverse and destructive effects of his rhetoric on his subjects and his victims and is able to use his powers despite his necessarily held knowledge of good and evil and universal truths about what people do when they are lead astray and made to believe the “Big Lie.” Sara agreed. There was applause and even some quiet “Amens.”

There were many others that asked questions and offered examples for all the speakers regarding the neurological effect of the spoken word and music. It was a lively discussion handled well by the panel members and their chairman. At the end of the session, there were still folks waiting at the microphones. The chairman thanked the audience and the speakers and suggested that the speakers could answer questions during the half hour break for coffee and pastry. The meeting was adjourned and we all moved out to the hall where there were tables, small bottles of water, cans of soft drinks on ice, hot coffee and hot water urns for tea, as well as plates of croissants, donuts, cookies and fixings for the coffee and tea. I sought out Sara who was in a small group having a discussion of her paper. I joined the group and got to ask about voice and mating. She smiled and gave me a scientific answer to an otherwise intimate question. Other members of the group joined in eagerly with their comments and questions about social settings and sexual encounters.

We all finished our food and drink and Sara was able to get away from the others. We walked together to the exit and out to Wabash Avenue where the Loop formed by the famous El of Chicago allowed rattling trains to pass overhead at frequent intervals. We kissed and held hands as we walked north on Wabash Avenue to Madison and then along Madison to State Street, the crossroads from which all Chicagoland addresses started. I explained the history of renumbering the streets and avenues which extended out to the most distant suburbs, making it easy to pinpoint anything in metropolitan Chicago, a city of six million, or more. I pointed out a lot of the famous architecture with which I was familiar and Sara loved it. We headed back to the Palmer House for a luncheon meeting up for which both she and I had signed. We flashed our tickets at the door of one of the conference rooms and an attendant directed us to our seats at a table for eight near the back of the room. The tickets were collected by our waiter who served us a swordfish and roast potato and asparagus lunch with a chef’s salad and a generous piece of Schwartzwald Torte.

Coffee and tea was served when the guest speaker was introduced. It was a Professor and Clinical Cardiologist, Stephen Fordham from the University of Chicago and Billings Hospital who talked about the latest findings in cardiac arrhythmias as studied by the newest, most sophisticated, monitoring intracardiac electrodes placed in patients as part of the procedure for implanting the most modern pacemakers with digital and wireless technology able to interact with modern high-speed internet technologies. Replacing the batteries of the old equipment was an automated, tiny, power plant which used the metabolic reactions of the patients’ own chemistry for using oxygen and glucose for harnessing energy for bodily functions. He explained the methodology, biochemistry and circuitry and presented the results with projected computer imaging. It was a very informative lecture that would have been suitable for a postgraduate physiology student.

Sara and I ate our cake and drank our coffee, sitting shoulder to shoulder at our table. Her understanding of physiology was impressive as she jotted down formulae and diagrams for my edification, with the hotel pens and paper that had been provided at each table. I pocketed her notes to study later and she seemed pleased. Certainly, I was pleased.

“There’s not much doing for the afternoon,” I said after the Fordham’s lecture. Sara smiled and winked. “My room’s not too far away. Would you like to join me for a nap?” “I would and I could and I should!” I quipped. We finished our coffee and cake. Sara said she needed to make a personal phone call to Cairo when we passed a bank of public telephones. “Here’s my room key,” she said as she handed me a golden key. “I’ll be up in about 5 minutes. Make yourself at home.” She smiled and kissed me on the lips and hugged me. I hugged and kissed back. “See you soon, princess,” I said and left her at a telephone as she picked up the receiver and started to dial. I could see it was long distance and I was intensely curious, but I respected her obvious desire to have a few minutes of privacy. I turned and spotted the elevators and ascended to her room. I kicked off my shoes and lay on the bed covers with my hands behind my head.

I had fallen asleep and awoke to the sound of WFMT-FM. It was after two. I arose and found Sarah in her robe at her computer. She was writing about her morning at the conference as if she was writing a report to justify her time and expenses. “It’s the pain in the ass report to justify my existence. It’s a necessary evil,” she said. “I have to write a daily log and get it sent every day or two. When I get back to Cairo, I’ll be responsible for an hour’s lecture to my staff and my superiors and expect questions regarding my time and money spent. Then I’ll have to submit a written report which must be approved by the Head of my Department before a check is cut to cover my plane fare, registration, hotel bill and my per diem.. It’s an effin’ pain in the derriere!” Once again, I was impressed by Sara’s use of American slang, delivered as naturally as would a native.

I took a chance and asked, “Who’d you call in Cairo? A boyfriend?”

“A friend, my friend,” she answered easily. “I have friends all over the world. This was a dear girl friend I called in Alexandria. I’ve known her all my life. We grew up together in Cairo. We belong to a club we formed as little girls when we learned about Cleopatra. She became our idol. We called ourselves the Secret Assignation and Cult of Cleopatra, the SACC. We started with five little girls and added ten little female teenagers and six little college co-eds. Our evil protagonists are the Italians and the ancestors and descendents of Marc Antony and Julius Caesar, the ADMAJC.” She fished in her purse and retrieved a card which read “Down With ADMAJC! Up with SACC.” It had a classic small logo showing an asp biting into a dark breast. I actually recognized the breast and the eyes and looked at Sara Leah. “Yes,” she said. “It’s me. I modeled for this picture some time ago, when I was young and didn’t know any better.

You’re one of the only handfuls of men who have seen it. I ask you to keep it a secret under penalty of death.” She smiled to reassure me. My feeling was that I wasn’t as safe as she indicated. She seemed to read my mind again. “Don’t worry Benny, darling, I don’t want to give up your caresses. You’re already mine and I don’t want to lose you. I think I’m falling in love with you. I promise: I won’t kill you! Besides, you’re obviously not a descendent of Marc Antony or Julius Caesar.” Now, I felt reassured Sara went back to writing her report. “I’m falling in love with you, too, Sara,” I said. “You are the epitome of beauty and grace. I can’t help it.” We kissed on the lips for more than a few seconds. I pulled away from her reluctantly and we smiled. I turned and found my robe to get into after dropping my clothes in her presence. She looked at me approvingly and caressed me and aroused me. “Are you prepared for anointing and conjoining?” “I am!” I said immediately. “Then, be a good little slave and get us the EVOO. It’s in the bathroom.”

Sara closed her laptop computer and chased me and the EVOO unto the bed. We pulled off the covers and made love with the olive oil on the satin paisley, all afternoon, coming up for air, water, elimination and re-oiling. At six, we ordered room service, a sumptuous garlic shrimp plus veggies, water chestnuts and Chinese noodles dinner for two with a French Chardonnay Blanc. After eating eagerly, we cleared the table and made love on it, more eagerly. Afterwards, we prepared the Jacuzzi and gently made love in it. We were so exhausted; we barely made it to the bed where we fell asleep entwined.

I was awakened by Sara. “Ben, it’s nine o’clock. It’s time to do it again.” It didn’t take much to convince me. My body vigourously responded to her voice, her touch, her vision and her EVOO applications. I left at midnight as she returned to her Macintosh laptop and her report. She answered the phone and giggled. Part of what she said is that she screwed at least10 times each day for 2 days.

As I walked to my lonely car, and got in to drive to Hinsdale, I was struck again by Sara’s use of American slang. I guessed she was boasting to a girlfriend, using the street language of the USA to emphasize her activities of the flesh. I felt lucky and happy, loved and adored.

CHAPTER TWO

When I got home, I decided to check my computer for emails and messages. I was surprised that I couldn’t open my email. I was forced to change my password. There were several messages from Sara which I opened first. “It was nice to make your acquaintance, my dear sir. I’m hoping you’ll knock me up or ring me up, anon. I have strong feelings for you. I hope you have strong feelings for me. Love, Sara Leah.” Another said, “Our recent encounter was very stimulating and enlightening. Perhaps you have the blood of Isaiah or David in you. I don’t believe it is Habakkuk or Jacob because they were whiners and losers. David and Isaiah were strong and heroic, like you. I hope you call on me as soon as you are recovered from our jousting. I am. Love.” The other three were similarly phrased to please a man with a classic education, an Old Testament background and a good sense of humour.

The disturbing messages were exactly the same. They were sent at two different times and read, “Message from Yahoo. Your password was changed. If you didn’t do it, report it to Yahoo immediately and change your password to protect your email. If you did change it, please click on the following link and confirm your new password and confirm that it was you that did the changing.” Without thinking it might be Sara, I reported the transgression to Yahoo. Then I changed the password back to my old familiar one that I used for my many IDs. Then it struck me that it was Sara. The two passwords she had chosen were Cleopatra and Marc Antony. I hadn’t thought to suspect her at first, but it was now obvious it was Sara, or perhaps someone in communication with Sara, say someone from SACC or someone with ADMACJ. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. I felt a cold chill go through my body and my hands, feet and nose started tingling. My signs and symptoms of anxiety faded as I smiled to myself. “I guess I still have the old Panic Disorder to deal with.” Smiling and thinking it out were my old standbys for aborting panic attacks. Silently, I thanked my old mentor psychiatrist, Dr. Ted Abraham. He had been treating a group of us young doctors with panic attacks and taught us how to think positively, smile and use profanity to get the attention of our aggressive centres. “Holy Shit! I still get those damn attacks. Go get ‘em tiger!” I said out loud as I calmed down significantly.

My anger turned to Sara and her associates. “It had to have been Sara!” I declared loudly. I calmed down. “Maybe it was one of her “little girls” at the SACC. Or, maybe it was one of her avowed enemies, the ADMACJ from Italy. I looked carefully through the SENT file and found an email address from the United Kingdom and one from New Zealand. Sure enough, it was sacc@yahoo.uk and sacc@hotmail.nz. It wasn’t cryptic. They were two emails I had sent to two friends, one in Baltimore, MD, and the other in Rochester, NY. They were both doctors, my old classmates and buddies, and in fact were both attending the AMA conference next week at the Palmer house a few days after the Clinical Investigation group cleared out. I was planning to join them for some of the seminars and enjoy a couple of nights on the town, probably eating at the Parthenon and at Uno’s, and enjoying some of our favourite haunts for Jazz and Blues music on Rush Street and some of the bars downtown, including Miller’s.

The internet intrusion meant that Sara had some clandestine agenda concerning me. I was angry and then frightened. Maybe my first reaction to her “penalty of death” statement was the correct one. Maybe she is dangerous to me. My curiosity then overwhelmed my other emotions. “What are she and her little girls up to?” I couldn’t sleep. I reviewed my encounter with Sara. “Maybe the meeting in the Art Institute was not chance and was not a triumph of my chutzpah, charm and wit. Maybe she lured me to her hotel room and drugged me to get information out of me. Maybe she implanted posthypnotic suggestions like the ones in the Manchurian Candidate. Maybe I’ll be doing something bizarre to one, or both, of my friends, who might be other targets for SACC.” Maybe, maybe, maybe… I had no way of proving anything outside a really lovely sexual encounter with a strikingly beautiful, sensuous woman.

I retrieved the card and the other information she had given me about her email address and phone numbers and her Cairo address. Surely, she couldn’t have made up the stuff she presented at the seminars. She was, after all recognized by the chair and the audience as an expert in the field of Neurophysiology. Surely she must in fact be a professor of Physiology at the University in Cairo. I tried the email address. It was returned in a few seconds by the Mailer Daemon which declared that it was a non-valid address and that I should check the spelling and pay more attention to the case of the letters. Next, I Googled SACC. There she was or whoever it was that claimed she was Sara Leah Hussein. Then I Googled Professor Sara Leah Hussein of Cairo. It was a strikingly attractive woman with a magnificent resume and bibliography, but it was not the Sara that had anointed me. A Reuter’s news item was that she had been abducted a week ago and her release was being negotiated as of this moment. Another Medscape news item was that she was presenting her work on the effect of the voice on trans-membrane potentials in giant squid axons, in Chicago at the Clinical Investigation meetings. Another Medscape headline indicated that an abstract was available on one of their links and that a clip of her appearance was available through the same link.

If this is as clever an operation as it seemed, my recent sexual triumph was a fait accompli performed by a master of espionage. I was overwhelmed by the cleverness of the operation, kidnapping a professor, successfully impersonating her and presenting her research in a critical atmosphere, all the while carrying on with an innocent, or perhaps really guilty, bystander, me. And what was my role? Was I, Doctor Benjamin Applebaum, in fact, incidental?

I thought of the movie where an alien transformed into a sexy woman, selected a healthy male, screwed him and then killed him. Her purpose was to get pregnant by a living specimen of a human male. Was it my sperm she was after? Was it my ancient DNA she was after? It slowly dawned on me that it wasn’t my wit and charm that seduced her. I was the seductee! More anger and fear started buzzing my psyche. “Holy shit!” I began again but it took a lot longer this time to calm me down. It took a whole hour before my trembling and nausea and nausea and thoughts of impending doom let up. I was left with a residual of paranoia, fear and resentment.

I decided to confront her, more or less. I called the hotel thinking I’d say I wanted more and could I come to her before breakfast for another series of anointments. I was too late. The desk clerk who handled messages said she had checked out about an hour ago and had taken a limousine to the airport. I called both O’Hare and Midway hoping to leave a message of great family urgency for the Professor Hussein that was flying back to Cairo. In fact there were no direct or indirect flights to Cairo at either airport and neither did I get an answer to any of their pages from Professor Benjamin Applebaum, or Professor Applebaum Benjamin. Finally I called the Island Airport in Lake Michigan near the Shedd Aquarium. Yes, a private jet was just taking off. An Egyptian aircraft, which had Arabic markings was headed toward both Cairo and Alexandria via London’s Heathrow.

I thought about it for a long time. Finally, I called Homeland Security and told them the story as I knew it. An agent, code-named “The American Eagle,” gave me a special login number and asked me to write it up in the form of a report, under the code name, “Doctor Hinsdale Donor.” I complied and received a complimentary response saying I was assisting greatly in the thwarting of a threat to National Security. I was told to report immediately should there be any further contact with the conspirators and that I might do well to watch CNN for any news developments.

CNN reported briefly that Professor Hussein of Cairo had been delivered safely to her University where the family had arranged to have her exchanged for an Italian Professor name of Antonio Puccini. The details were to be aired as they became available. I felt the Homeland folks would have made the same connection I would have to ADMAJC About an hour later, some details released included the impersonation story and the discovery of a secret society of agitators, SACC. About an hour after that, CNN ran a tape released by SACC about ADMAJC. It was my “Sara Leah.” She spoke in a monotone and was dressed in the same black number I recognized from the Art Institute. And, it was fully obvious that she was wearing no undergarments. She announced that the long established Secret Sisterhood had completed its first major mission. She reassured everyone that no one had been hurt. She thanked a certain professor in Chicago for being a willing victim of their success. She reassured him that no further contact will be necessary and that his role in the operation was vital and extremely well performed. She thanked him and was sorry she could no longer have any contact with him and, therefore, could not thank him in person, more appropriately. She asked his forgiveness for having to act subversively and not openly give him her agenda.

“I forgive you Ms. Sara, or whatever your name is. Perhaps it’s Cleo. I’ll call you Cleo Chagall and I’ll always remember you with fondness and joy.” I cried as I became aware of the extent of her duplicity. I smiled as I had such wonderful memories of bubble baths and anointments, kisses and hugs and the wonderful patter and repartee we exchanged. I fell asleep finally with Cleo in my psychic grasp and the powerful image of her naked beautiful body open to my pleasures and fulfillments.

An email from The American Eagle brought me up to date with the CNN news release. It warned me not to use the telephone or internet. It informed me that an agent would be making a visit within the hour. I had seen the movies and had had a brush with the CIA in Switzerland, so the message didn’t frighten me, a lot. I shut down my computer and checked the telephone. Sure enough, there was a listening device in the receiver that I discovered by unscrewing the protective mouth piece. I put the phone to my mouth and whispered, “Good-bye, Sara Leah or Cleo Chagall or whatever your name is. I miss you and I forgive you. Please don’t harm my friends.” Then I hung up. I checked the curtains and the light fixtures. I found another five electronic bugs. I recognized them from the movies. I found another two in my potted philodendra’s and aspidistras.

I turned on CNN on my cable channel 37. The announcer announced that the news story about the kidnapped professor in Cairo had been deemed classified and that no further information regarding it would be forthcoming until it was declassified. He repeated the earlier flash and reassured us that no one had been harmed and that the exchange of professors was carried out without incident. He said it was a matter of National Security for the USA, Italy and Egypt. He suggested that the details previously made public could be reviewed on the CNN website. “That’ll have to wait until I get clearance by The American Eagle,” I concluded. “Maybe the agent coming over will supply some more information.

The agent, “Miss America from Alabama,” rang my apartment from the lobby’s intercom system. I saw someone that looked like a tall and muscular Veronica Lake, played by Kim Basinger in the movie LA Confidential. She wore a black, tight-fitting suit and carried a black fashionable hat in one hand and a large, thick, black briefcase in the other. She looked directly at the camera which monitored visitors for the management and the residents. She retrieved a wallet with a badge to flash me. I could read that it was the Central Intelligence Agency logo with an American Eagle and her number, 543210, engraved. Then she flashed her personal photo-identification card which showed someone that looked like Veronica Lake with a very serious face, as opposed to the sexy, dreamy look to which I was accustomed. Her name was Henrietta June Matisse.

I opened the door for Henrietta and she immediately cautioned me to remain silent by putting her index finger and thumb up to the corner of her mouth and making the motion of zippering up her lips. I made the same gesture, let her in and locked the door behind her. She looked around the room and checked the entire apartment quickly, apparently looking for someone. Then she put down her brief case on my coffee table and opened it. It contained what I recognized as finger-print searching and recording equipment, a tiny walkie-talkie, test-tubes, plastic locking bags, small metal containers, blue rubber gloves and medical instruments, including a scalpel and various sized forceps. She did what I expected her to do; she scanned my place for listening devices and found twelve. She carefully removed them and put them each in a plastic bag and labeled the bags with the location, including my kittens’ litter box, in which two of the bugs had been found. I handed her the bugs I had found; she whispered that I shouldn’t have done this without gloves. Marking the locations from my discovered bugs, she put them in individual plastic bags and put them in her briefcase. Next, she inspected my computer and all my electronic equipment, including my very expensive, Sony, audio-visual equipment. She started disconnecting everything and then used her walkie-talkie to communicate in a whisper, with a male associate, apparently nearby. “Clear, Virginia Victor!” She indicated to me that someone was coming to join us.

A Victor Mature look alike appeared on my lobby screen near my front door. Ms. Matisse rang him in. Silently, he entered my apartment with large cardboard cartons, some of which were collapsed and some of which were labeled with a large SONY logo. He put the boxes down on my kitchen counter and kitchen floor and retrieved a calling card for me. It read Peter Meyer-Hoff, badge number 9876543. Mr. Meyer-Hoff replaced my telephone, computer and my entertainment equipment with miniature versions of a Sony laptop computer, a Sony television screen and computer monitor and a very neat Sony, compact unit with built in speakers, which could handle CD’s, DVD’s, AM and FM and TV cable stations with wireless technology. He turned it all on and assured me silently that it was all operative and safe to use.

My kittens, Beauregard and Chelsea, had warmed up to my visitors and were purring and rubbing themselves against their legs. A light began flashing on both Henrietta’s and Peter’s bug detecting equipment. They stooped to pick up the kittens who purred even louder as they enjoyed the attention. A tiny scanner located two more listening devises in the bellies of my cats.

“I’m guessing these will come out in a day or two,” whispered Peter. “Please save them for us.” Henrietta retrieved two metal containers and a small eye-dropper bottle. “Fill them with this special solution and drop them in, poop and all. Don’t touch them. Here. Use these forceps.” She handed me a small forceps from her briefcase. “Call us as soon as you retrieve them and we’ll come and pick them up. Save the forceps. I’ll clean them. And, always wear these gloves,” she smiled as she handed me a pair of blue latex gloves from her case. “They won’t spoil any fingerprints.”

I smiled back. I couldn’t help it. “Thanks Agent Henrietta.

“Call me June, Ben,” she said. “Henrietta was my great grandmother’s name. I prefer June. June was sexy and beautiful. She had blue eyes and a small mouth with larger than expected lips. Her tight uniform left little to my imagination. She appeared to be muscular and lithe. She moved smoothly around my apartment like a dancer would. “I really like your kittens, and their names, Beauregard and Chelsea. Are they named after someone special?”

No,” I admitted. “I just liked the names and after I met them they both acted like Southern plantation owners. So, I picked the names of a Southern Gentleman and Lady. “Thanks.” I whispered.

“You’re welcome, I’m sure,” said June, imitating Kim Basinger’s accent and demeanor. With a mock curtsy, she smiled openly at me with a friendliness that I hadn’t seen below her cool professional look. “I’ll need to return for a personal visit and interview, after we get your stuff out of here and to the lab for a thorough inspection.”

“Anytime,” I said quickly, perhaps too quickly. I tried to act cool and smile a little. I couldn’t help it. Instead, I smiled a big, invitational smile and felt my face act friendly from ear to ear. I must have blushed, because I suddenly felt warm all over.

June didn’t blush. She set her lips at neutral and returned to her job of anti-surveillance techniques. She helped Peter pack up my equipment in the large boxes, using lots of bubble packing material, hoisted several of them up in her strong arms and on her strong shoulders and left silently with Peter and his boxes, soon after.

I held my kittens back from running out after June and Peter into the hall, which was their favourite way of escaping and making me chase them up and down the halls and the stairwells. I held one kitten under each armpit while they struggled to get free. I locked the door with the dead bolt and the door chain, put the disappointed kittens down and turned to my new equipment. I displayed the CNN webpage. It was repeating the Cairo story and clips of the University reunion of the Hussein family. The clip of my Cleo speaking in a monotone was replayed. The announcer said they were gathering further information about the mystery woman and her mysterious organization. I fell asleep on the couch with my cats as they resumed their favourite positions. Beauregard and I were fantasizing about Ms. June Matisse. Chelsea was dreaming about running up and down the halls and staircases.

Agents June and Peter of the CIA walked to Peter’s military issue Hummer and deposited the boxes in the back. Peter gave her a lift to her Thunderbird convertible. They drove off toward The Loop, in Chicago, taking the I-55 interstate, the Kennedy Expressway, into the Spaghetti Bowl interstate exchange with I-90 and I-94. They both took the direct east exit into the centre of the City on the last leg of the Eisenhower and turned north into the tunnel that was Lower Wacker Drive, created by starting a story up when rebuilding Chicago, after the Great Fire.

Peter took the underground expressway all the way to the end, exiting so as to come up behind the John Hancock building. He parked his hummer and using a grocery cart, unloaded Ben’s boxes. He arrived safely to the secret office on the entire 50^th floor, in the dramatically and distinctly built Hancock, an erstwhile tallest building in the world.

June let Peter exit Wacker Drive ahead of her and she took the Michigan Avenue Bridge to the North Bank of the Chicago River to her building halfway between the Wrigley Building and The Merchandise Mart. Ensuring that no one had followed her, June, took an elevator to her luxury apartment condominium in the Corn Cobs on the 59^th floor, on the south bank of the Chicago River. It had 60 floors, the top 40 for apartments, the bottom 20 for parking and an underwater basement for docking yachts.

Peter industriously examined all of Ben’s equipment for fingerprints and evidence of further listening devises. He found several Egyptian cookies in his Windows programme, including two in his Yahoo website. He found that his Norton’s virus detection programme had been disabled and he found a Trojan Horse in his hard drive. It was the most modern sophisticated programme, capable of avoiding detection and removal and of receiving and sending millions of emails on command while it slowed the computer just a little for its usual Microsoft programmes. He was unable to discover the true source of the spammer but did find that it had a lot of Egyptian characters and numbers for the use of the sender and the receiver. By morning, the computer had been completely dismantled allowing Peter to sequester and isolate the data and programmes on the hard disc and the open and cached mother boards. He fitted these into a special tower designed to keep it all isolated and yet minutely monitored when it was connected to the internet and the CIA system. He memorized the ID and passwords and left his equipment do the monitoring and recording. In his lab, he had some of the old IBM and Remington Rand equipment, but for the most part, he used the most up-to-date Macintosh and Microsoft stuff. His pet was the large old Bell Telephone booth that had the equivalent of Big Blue, the chess playing champion. He loved chess. After his official work was done, he poured himself a glass of Italian Swiss Colony Chianti, cut himself a large piece of Emmentaler cheese and retrieved a large Macintosh apple. He tuned a short wave receiver to the 24 hour CBC international news station and sat in his favourite Lazy-Boy chair. There was no further detail on the Cairo professor kidnapping case. He checked in with his central office in the Pentagon and was told to relax for a day or so. He submitted a detailed report under his code name, Virginia Victor, “VV” which he also used for playing chess with his pet. Then he turned on his Bell Telephone Booth, “BTB” and made the white move e4, hoping for e5. BTB responded for black, c5, the Sicilian Defense, the best there was against e4. The settings, as always, was “International Grandmaster,” rated 2884, the highest rating on record for the FIDE and the USCF organizations. As it happened, e4, c5 were the last moves ever made by VV and BTB. The entire 50^th floor exploded into flames. VV and BTB and all the other equipment died instantly and were burned to a virtually unrecognizable crisp.

The entire condominium apartment on the 59^th floor and its contents was similarly destroyed by an expertly engineered, flash explosion. Ms. America from Alabama, MAFA, had broken her usual routine and had returned to the lobby. She was about to leave for a local bar for a drink and a snack when she heard the explosion. She called in the alarm to The American Eagle, TAE, and to a non-responding VV, and then called me. June screamed at me, “Get out now!” She saved 3 lives, but just barely. In my robe, I grabbed Beauregard and Chelsea and ran out into the hall and down a stairwell. Absolutely nothing else was left alive or operative in my condominium apartment on 55^th street. Fourteen people were lost when the entire building caught fire and burned to the ground. June found me, frightened, on the street with my two frightened cats. She helped them crawl into the back of an ambulance she had commandeered. In the Cook County Hospital parking lot, June left the ambulance and opened the door of a gray Ford Taurus, SEL; the key was in the lock and had a key chain labeled, SMYTHE. MAFA and June and me and my cats, had automatically disappeared. Now June was private citizen, Mary Smythe of Westchester, NY, the wife of John Henry Smythe, also of Westchester, a pharmacist operating a small drug store in Westchester, near the small community hospital. Mary and I were to have two girls, ages 10 and 12, without the benefit of pregnancies, but with a history of two normal deliveries in the hospital record and chart room. Mary was also to have a part-time job as a pharmacy assistant working behind the counter with John Henry whose wall hangings indicated he had graduated summa cum laude from an Ivy League University. Only Beauregard and Chelsea were allowed to keep their original names and personalities.

Mary’s and John’s kith and kin were told June and Benjamin were burned to a heap of ashes in their respective condo-apartments. My two doctor friends came to my funeral and their lives were saved by the protective agents of the CIA, I was informed.

I was also informed that SACC was mopped up and destroyed. Those were the only details. I assumed that meant that “Cleo Chagall” and all her friends were assassinated. CNN breathed not a word of the truth. Mary and I were slated to live happy lives, to own a small sail boat, two cars and a vacation cottage on Cape Cod. We were to send both our girls to Vassar. We were to enjoy yearly vacations for the entire months of August and February in our cottage on Cape Cod and our time-share condo in Aspen. And we were to live happily ever after as a typical, wealthy American, professional family, playing chess and bridge, sailing and skiing.

And, we did. Mary and I grew to love each other, our cats and our daughters. School, medical, business, banking, dental and veterinary records automatically existed in the appropriate offices. Mary was as lovely and loving in her new red hair and I was as handsome and adoring in my new well-trimmed beard and moustaches. Our records of having been attended by the stylists of Westchester’s Hair Today and Groomed Tomorrow went back many years. The Fates were right. June and I were meant for each other as Mary and John.

Incidentally, Mary started perfecting her poetry and published a successful book of Love Sonnets and other Non-Sense. Many of her poems were published in the New Yorker. I found I liked writing essays, many of which showed up in local and national newspapers as letters to the editor or on the editorial pages as contributed commentary. One of my essays, I’m proud to say, was published by the Atlantic Monthly.

THE END

©John Henry Smythe

Westchester, NY, USA

CHAPTER THREE

I live and work as a pharmacist in Westchester, NY, with my wife Mary. My two grown daughters are at Vassar involved in Premedical studies and doing well academically and socially. My wife of twenty-five years is a Pharmacy Assistant and is of prime importance to me as a friend and associate. We met under the usual romantic circumstances, sharing classes at Yale. Both of us have pursued our creative drives to write, Mary tending to write sonnets, while I preferred to write essays. We are still romantically involved in our idyllic lives, living in a lovely house and having the opportunity to sail and ski. Our two cats, a male named Beauregard and a female named Chelsea are now 16 years old and are an important part of our family. Mary and I are planning to reaffirm our love with a spiritual ceremony on our twenty-fifth anniversary of wedded bliss.

I cannot publish the above fictionalized story for National Security reasons and the safety of my family and friends. Here are an essay and three sonnets by my wife and I that were allowed to be published under our assumed names:

Optional Introduction:

In the sense that it's hard to suppress the spirit of a semi-delusional, nervy writer, the essay below was of interest to me and may have been in my head, or other parts of my body, for a few years, now. Please delete before you get interested, if you don't like such speculations, the delusions and the nerviness. I was thinking of yet another rejection by the Globe and Mail or the Atlantic Monthly...

The Humanization of the Earth

An Essay

By John Henry Smythe

In the Beginning, the Earth was devoid of Human Beings. In the beginning the Earth cooled from a mass of gasses. There was no water and no air. There was no life. Life came to Earth a finite time ago. Perhaps it was in the form of a virus-like animal, a single, or double, strand of deoxyribonucleic acid, DNA, more or less. Mars and Venus were similar in shape and origins and, to my knowledge, have never supported life, as we know it. I suppose the first forms of life were single microbes, viruses, fungi, bacteria and a form we may not yet have guessed.

That all life originated from one source is dramatically demonstrated by microbiology and various forms of X-ray techniques, especially X-ray microscopy. The basic structure of a single cell is remarkably similar from trees and shrubs to fungi and humans. There is a double layered, double lipoprotein molecule, around the cell with invaginations which contain a nucleus, and many mitochondria. Within the nucleus, there are strands of DNA which are species-specific. The mitochondria produce ribonucleic acids, RNA, somewhat species specific. Both the DNA and RNA are capable of forming segments and duplicating itself, in whole or part, by a special template mechanism, where the sequences of amino acids are attracted arranged in double helices. Amino acids themselves are common to all life forms. It’s the sequence that is species specific. A duplicate of DNA is able to take some material with it and manufacture another cell by the process of mitosis, common to all life forms. RNA can do the same thing, more or less, from within the mitochondria and secrete the RNA into the cell. From there, it can stay or can be extruded into the cells’ milieu, bound for other adjacent cells as so-called Messenger RNA. A lot of antibodies are formed this way, as are hormones which have effects on other cells, foreign or indigenous, by way of “Key-Lock” receptor sites, in the cell membrane configuration, to affect a change, usually in defense of the indigenous cells and in aggression to the foreign cells.

For example, it was discovered that bacteria develop antibodies to antibiotics in a single cell, or set of dividing cells, to establish resistance to an antibiotic. The RNA, which is the antibody, itself, then travels out of the cell to other cells, establishing larger populations of resistant bacteria, eventually replacing the vulnerable bacteria with bacteria able to fend off the antibiotic(s) and proliferate. Eventually, if the bacteria are not erased by other means, or another antibiotic, the bacteria succeeds in developing multiple resistances, even to all antibiotics, or types of antibiotics, and therefore “untreatable” by traditional antibiotic therapy. Patients’ bodies must then learn to survive without antibiotics as a defense mechanism. Entire hospital populations must then be isolated to prevent the powerful infecting “bugs” from becoming epidemic. Sometimes hospitals and other health facilities must be shut down entirely in the hopes that the resistant strains of the bacteria will lose its shared messenger RNA and become vulnerable again to the available antibiotics.

Inasmuch as a pregnancy is a form of parasitism, the RNA serves to protect the embryo and fetus from rejection by its mother host, and her set of antibodies, during the process where the DNA is causing development and specialization of the cells and its eventual organism, the baby. In unicellular organisms, there is no parasitism, because there is no multicellular host involved. Mitosis under favourable milieu circumstances is all that is needed, generally, for reproduction. Where there are hosts and the formation of embryonic cells by contributions from the male and female of the species, the protection is necessary for maintenance of the proper internal and external milieu for normal growth and development from the single cell onset of a new life. Though it seems much different with plants and seeds and bees and cross pollinization, it is a remarkable similar process. Plants may use chlorophyll for handling and converting carbon dioxide to oxygen, and animals may use hemoglobin and carbonic anhydrase for handling and converting oxygen to carbon dioxide, but the cells in which these processes occur are remarkably alike. In the future, it may be possible to transplant DNA and RNA and convert plants to animals and visa versa. The concepts of reincarnation, the Holy Spirit and the conservation of energy and entropy may easily by reflected by submicroscopic redistribution of important molecules, or segments of molecules, for DNA and RNA.

So how did the Western Hemisphere acquire humans?

I am arguing that the seeds of humanity are the same as the seeds for the entire biological world. In order to set the time limits for the question of Man in the Western Hemisphere, I have looked at the ever increasing archeological evidence. It seems a possibility that Man was here in our Hemisphere from the onset. Villagers and cavemen and civilizations may have occurred as long ago as the disaster that killed the dinosaurs, or even earlier, running from dinosaurs as all forms of life did. Like a cockroach that may survive a nuclear holocaust, tiny versions of humans may have survived the 5 or 10 year winter caused by a meteor hitting the earth and spewing tons of dust into the air. Sparrows, finches, worms, snails, lobster, crabs, skunks, porcupines, garter snakes, frogs, microorganisms, grass, crocuses, fungi, saplings and the like might have all survived.

Could Man have already existed when the dry earth on this world was one big continent? I think it’s likely. Would a two to three feet high ape like animal have been recognized as unique? I would guess the answer is “Yes!” I would guess the uniqueness was the language and the co-operation that comes from language. Perhaps that’s the alternate interpretation to “In the beginning, there was the Word, etc.,” from John. Perhaps that is the legend behind the Tree of Knowledge and the Tower of Babel. Perhaps this is unfounded conjecture. It is my privilege as a man to be able to communicate my unfounded conjectures along side of all the other conjectures and dogmas, myths and legends and Bibles and Theories of Everything.

Modern DNA studies in living and dead humans tend to indicate that man originated somewhere in the Fertile Crescent, as described in Genesis and other Mediterranean Myths and Legends. The tsunami and flood of the region left Noah and his family and animals as survivors on or near Mount Ararat in Turkey. Egyptian, Persian, Greek and Roman Sagas are remarkably similar with regards to the Flood and the repopulation of the Mediterranean Sea coasts. The Flood wiped out Atlantis and Sodom and Gomorra, which may have been the same thing, off the coast of Malta or in the Dead Sea. Ruins have been discovered in those areas 200 feet underwater. Could the populations in the Americas have already been there? I’m guessing they were. Their ability to create advanced civilizations going back at least 50,000 years seem to be reflected in the findings in South America and Mexico where there are “air strips” and ancient walls constructed by methods that modern technology has not yet solved. It is possible, in my mind, that the ancient Peruvians and Mexicans had developed flight, inasmuch as some of these findings can only be recognized as landmarks from a height of 200 miles. Not too long ago, a gold “sunfish,” presumed to be a flying fish, in a Mexican museum was studied and found to be over 50,000 years old. It has features remarkably similar to an American F115 fighter jet, capable of flying into the stratosphere. Some, like Von Daniken in the Chariots of the Gods, have speculated that highly advanced extraterrestrials visited South America and led to the drawings of “birdmen” in the caves. He suggested that these were spacemen from another planet wearing specialized helmets. Like others, I’m guessing these were humans capable of space flight, or at least ordinary humans capable of flying into the stratosphere needing to wear the expected protective and oxygen supplying headgear. On the ground, they were apparently expert masons able to put together 600 pound shaped rocks so exactly that a razor blade can barely be introduced between them. Modern attempts to duplicate this wonderful masonry using less than highly mechanized apparatus has confirmed that this population of humans was technologically, highly advanced about 50,000 years ago.

Was there such a civilization in the Mediterranean Sea area? I’m guessing there was. The legends of Sodom and Gomorrah and of the lost City of Atlantis suggest that there was. My question would be, did the folks in the Americas come to the Mediterranean or did they come to the Americas from the Mediterranean area? Or, were highly advanced folks in both areas because the land masses were still very close and separated only by the warm “Atlantic River”. The timing of the movements of the tectonic plates is a critical question. It seems to me that the easiest explanation was that there was a large advanced civilization surrounding the Caribbean Gulf and the Mediterranean Sea in a form that would have existed before the Americas and the European-African continents drifted apart.

Development after that time would have taken the form of parallel, but different advances. Pyramids were built on both sides of the Atlantic by humans. Those in the Americas were smaller and had flat tops and tended to be built, apparently, for condominium type living of the leaders and the wealthy. Those in North Africa were built for burial of the leaders and the wealthy, apparently, in order to ascend to the heavens after they changed from "gods on earth" to "gods in heaven."

It seems like everyday, more artifacts are discovered which places civilized, advanced humans on all land masses all over the world. The times are being pushed back further and further. I believe the Chinese have yet to discover their really ancient ruins. I believe the Americans, Africans, Australians and Europeans already have evidence of their ancestry tens of thousands of years ago by way of skeletal remains and cave drawings and ruins of cities and countries. Some of these ruins reflect technological advances that we may not have today, yet. The possibility that ancient Incas had stratospheric flight is intriguing. We moderns hadn’t developed it until just recently. Our space explorations may find that man has been to Mars or the Moon years ago. It’s an intriguing idea. Again, it reflects the true meaning of the word research. It is hard to imagine what technological and sociological advances might have lead to "Peace on Earth" so far back that remain as possibilities for us in the near future. On the other hand, the declines of civilizations are also in our history and may be the future we don’t want. Some people believe that a large decline is imminent. It would be the next time that Mankind would have to start over, so-to-speak. Our dreams, seemingly universal, of the Kingdom of Heaven right here on our Earth, might already have come and gone several times in the last million years. The capability of Mankind to advance and then destroy, or be destroyed, is well documented in fact and in legend. In a real sense, the near future may be exceedingly dim, while the distant future is extremely bright, in my opinion. In fact, I have the peculiar feeling that this essay, or something like it, has been written many times, already. I feel peculiarly connected to the prophets over the ages. They must have been very charismatic, intelligent, unbelievably insightful, only semi-delusional, very nervy folks, to whom I owe a huge debt of gratitude.

After all, their DNA is my DNA. Their dreams, for themselves and for others, are my dreams. Their declines and almost complete destructions, followed by their almost glorious recoveries, their Fertile Crescents, their Olympics and other wonderful global tournaments, Rivers and Mountains, life-giving oxygen and destructive fires, meteorite strikes, tsunamis, floods, conflagrations, volcanoes, Gulf Streams, Polar icecaps, earthquakes, kittens, trees, butterflies, the South American and Chinese Great Walls, the computers, chess, bridge, poetry, the cave drawings, Tibetan Monasteries, the pyramids, the right-angled triangle, the castles in the sky, the symphonies, the impressionists, the Towers of Babel and Pisa, the Niagara and Victorian Falls, the casinos, the pleasures and the pains, and the Gardens of Eden, are all mine, as well. Amen.

THE END and THE BEGINNING

©John Henry Smythe

Westchester, NY, USA

DIPPIN’ HIPPOCAMPim

A Silly Sonnet

By Mary Smythe

The rains have soaked my kitties and myself

And now we’ve had to lie upon a shelf

All day to let our brains and fur dry out,

Without discovering what life’s about.

Outside my patio’s at least a foot

Below the surface of a pond of wets

And damps that guard the world from silly pets

And me and everyone from Lilliput.

Perchance a fisherman could find a sea-

Food fantasy to base his poetry

On seas and rivulets for household pets

And barefoot happy children sans regrets.

I wish that I could conjure up a

Hippocampus to entice us for a dip.

THE END

©Mary Smythe

Westchester, NY, USA

Thank God for Noah

A Sonnet

By Mary Smythe

In Genesis, there is a reference to

The Giants, Nephalim, who walked the earth.

In Chapter Six, The Men of God decided

That the fairest of Mankind was

Womankind and chose them. Mating followed

Mating and the children were renowned throughout

The world. Unluckily the Evil that

Was shunned by God, since Eve removed the fruit

From THE Forbidden Tree and offered it

To Adam under Lucifer who watched

Them do THE Sin which started Sin forever,

Not forgiven ever by the Lord.

‘Twas sad. If not for Noah, We would NOT

Be here today. Unless we’re Born Again,

We would not be here when Our Jesus comes,

When Trumpets hail the Coming of Our Lord.

THE END

©Mary Smythe

Westchester, NY, USA

Peter’s Purple Tongue

A Silly Sonnet

By Mary Smyth

The symptoms suffered, loudly, by Pierre

Included pain superior and to

The derriere of his protruding blue

And purple tongue. Perplexed, the doctor did

Some testing in the kitchenette which showed

His patient had acute and chronic,

Aggravation due to conflicts in his new

Exciting marriage to Adele from Del

Dominica, an island off the coast

Of Costa Christa, once the summer home

Of Dame Juanita de la Casablanca.

Peter’s pimple, Sauvignon, commenced

To squirt red wine, a vintage never seen

By Doctor Leonard Bean or Jimmy Dean.

THE END

©Mary Smythe

Westchester, NY, USA

CHAPTER FOUR

The Destiny of my Soul

A Beginner’s Novel

By Jennifer Williams

The message to my secret code name, Cleopatra Cairo Cop, CCC, from TAE, was life saving; “The stocks of SACC have crashed. Arabic Airlift is waiting. GO!” Barely did I get out of my apartment in Alexandra when the entire building imploded and was engulfed in flame. Everything I owned, including my Toyota Camry and my specialized Philips radio and television studio equipment, were instantly and utterly destroyed. On board Arab III, a Fokker, TAE was waiting with a large, black, modern, wheeled suitcase labeled Jennifer Williams. “ Sit and put on your seat belt Jennifer,” was TAE’s greeting. TAE found a seat near her and fastened his seat belt. The small jet plane, already warmed up and cleared for takeoff, started taxiing to its runway. Within a few moments it was in the air and leveling off. The seat belt signal went off.

Jennifer turned to face the powerful CIA chief of Arabic Operations. “Whazza?” she said in perfect American dialect.

TAE smiled. “You’ve learned well, Jennifer Williams. You’re American English is perfect. You must have picked it up from watching American TV commercials. Don’t use it openly. Start speaking with that British accent you do so well. Your credentials will make you an expert neurophysiology researcher in Huxley’s lab in Cambridge. You are a Ph.D. in Physiology. You’ve had 2 presentations to the British Physiological Association and 2 acclaimed papers in Physiology concerning the Electrophysiology of Venus Fly Traps, the research of which earned you an A+ on your Dissertation for your doctorate. Your statistical paper for it was a cleverly constructed experiment on the effects of temperature and barometric pressure on the Venus plant’s ability to ingest and digest flies in a 24 hr. period. Your doctoral papers were made into a best-selling, brilliantly illustrated book and sold over 1,000,000 copies in 17 countries. You are wealthy and continue to receive royalties. You have a quaint old apartment on the University grounds and you’ve lived there quietly for almost 10 years in pursuit of your Professorial career. You are now a successful, fully funded, endowed, tenured full professor, and Assistant Department Head, in line to become the Department Head in a year or two when your department chairman will retire his position, unexpectedly, due to a mysterious illness. You have a personal staff of 7 technicians and a secretary who competes with you for the unofficial departmental beauty contests which you always seem to win because of your intense inner beauty and your superiority. You will shave your head and at all times wear a really genuine, human hair wig which can be glued on, if you wish. It is a dark auburn colour with light auburn highlights and you’ve known your hairdresser, Mario Antonio Cappuccino, for 10 years. You will be mainly a lesbian. You have had the same lover, Christine Mae Jones, an American working for the past six years in the American Embassy. You met her at a party at the Embassy to which you were invited. It was love at first sight. You dated for two years and then she moved in to your place three years ago. There will be old and new pictures of the both of you all over your apartment. Except for the occasional big black male athlete whom you tend to entertain together, you have been faithful to each other.”

TAE became very serious and deliberate as he faced me, less than a foot between our noses, to say, “This is an Eternal Federal Protection Plan for both you and Christine. There is no going back. SACC and all your kith and kin may have been wiped out.”

I fought back tears. Finally, I said, “Thank you for saving my life.” I sat down with my face in my hands and allowed myself to sob openly for a few moments. The seat-belt signal sounded as we started our descent to Heathrow.

The transition to my new life as TAE had described it was remarkably smooth. Christine Mae Jones was lovely and adapted as easily as I. We genuinely liked each other and grew to love each other. The occasional tall black male athlete was a lot of fun. Our love-making seemed natural and was indeed genuine. The practice that I’d had with my childhood little girls, adolescent high school girls and my college co-eds, all of them SACC members, stood me in good stead in my lesbian life-style at Cambridge. My staff, co-workers and superiors seemed to accept me quickly and easily. My work at the University was fulfilling and exciting. My English accent became as natural as a native’s. I spoke in American only to joke around in private with my lover and our occasional sexual athlete.

In my private moments, I cried sometimes about the losses of my kith and kin and my SACC and about my Benny. “Sweet, sweet Benny,” I said often to myself. “I’m sorry I lost you. I’m sorry I was responsible for your demise. I miss you terribly. Please forgive me wherever you are in your Old Testament Heaven. You were so kind and loving to me. I adored you. I adore you now. I will adore you forever. Maybe we’ll meet again when I die. I hope so. Please make me welcome. I will do anything you ask. Please watch over me, as I should have watched over you. Please forgive my trespasses as I forgive yours. I love you, Benjamin Applebaum. I love you with all my heart and soul. Do they use EVOO in Heaven? I hope so.”

At other times, I reviewed my life’s events. Christine and I were able to discuss our secret past lives in safety. It was therapeutic for both of us. We were able, together, to make peace with the gravity of our decisions and behaviours. Christine and I had many things in common, especially the facts of our secret CIA connections. Apparently we were both leading counterespionage woman’s groups in our respective locations, she in Washington, DC, and I in Alexandria and Cairo. Our educations in language and biology were similar, she in New England and me in Egypt. Our religious and cultural backgrounds differed a great deal but our life’s values were remarkably similar. She valued her associations with strong, pro-active women, as did I. Her passions for justice and liberation were almost exactly the same as mine. Our interests in self-actualization were parallel and strongly mutual with mine. Perhaps our appearance was our biggest difference, she lily-white and I swarthy and dark. We both had had to shave our heads and wear wigs at all times. Mine was an auburn with light auburn highlights and like a page-boy. Her’s was a strawberry blond and shaped to look like the Dorothy Hammel cut. Our new British accents suited us well. We kept fit and trim with daily workouts at the Cambridge Athletic Department. We were known and pretty well accepted as lesbian lovers and room-mates and partners by virtually everyone. We handled homophobic associates with calm and unflappable demeanours. We had virtually no ugly encounters.

One ugly encounter was enough for us. It was my Department Head, a staunch Episcopalian ordained minister who tended to greet me with a lemon-sucking serious face and make it clear that I was as unholy as anyone he had ever met. Often, he quipped that I was going to Hell when the trumpets sounded to announce the Second Coming. The ugliness experienced at one particular departmental meeting to which he arrived drunk, apparently, included a preamble to the presentation of the agenda. He chose to criticize me openly for my living in sin, claiming it was a black mark for the entire department and the University itself. He implied that there would be dire consequences to me, at the University and Christine at the Embassy. He indicated that a word from him to the righteous powers-that-be, would bring down the roof on both of us if we didn’t change our life-styles immediately.

Within a month, the roof fell on him. His unexpected resignation, after he started suffering a mysterious illness, was a welcome relief for Christine and I because, in fact, he did have the wherewithal to carry out his threat to us. We guessed that his illness was AIDS due to HIV. We suspected, but never had confirmed, that TAE and the CIA had something to do with it, inasmuch as TAE’s prophetic prediction was so accurate. In private, other members of my department were supportive and tried to be re-assuring about my position. At the meeting, their hands and their tongues were tied, obviously fearing the self-righteous wrath that had been so obnoxiously expressed by their boss.

Christine and I sent regular coded reports by special emails to The American Eagle. There was never a response. About every six months, Christine and I would get what appeared to be a package we had ordered from a company that specialized in custom-mixed cosmetics and perfumes, The Perfumery to the Queen of England, Smythe and Abercrombie and Company, from it’s London’s headquarters On The Strand. Besides our perfumes and soaps, lipsticks and shampoos, the delivery person would whisper the name of a London restaurant, a time and a date. It was usually for a Saturday. Christine and I would dress for a night of pub-crawling at the many gay establishments where we would “accidentally” meet TAE, or one of his operatives. These generally short encounters in a loud atmosphere were for mutual re-assurances that all was well and that there was no need for emergency action or extra funds. Occasionally, we were given the name of a University or Embassy member that we were to observe secretly for six months and make a verbal report at the next “casual” encounter in a gay bar or night club. Each time, we were given the name of a person working with us that could be used as a contact, but only in an emergency. Most often, if it wasn’t TAE we saw, it was a rather attractive lesbian who wore a red, white and blue choker or broach for identification.

Christine and I privately surmised that the CIA had many female operatives, like ourselves, in hiding or in secret cells, throughout the world. It seemed to us that it was someone’s clever idea to use Women’s Liberation and the female tendency to form action groups for one cause or another to front their clandestine operations. It would be simple to co-ordinate overt or covert operations anywhere in the world. In general, women would be less suspicious than men in a terrorist operation or an isolated assassination plot. If their covers were not broken and their CIA connections were not known, such operations could be carried out for years without suspicion. Unfortunately, broken covers, both accidental and purposeful, occurred. If the operative’s life was to be spared from a friendly or enemy bullet or knife, a pre-planned series of contingencies were always in place and ready to go. The secret of the CIA’s and probably other organization’s, foreign and domestic successes lay in the recruiting and evaluation of the woman’s resourcefulness, cleverness, nefariousness, fitness and readiness to do what was necessary to complete an operation. Language skills and interpersonal skills were valued highly. Beautiful women seemed to fit the bill. They were accepted in social and professional settings more easily than unattractive women, ugly or handsome men. Strong passions for liberty, freedom and equality were essential.

Movies and novels glorify the female spy as much as, or more than, the male spy. The work of the spy is more tedious and dirty than is imagined or portrayed. Ian Fleming’s books and 007 movies were known to be fantasies, mainly male fantasies. John Le Carre’s books and movies were much more realistic, pointing out the arbitrary and almost psychopathic decisions made by the espionage leaders. Sometimes there is kindness or glory. More often there are cruelties and cover-ups, disasters and mistakes, ugliness and confusion, injustice and exile. Agents in the field are lucky if their communications do not break down or a message isn’t misinterpreted. It is a thing of beauty if an operation goes like clockwork and one’s colleagues are alive and safe at the conclusion. Running is not an option. Fear is not an option. Love is also not an option.

I thought that innocent bystanders might get the worst of the ugliness of espionage. I thought of Ben, the first man I have ever loved so intimately. I knew quickly that this was genuine and not just a matter of great sex. The great sex was due to the love and intimacy. I became painfully aware of how false the premise was, but Benjamin was not. He was sincere. He was the first that made me feel like a real person, a real woman and a genuine contributor to society. I thought of how I ruined his life merely because we loved each other. I was aware that I started out by using him, according to plan. I drew him in to his inexorable demise. I’m sure he didn’t mean to fall in love with me. I didn’t mean to fall in love with him. It almost cost me my life. “I’m sorry Sweet Benjamin. Please forgive me. I’m sorry TAE. Remorse is not what I’m getting paid for. Shit! Guilt and shame are also not in my contract.”

Christine and I helped each other a lot. Both of us suffered remorse for the precious lives that we had played a part in ending. Both of us suffered guilt and shame for our nefarious behaviour. Both of us sought forgiveness. We were able to help each other make peace with our Makers and ourselves. Christine and I were good partners and soul-mates. We wouldn’t have made it as Jennifer and Christine were it not for our loving relationship. The Fates that had brought us together had been kind. I wished that they had been kinder to my first soul-mate, Benjamin Applebaum. May He Rest In Peace. Amen.

Jennifer had lied to Ben about her identity as Sara Leah Hussein. But she had not lied about SACC and her passion from childhood about the injustice done to Cleopatra. When she and her group were recruited by the CIA, and funded liberally, her passion grew greater. That part of her life was no lie. Ben must have responded to the truth about her origination and involvement in SACC. Would he have accepted her so readily had she told him about her assassinations, her training and her operations? These were necessarily the secret parts of her life, always to remain secret even with torture, as she had been warned and trained. Her life and the lives of her associates depended on it. Would Ben accept her now as Jennifer Williams? She prayed for the chance to find the answer to this question. She believed strongly that he would.

Christine and I lay in bed, naked, entwined and asleep. A quiet signalling knock on the door woke us up. We reached for our silk bath robes to no avail. The American Eagle opened our door with his key and let himself in before we could cover up. He deftly grabbed Christine and broke her neck with a practiced silent aggressive maneuver before I could intervene. At first I couldn’t believe what I had just witnessed. TAE cautioned me to remain silent and helped me into some sport clothes. “She’s a traitor!” he whispered. “You don’t have time to pack. Your cover and my cover have been blown. We need to go. Go!” His Jaguar XKE was still running. He indicated I would drive while he headed for the passenger seat. I started the car onto the road and he crouched under the dashboard. “Head toward London’s Heathrow. Step on it!” I obeyed. When we got to the highway, he got up from his crouched position and sat on the seat. “When you get to the airport, look for the cargo area and UPS.” We drove silently for about 30 minutes. Signs indicated a truck stop up ahead with British Petroleum products. “Pull in and fill the tank with premium petrol. I will appear to go to the bathroom on the other side of the station. Leave without me and continue quickly to Heathrow and UPS. A large cargo jet will be revved up and ready to taxi for takeoff. They are expecting you. You’ll be Linda Laben originally from Tripoli and recently from London. All the details of your past life will be handed to you in a package, also containing a passport, a driver’s license, a birth certificate, evidence of your qualifications for your British citizenship which you obtained five years ago, bank records, debit credit cards and travellers cheques for the Royal Bank of Scotland. You will have 5,000 Euros and 5,000 US dollars. You will be a licensed message therapist and qualify for being a registered message therapist in the US for which you will easily pass a qualifying exam in Virginia Beach, Virginia, soon after you settle in Westchester, NY, in completely furnished apartment waiting for you. Please read the special portfolio containing these and other important details of your new life in the USA and then destroy the portfolio to leave no trace of your conversion. Similarly, destroy anything that would link you to Jennifer Williams or Christine Mae Jones or Cambridge. There’ll be a new black wig in your suitcase. Destroy the one you have now. In fact, give it to me now and I’ll get rid of it for you.”

The American Eagle looked at me long and hard. “I can’t begin to tell you how much you’ve meant to me. You’ve been loyal and diligent. Earlier today, when I learned about Christine and knew what I needed to do about you and her, I was sick at heart. I recruited you both and until this afternoon you were my star operatives. I wouldn’t have predicted her disloyalty and still find it hard to believe. Good luck Linda Laben. You deserve the best there is!” With that he was out the door with my wig and I felt I’d never see my guardian angel again.

I filled the tank, paid in cash and drove off. Everything went smoothly. When I was over the Atlantic, I was handed my new suitcase full of clothes and accessories, all perfectly sized. I found a skirt and blouse to wear and my new wig. I was to leave all my Jennifer stuff with the operative on the plane and he would destroy it safely. I changed clothes behind some large cargo boxes and donned my new wig. It made me look more African than Egyptian. Then, I memorized the entire portfolio on Linda Laben, Registered Message Therapist, Westchester, NY, as I had been trained to do. I had it all locked away in less than an hour and handed it to the agent. He sealed it in a special sack slated for total destruction. Next I memorized the crib notes for the current state of the art knowledge and techniques for being an RMT. These were similarly bagged for destruction. A supper tray was heated up for me and I ate it all. I was starved. Then, I put the seat back, retrieved a small pillow and a thin blanket and slept until we descended over Westchester.

CHAPTER FIVE

“Well, Linda Laben, RMT,” I said to myself. “Here I go again. I’m alive, reborn and still fit and healthy. God bless you, TAE, wherever you are. I hope you’re able to save your own life. God bless the soul of Christine Mae Jones, wherever it is. May you rest in peace, Christine. God bless the soul of Benjamin Applebaum, wherever you are. I hope you are finally at peace.” I imagined Ben and I anointed in EVOO and ready to make love. It was a wonderful image. I felt warm all over as the plane made a smooth landing. I felt Ben’s spirit very close to me as the plane taxied to a stop.

The American Eagle had struck a deal for the life of Jennifer Williams with his superior in order to seal the leaks and breaks in the Company’s veil of secrecy, absolutely necessary for it’s survival. TAE was taken out efficiently by a trained female assassin in the toilet of the British Petroleum petrol station soon after the new Linda Laben drove off. The beautiful assassin took the wig from TAE and everything in his pockets to sever all links to the CIA. She had ostensibly driven her Bentley in for petrol, just behind Linda’s Jaguar. Linda’s trained eye spotted her and felt she was TAE’s ride to wherever he was escaping. She had a stronger confirmatory feeling when she saw the pretty woman head for the water closets, on the other side of the station, soon after TAE headed there. She knew she shouldn’t hesitate to drive off and left the station with a confident, ever-increasing speed as she drove onto the entry ramp to the express highway headed to Heathrow.

The taxi dropped Linda off at her new apartment prepared for her. It was not only furnished, it had pictures of her and her family on the furniture and hanging on the walls. Moreover there was a complete wardrobe appropriate for a woman of her size and shape and life-style, plus a standing exercise bicycle, a real bicycle, roller blades, a tennis racquet, a squash racquet, a badminton racquet and a small treadmill. And, there was a small Sharp TV with a built in DVD/CD player plus a compact SONY unit with an AM-FM-SW radio band and a digital cassette player. Her purse contained the apartment keys, the traveller’s cheques for Euros and American dollars plus cosmetics appropriate to her skin type and colour. The refrigerator was stocked with fresh food. The pantry had an assortment of dry foods, including pasta and cans of soup. There was a large bottle of EVOO on the top shelf. In the bathroom mirrored cabinet there were bandages, shampoos and conditioners, underarm deodorants, disposable BIC shavers, toothpaste and a green toothbrush.

“It looks like they thought of everything, as usual,” I said aloud, alone. “This is for you and me, Ben.” I covered myself with palms full of EVOO, messaged myself all over while sitting in any empty large old fashioned New England tub, and then relaxed in a hot bubble bath.

It was exciting starting a new life. Credentials in hand, I visited Albany and the Professional Registry. At the large counter, a young woman took my passport and a Resident Alien, Green Card, and my certificate of having passed my examinations in Message Therapy at the school in Virginia Beach, VA. She also examined my diploma from Rochester University showing that I had graduated with honours from it’s School of Fine Arts and had been awarded a Master’s degree in Psychology and had published a book on The Sociology of Flat Worms as part of my Master’s Dissertation, as well as a paper on The epidemiology of Bipolar Affective Disorder as part of my Statistical studies, which had been published in the American Psychology Associations, Psychology Today. A certificate from the UR showed that I had double majored in Art and Psychology to achieve my Bachelor of Arts degree and that I had done well in English, French, German, Latin, Greek, Anatomy, Physiology, Graphics, Geometry, Physics and Mathematics. Another document showed that I had won second prize, a silver medallion, at a University art competition, category, oils, that I had won an honourable mention aluminium medallion at a University photography competition, category, colour prints, and that I had won first prize, a gold medallion, at a University poetry competition, category, sonnets. My athletic achievements were substantiated by my gold medallions in intercollegiate competitions for squash and badminton wherein I had been champion in these two sports for three years in a row, starting in 2012. I showed my license to practice Message Therapy in Virginia and 37 other states, not including NY, MA, RI, VT and NH.

Finally, I had copies of bank statements and personal worth, address, telephone numbers, email addresses, monthly budget, renting history, previous addresses, tax returns for the past 5 years, evidence that I had paid off my student loans, credit card information, personal and professional references by people who were unrelated to me, names and addresses of all my employers, names and addresses of kith and kin who needed to be notified in case of serious illness or demise and retirement accounts with the IRA, Fidelity and a 401k to which my employers had contributed. Upon questioning about police records, I claimed to the clerk that I had never been arrested or convicted for any crimes or misdemeanors, and that I had no history of alcohol or drug addiction or distribution.

The clerk and I had had moved to a small side office and filled out a complex questionnaire with all of the above data and attached copies of all the documents. At the top of the form was Ms. Linda Laben, nee Hussein, widow, 256 Maple Street, Westchester, New York, 15151-5151. “The American Eagle,” I thought, “has done its usually exemplary job.” No additional data or documents had to be retrieved. The clerk and I were able to get the form and all its attachments and requirements completed in full at the first session. The last procedure, a non-smiling photograph in my new black wavy wig down to my shoulders and my tasteful business suit, was done in another small room set up for passport-type photos. The complex completed form and the photographs were signed by me and countersigned by the clerk, who also photographed my picture ID New York Driver’s license. Within 90 minutes, the first stage of my obtaining a license to practice Message Therapy was completed and submitted with a postal money order for $500US. I marvelled again at the completeness of my mentor, and the accuracy of my memory, as I retrieved the money order from my professional black brief case after dialling in the correct numbers on the combination lock.

Three months later, my official certificate arrived from Albany with an invoice for $500 for the first years dues. The letter welcomed me to the State of New York. It informed me that a book of rules and regulations was enclosed and that I would have to inform them when I started my practice and the full details of my office address when I established them. It also stated that I must complete 25 hours per year of Continuing Education courses, that I must obtain malpractice insurance and submit the details and that I must notify them within 10 days of any changes in address, phone number, etc. Moreover, it was required that I join and be a member in good standing with the New York State chapter of the National Association of Message Therapists and attend at least six of their meetings, yearly, which were at monthly intervals in New York City and Albany, on alternate months, on or about the 3^rd Sunday of each month. Often, the letter stated, that 4 to 8 hours of Continuing Education credits were obtainable at these meetings.

I opened my office and advertised that I provided, by appointment only, expert therapeutic messages that were often covered by most medical insurance plans, if prescribed by an MD, DO or DC. I advertised that the muscle spasms and muscle pain suffered after automobile accidents and sports injuries were my special field of expertise. I added that Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, Migraine Headaches and cramps secondary to diuretic therapy were problems that could be handled by RMT’s. Moreover, I said I provided reports suitable for insurance claims, income tax deductions and work-related, compensation cases.

The office I had chosen was in a new Maple Street building with a pharmacy at street level and 20 suites in it’s 5 floors. Off the large first floor foyer, there were 2 large elevators for patients, including those with wheelchairs and attendants, and a small padded service elevator in the back. I was able to choose a 5^th story suite with a corner office, overloading downtown Westchester. Within weeks, the other offices were occupied by medical and surgical doctors, lawyers, physical therapists, dentists and an independent insurance agent. There was also an oriental therapist who did acupuncture and acupressure.

The building was close enough for me to bicycle there and back, weather permitting. There was a bicycle rack outside the building on the sidewalk. A Starbucks Coffee franchise was next door and on the other side was a florist and grocery store business. The pharmacy was a full service pharmacy with a large prescription-filling and formulating service, medical devises, motorized and non-motorized wheelchairs and a full range of sundries, post office, pop and juice machine, natural supplements, dietary preparations and candies. It was a franchise of the Smythe chain of drug stores, and operated by Nanette and Pierre Labelle, a husband and wife who were both registered pharmacists. The Labelle couple was originally from Montreal. They were very friendly as my landlords and helped me get settled into my office and my daily professional routine. Both were a little aggressive but I set my boundaries with them. The boundaries allowed some socialization in the form of attending some of their weekend barbeques in their large house in a nearby suburb of Westchester.

After the initial push to get the office set up and running, there was plenty of leisure time for me to write my poetry and take long bicycle trips in the city and the surrounding area. There was a lovely city park with extensive bicycle paths. Within 6 months I was able to hire two young RMTs to help me with an ever-increasing patient load. I was then able to lease some adjoining office space and expand my Laben Message Clinic. Later, I sublet space to a chiropractor and a medical physiotherapist who needed to expand their practices in this area of town 2 to 3 afternoons a week. The professional relationships helped me to fit into the community quite successfully.

My financial rewards were substantial and my savings and investments were growing. I planned to buy a large condominium or a small house for me and my two cats, Rosenkranz und Gildenstern, two fixed males. One was a large oriental tabby and the other was a white cat with one grey ear and a grey tail, in appearance as if the tail and ear had been glued onto a white cat. Both were great company for me and we usually slept together for naps and at night.

I love sonnets and limericks. Here are some that I had written before and after my flight to Westchester. Most of these are from my memory, so, bear with me.

THE INCIDENTS ON MOONBEAM BEACH

A Silly Sonnet

By Linda Laben

Professor Abercrombie stared so long,

Penelope removed her golden thong

And firmly grabbed his giant throbbing schlong

Attracting an excited sobbing throng.

Untying shoulder straps released her orbs

For all to glare at while the sand absorbs

The olive oil she spread on Mister Forbes

Whose activated charcoal gas adsorbs.

Activities like these along the beach

Included eating pear, banana, peach

And key lime apple pie which had to teach

Penelope to use her household bleach.

I wish that I wrote poetry to leach

Intelligence from Abercrombie’s speech.

THE END

©Linda Laben

Westchester, NY, USA

Benjamin, I’m Coming

A Sonnet

By Linda Laben

I miss him in the morning when the sun

Comes up and makes the eastern sky light up

With tones of red and yellow-orange. And,

I miss him in the evening when I yearn

For his caresses and his smiles. Oh, why

Did Destiny take him away so

Prematurely when the love we had was just

Beginning, when the embers were inflamed

And blazing in our hearts and souls? Oh, why

Did I not see that he was precious and

So vulnerable? Oh, Time and Space, please hold

The soul of Benny Applebaum both safe

And satisfied until I come a naïf.

THE END

©Linda Laben

Westchester, NY, USA

Mankind, So Far

A Poem

By Linda Laben

A snake in Eden’s Garden was the cause

Of Eve’s and Adam’s shame and consequent

Expulsion from a Paradise that might

Have been Iraq, and even Baghdad, ‘twixt

The Tigress and Euphrates. Hapless and

Profoundly guilty for their Sin, the Sin

Original, they exited the Eastern

Gate, forever, henceforth guarded by

A flaming, twirling sword while Lucifer

And Lillith mocked them from inside and God

Decided that their conjugation would

Be dark, and in the dark, forever. Lo,

The oldest, Cain, was envious of God’s

Endowment to the youngest, Abel. Cain

Didst murder him and tried to cover up

In vain. And yet, the Adam family

Didst prosper in the land. Along with Seth,

They all begat the rest of Humankind.

God even sent his men to mate with

Women judged so fair. And Giants roamed the Earth.

In stature and intelligence, the giants

Fostered population growth until

God saw that sin was still so rampant that

Destruction was Man’s Destiny. God granted

Each and all an hundred twenty years.

There was no chance for God’s salvation. Floods

Were on their way. If not for Noah finding

Favour in God’s eyes, we’d never have

Existed. Humankind owes Noah all.

Yet, here we are again, now billions on

The Earth are sinning and shall surely die.

What will it be this time, a flood, a fire,

An asteroid? Will He find favour in

One man or woman or will Trumpets sound,

Announcing Jesus coming for his Born

Agains, and no one else, to rise to join

Him in the Holy Kingdom and His

Everlasting Love and Peace, fore’er? Amen.

THE END

©Linda Laben

Westchester, NY, USA

CHAPTER SIX

My name is Itzik ben Reuben. I’ve been writing this partly fictional, partly true story. All the names and places and times have been changed, to protect the innocent, as they say. I’m not innocent. I have an active imagination and a dream-world which I prefer over the real world about a million to one. My problem at this moment is what to do with my main characters, now named John Henry Smythe, Linda Laben, Mary Smythe, and still named, Beauregard and Chelsea. I’ve already disposed of The American Eagle, Christine Mae Jones, and Virginia Victor. The Westchester setting and the protective custody ideas are getting stale. I need to have Linda Laben meet John Henry and/or Mary, soon, or I’ll lose the chance to finish this story efficiently and neatly.

Of course, I could have Mary die of breast cancer. Or, I could have Mary and Linda meet on the bicycle path and make them lovers. Or, I could have Linda meet John Henry when he comes to inspect the pharmacy in Linda’s professional building. I could make it instant recognition and a very emotional encounter or I could make them not recognize each other until they are in bed together at his secret apartment when he retrieves the olive oil for love-making. Or, I could let John Henry recognize Linda for her former duplicity when he sees her naked and recognizes the asp picture from her SACC calling card. At that point, I could have John Henry attack Linda without her knowing who he was. Of course, Linda would kill John Henry with a single blow, a technique learned by the Israelis at their respective Bar or Bat Mitzvahs. Then she would recognize him as Benjamin Applebaum by his intimate body parts when she stripped him down to get rid of his body, as she had been expertly trained to do.

I’m sure I’ll do what I usually do. Before or after sleeping, I put a picture of the characters in my head and let them do their thing. My best stories come on just awakening when the characters have obviously been scooting around in my head during the night. Here goes…

Oh, yes. I need to take away the ability for John Henry Smythe, Pharmacy Overlord and Linda Laben, Message Therapist Extraordinaire, to tell their stories in the first person. Maybe I’ll give Mary a chance to tell the story from her point of view. It’s only fair…

“I met Benny under strange circumstances, didn’t I?” I finished getting undressed beside the bed and threw my clothes on the armchair. “Ben is in the Jacuzzi room starting the jets going. I’ll get the EVOO from my bedside table and join him. I love these bubble baths in the Jacuzzi. John taught me how to get the bubbles up to my chin and how to use the EVOO to make love. I’ve been exceedingly happy. My life as a CIA agent was exceedingly stressful, though, I must say, very exiting, at times. Mostly it was paper work and tedious detective searches for minutiae. It took me 30 seconds to get used to this life in Westchester, nice house, nice family, nice time-shares in Aspen and Cape Cod, satisfying lucrative work, and nice customers.””

“John has been attentive and creative. The intimacy of this bubble bath is almost too ecstatic to bear. John is now anointing me again. It’s, by far, our favourite activity. The magic of EVOO is wonderful. I wonder where Ben learned his methods and techniques. It’s not relevant. The important thing is that he shares it with me and that I can lovingly reciprocate. The Fates that brought us together must have been in a very good mood. I couldn’t have chosen a more ideal husband and friend, room-mate and business partner. Wow! Does that feel good or what? Excuse me while I drift off to Never-Never Land…”

We were in bed, completing the bubble bath ritual with another round of gentle lovemaking and another refreshing application of the EVOO. We had two bottle so that we could do each other together, without pausing to get some oil for whoever had the bottle. He is so fit and trim and muscular. I’m still OK but I haven’t been as vigourous as he in my diet and exercise routines. He seems to be happy to be alive and to be able to remain fit and trim as a payment to the Fates for saving his life, and to me for keeping him happy. I guess I felt the same way, but not as passionately. I winced when he touched my shoulder. “Ow!” I said out loud. Ben stopped anointing immediately and said, “Whazza, sweetheart? Where’d you get the ‘Owwie?”

“I was bicycling and I hit the curb unexpectedly hard when I tried what the kids do to pop a wheelie and get up the curb without getting off the bike or looking for a beveled drive way. Silly, eh? I fell off the bike and landed hard on my outstretched arm and flat palm. I got grass stains on my hand and knees, but they washed off easily. I continued bicycling. My knees and wrists were OK but my shoulder got stiffer and stiffer and more painful. I applied ice and heat when I got home and it seemed better. It’s been a week and it’s not gone away entirely. I notice it most when I reach for something or I have to carry something out in front of me, like a grandchild. If I didn’t know any better I have an impingement syndrome of my shoulder. “Whaddya think?” I showed him I couldn’t get my arm above the horizontal without a lot of pain.

“I think you’re right but making your own diagnosis and treatment is like having a fool for a doctor and a fool for a patient,” Ben said as he gently probed my shoulder and moved my arm in various positions. “I’m no expert, either. Why don’t you see someone? I favour your giving old Doc Henley a call and making an appointment to have this precious shoulder evaluated.”

“You’re right, of course, my darling. Please restart what you started. My body aches for thee. ‘How do I love the? Let me count the empty bottles of EVOO!’”

“Don’t start your sonneteering on me, my love. I’ll restart as soon as I know which areas to avoid because of your injury.”

“I’d be happy to show you which areas to not avoid, my love.”

We smiled at each other. I’ve learned to see that smile as a beacon of security and love. He is wonderful. “Thank you Benny,” I murmured. Thank you God. Thank you CIA. Thank you Angels. Thank you Giants.” I couldn’t resist the quip. “Thank you EVOO and thank you whoever was the mentor that taught my lover how to use EVOO for something other than cooking, eating and drinking!”

I wasn’t sure, but I saw a flash of anger in John Henry’s eyes. When I tried to examine the vibes, it was gone. The loving, adoring look was back and the smile was contagious. We made love and I thanked the Fates, and the Powers-That-Be, all over again, before we fell peacefully asleep.

My shoulder was very stiff when I awoke. We took our morning shower and my lover helped me with getting it loosened up. He was good at message and varied the shower water temperature to my advantage. It felt much better by the time we toweled off. He applied some EVOO and it felt almost normal. Instead of bicycling, I went to a Walk-In clinic on Maple Street. John had bicycled beside on his way to the Smythe, original, drug story on Maple, where it all started.

The young Indian doctor at the Clinic was kind and firm as he examined my shoulder almost the same way that John had. Moreover, he made the same diagnosis. “Thank you, John,” I said whimsically to myself. “You should have been a doctor, my darling,” I thought. Dr. Punjab Patel reassured me it was all soft-tissue and that we didn’t need to get an X-ray. He recommended some physiotherapy and wrote a prescription for it. He said there was a professional building nearby that had physiotherapists, message therapists, chiropractors and acupuncturists. He indicated that any one of these should help greatly. He modified the prescription to include the other kinds of therapists and verbally recommended simple acetylsalicylic acid or plain acetaminophen and what I and John had already been doing, message and hot and cold moist applications and showers and Jacuzzi’s.

My shoulder continued to be bothersome. I asked around and found that Linda Laben, RMT, had an office not too far from home which included part time chiropractors and other therapists of muscular aches and pains. I called the office and a receptionist said that an appointment had opened up this morning at 11, if I could get to it. It was 10:44. I said sure and without changing clothes, scooted out the door and hailed a cab. I got there 2 minutes early.

“Could you fill out this form?” said the beautiful young oriental receptionist handing me a clipboard with an abbreviated vital statistics form on it. “Ms. Laben will be with you shortly.” Quickly I filled in my name and address, phone numbers and email addresses, SSN, birthday, birthplace, insurance coverage details and the name and numbers of my husband who was to be called in an emergency. Ms. Laben appeared before me an smiled. She took my completed form with us as she lead me to a large office with a large, modern, open, oak desk and a very large, adjustable message and examination table with a padded hole for your face at the head end.

“Good morning Mary Smythe. Welcome to my place. What can I do for you.” She paused. She was reading my form before stapling it to the inside front of my new folder. Suddenly she smiled in recognition. “Of course! You’re THE Mary Smythe who writes that romantic and silly poetry for www.Poetry.com. I love it! You must have over a hundred posted at the International Society for Poets website. I write poetry for them too but it doesn’t have the passion and life that your poetry has. I tend to be a little more somber, as if I’m mourning and berating the Fates. I’m delighted to meet you!” She smiled and offered her hand.

I took her strong hand and did the best I could manage to shake her hand with my sore shoulder to deal with. When I winced, she said, of course, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you came to me for therapy for that shoulder. “She rightly diagnosed that it was my right shoulder. Linda asked me to get on the examining table and did much the same exam as Dr. Patel and my husband had done before. Her touch, like their touches, felt reassuring and therapeutic. I felt better already. I also felt I had come, fortuitously to the right place and the right person. Linda’s demeanor was almost hypnotic and I felt like I was in a dream. I recognized it as a meditative state of relaxation. I ascribed it not only to the gentleness and reassurance of Linda Laben, but also to the Mozart background music and the lit, Lavender candle and the jar of clear light, pastel yellowish green oil on the medicine cabinet counter top near me.

Ms. Laben worked on my shoulder for 30 minutes. She seemed to be able to get under my collar bone and shoulder blade and that little third bone of the shoulder girdle, the acromium bone which forms the acromioclavicular joint, under the deltoid muscle which constitutes the “point” of the shoulder.

We talked a lot about poetry and sonnets. We seemed to share passions for many other things, but it was language and poetry to which we kept returning. For the fun of it, we started a poem with I line I suggested, in iambic pentameter: “Imagine my imaginary cat…” We each wrote this down and promised to write a sonnet with this line and thirteen more lines of iambic pentameter. It was a remarkable encounter for a first meeting. We both remarked on how similar our personalities must be and how it felt like love at first sight. We both laughed at the idea but it didn’t seem so strange after I left Linda’s office. Linda was very attractive and about my age. She had the swarthy skin of a Mediterranean born woman and the dark wavy hair with the surprisingly penetrating dark brown eyes. I must have paled in comparison with my fair skin which burned so easily and had many freckles and my pale blue eyes and straight, short, strawberry blond hair presently tinted to cover the ever increasing grey. I wore my hair like Meg Ryan or Mia Farrow did in the movies, The French Connection and Alice. It was short and easy to get out of bed in the morning with a splash of water and a shake of my head. Nevertheless, we seemed to spark at a very important level of communication, especially through our poetry. She and I had both posted poetry on the Poetry.com website and she recognized mine immediately by my name. What an impression I must have made on her. Either that or she had an incredible memory. She remembered some of the titles and contents of my poems and recited them for me, to my delightful surprise. She took a few moments to go to the webpage of the ISP and show me her sonnets and show me my sonnets.

I left feeling much better and somewhat excited over meeting Linda. She made me tingle, intentionally or inadvertently. My shoulder pain was gone. I had never been attracted to another woman in a sexual way. It was true that I had certain heros that were women, including some historical women, like Empress Maria Theresa and Sainte Joanne d’Arc whom I admired greatly. It was true I admired several women who lead the Women’s Liberation Movement, but I never felt sensuous love welling up inside me with any of them. I considered that when I was a CIA agent, I dressed and acted like a man. It felt awkward at first. Eventually I felt like a macho cowboy with a gun. Some of the women with whom I dealt were lovely and flirted with me. I had ignored them though I thought some of them might have been interesting to know better. But, with Linda, I felt something that I hadn’t felt since I met Ben. Was I a latent homosexual person? Was I bisexual? Was I just looking for something different and exciting.?

Though I loved Ben deeply and intimately, my life had become somewhat of a routine, much different than my former life with the Company. I had embraced my new identity for my own survival. Ben had had to adjust from his former life-style, but the difference was not too great. He had been a successful doctor in Hinsdale, a suburb of Chicago. Now he was a family man and a successful pharmacist in Westchester, close to New York City. This was hardly a big adjustment. Perhaps he is getting what he wants out of life, a wife and family and a satisfying career and enough money to enjoy Aspen and Cap Cod, in season. As a little girl, it was my dream to have the same, a loving husband, 2 children, a big house, a successful career, money, social status, a fair amount of personal freedom to pursue my passions for poetry and sports and great vacation time-shares. My dream has come through.

And yet, what the hell was this. I injured my shoulder with a stupid move on my bicycle. Was that self-destructive? Was I distracted by some dissatisfaction? Was Fate doing its usual mysterious underhanded manipulation to get me to Linda, or someone like her? And, was Linda’s guidance system doing the same? Hey, my inner self, wake up! You’ve only just met the woman. Maybe it’s just the relief of pain that is turning you on to an innocent bystander.

Maybe…

The next visit, which was to be the second of 12 visits, altogether, with Linda was more intense and more intimate. We started with message and ended up with fondling. Always we read and exchanged poetry. The poetry was becoming more and more sensuous and intimate and personal. The fondling become the turn ons. The poetry became the excitements and the excitements became more intense. By visit 6, Linda was starting to remove her clothing. By visit 8, we were messaging each other in the nude. Linda shocked me by revealing that her specially scented, exciting oil was EVOO with lavender and cinnamon. How could the fates have us both olive oil, which Ben had given to me. By the tenth visit we knew each other inside and out. All the love-making skills that I shared with Ben, I now shared with Linda. The keys and the locks were are a perfect fit and we used them all. Only our deep personal histories remained largely untouched. I felt she had a mysterious history, just as I had one.

It was the poetry that was the most revealing. I used her words. She used my words. When we left the professional relationship, my shoulder was as good as new. When we started the personal relationship, my shoulder became irrelevant except as a focus for the initiation of touching and fondling. I couldn’t have predicted the coincidences of our language in our poetry. We had saved these poems for the last session:

Imagine my imaginary cat

Named Beauregard who cares for me and John

And has a friend named Chelsea for his own.

Though Chelsea’s sweet and sexy, Beauregard’s

A macho man and stands aloof at times.

For show the cats are boxing and meowing

For a while and then they start to lick

Each other. Then they eat and rub against

Our calves as if expressing gratitude.

Dearest JACOB,

2008-05-07T03:10:00.000-07:00

The Gift of Love

A Sonnet,

By Izzy Sommers

Dear Jacob, Mentor, Driver of my Bus,

You pulled me from the deep and made me whole.

You gave me gifts beyond the treasure of

Bill Gates’ of Microsoft, Bill Clinton of

The White House and the Walmart’s Family.

The gift of love. The gift of giving love.

The gift forgiveness gives. The gift of God.

The gift of Jesus as he taught and healed

And sacrificed his worldly flesh to save

Humanity. Humanity! You gave

Me back Humanity. You helped me find

My soul, my humanness, my kindness and

My love of Man, my wanting to be Me.

My need for friendship and support, and Thee.

THE END

Welland, Canada

Spring, Rebirth, 2008

Jesus was and is there and will be there again.

2008-05-07T03:07:00.000-07:00

ALMIGHTY JESUS

A Sonnet

By Izzy Sommers

O, Jesus saw the chambers of the deaths

Of Jews and Homosexuals and those

Of crippled bodies and of darker skins.

O, Jesus saw the Russians kill their own,

Their very own and take the sacred lands

Of Poland, Lithuania, and all.

O, Jesus saw Vietnamese kill those

Who wanted to arrest expansion of

Hanoi and even Ho Chi Minh’s domain.

O, Jesus saw the suffering of men

Katrina trapped, of dogs displaced, of kids

Ripped from their families and left to die.

O, Jesus, Why Tsunami? Why delay?

What plan is there to end Mankind, today?

THE END

©Izzy Sommers

Welland, Canada

Cinco da Mayo, 2008

Suppose Jesus were here...

2008-05-07T03:04:00.000-07:00

Suppose Our Saviour

A Blues Lament, by Izzy Sommers

Suppose Our Saviour took a walk on Earth

And walked right up your street or alley way,

Would you react in such a way to see

Him smile or would you run or would you say:

O, please come home with me and hear me speak

About reality and Hell and Sin;

Perhaps you’d ask how you can circumvent

Your sinning and become an angel, too.

Suppose Our Saviour regularly strolls

Along the streets of every town and sees

How everyone is living/loving and

Prevaricating/sinning/coveting?

He waits for us to turn around to Him

And see the glow of Hope upon His face.

He waits for us to take His Spirit in,

Accept rebirth and welcome Him apace.

THE END

Welland, Canada

May, 2008

Mr. X, party guy...

2008-05-07T03:02:00.000-07:00

LETTER TO THE EDITOR

Izzy Sommers, MD, retired

7-140 Elmview Street

Welland, ON L3C4K7

canadizzy@yahoo.ca

May 7, 2008

The Editor, The Welland Tribune

East Main and Riverside

Welland, ON L3B1Z1

tribune@wellandtribune.ca

Dear folks,

Two days ago, I arrived home about 9 pm and found my apartment house surrounded by police and EMT vehicles. It turns out my next door neighbour had died and lay dead for some 10-14 days before being found that evening. My other neighbours and I had discussed the slightly weird smell of fish for two days and the fact that a notice about new smoking rules was still under his door. Apparently, a relative had been called who entered the apartment and discovered the truth about my neighbour. I’ll call him Mr. X.

Mr. X. was not nice to me. When I first moved in about 5 years ago, he threatened me with a broom because I was feeding the birds in the winter. He claimed the birds brought their excrement and that brought vermin, an explanation he proffered at the top of his lungs while brandishing a whisk broom. His companion at the time was another one of my immediate neighbours and she screamed that I should go back to the swamp from which I’d come. Mr. X. was arrested the next night for fighting with yet another neighbour upstairs from me. About a week later, both the woman and Mr. X knocked on my door separately asking to borrow $5; I refused saying, truthfully, that I was always short myself.

Over the past 5 years, Mr. X and I have had a cool relationship, both of us mumbling hello if we passed in the hall and both of us offering no more that a comment about the weather. A parade of neighbours was always going in and out of his apartment. Moreover, there was a frequent party of which I could here the noise at all hours through my living room wall which was his living room wall.

For the past 2 weeks, looking back, it had been relatively quiet and in my mind I thought he was on vacation or visiting his many relatives who didn’t seem to come around much, as opposed to his neighbours who came around frequently. The story of his being undiscovered for possibly 2 weeks didn’t make sense until one of my other friendly neighbours told me she heard that he had had a “falling out” with his best buddy, and his neighbour friends, upstairs, and that the bad feelings from the disagreement had spread to others.

I was left to guess that Mr. X. had had a massive heart attack or stroke and had died quietly. No one reported hearing anything like a scream or a cry for help. In a sense, I’ll miss him. Despite our difficulties I admired his apparent charisma which seemed to attract many folks from upstairs and downstairs. It seemed to me that he had somehow converted the loneliness of living alone in a prison-like apartment to the friendliness of a summer resort. Perhaps when the new neighbour moves in, I should threaten him or her with a whisk broom and start the relationship off with a bang and then convert it to a whimper and a friendly association, like Mr. X seemed to operate.

Thanks for listening,

I remain

Sincerely yours,

Izzy Sommers, MD, retired.

Good-bye...

2005-12-26T02:04:00.000-08:00

Good-bye, Good-bye, My Furry Friends

A Poem by Izzy Sommers, December, 2005, Welland, Canada

Good-bye! Good-bye, my furry friends...
It's come to times when blogging ends!
It's time to say adieu, so long
And give the bell a final dong.
So go and read some other blog...
Abandon mine in swine and hog.
Aufwiedersehen and adios!
I'm headed for another coast..
Take care and have a lovely day...
I hope you keep your wolves at bay.
I wish you inner peace and love
And cooing of a turtle dove.
If you're a hawk, I hope your tail
Is redder than a sunset sail.
Consume those turkeys and the ham
And head for jumping Rotterdam.
Oh, chose a wine or cherry schnapps
And eat the nuts and spin the tops.
I wish for you a Merry Year
And happiness without a tear.
Good-bye! Good-bye, my furry friends...
It's come to times when blogging ends!

THE END

2005-12-20T03:27:00.000-08:00

Sung tan chuk ha!

JENNIFER AND JOHN

2005-12-07T04:17:00.000-08:00

John and Jennifer

A Single Sentence
Silly Sonnet
By Izzy Sommers

Surrounding all the mystery of John’s
Untimely death, was Jennifer’s perfume
And Sam’s suspicion that she re-arranged
The totals in the books that John had kept
For Jennifer’s nefarious Nepal
Negotiations for a shipment of
Her bleating, redneck hawk and turtle dove
Which reached America on just the day
That independence was declared amid
The shouts of ballot aberrations and
The final push for land in Timbuktu,
In Kangaroo, in Xanadu, and, too,
Along the coast of Africa where John
Had found a silly friend to lean upon.

THE END

IS ANYBODY OUT THERE?

2005-12-02T03:55:00.000-08:00

Dear folks,

Please read my stuff and make comments. Your feedback is essential to me. It's also essential that I have a readership other than myself. Do I need to start using profanity or nude pictures of myself?

Thanks for listening.

Sincerely,

Izzy.

No! That's not what I meant, eh?

2005-12-02T03:49:00.000-08:00

I Meant To Say

A Poem

By Izzy Sommers

I meant to say, “I’m very fond of you.”
But, all that came, a little lame, were words
Of unimportance, words about your togs,
About your dogs, about the rains and fogs.
I meant to say, “I love you very much.”
So nervous were my hands, I spilt the soup.

When you excused yourself to clean your dress,
The stress, I felt, completely overwhelmed
Attempts at calm and spontaneity.
I knew disaster, master, plaster, fast
Approached, as only when I’m quite upset
Do rhyming unconnected thoughts ensue,
Like salamander, oleander, and
Newt, boot, coot, loot, root, moot, pollute and toot.

When you returned and smiled, I felt your touch.
Though hutch, clutch, Dutch and such, contrived
To thwart my court, I smiled and said, “I’m very
Fond of you. I love you very much.”

THE END

[refrain:]

I meant to say, "I'm very fond of you." But
All that came, a little lame, were words of
Unimportance, words about some fogs, about
Your dogs, togs, clogs, frogs and the bogs.
I meant to say, "I love you very much."
Instead, I spilt the split pea soup on you.
As you excused yourself to clean your dress,
The stress, I felt, completely overwhelmed
Attempts at calm and spontaneity. I feared
Disaster, master, plaster fast approached,
As only when I'm quite upset do rhyming
Unconnected thoughts ensue, like salamander,
Oleander, and newt, boot, coot, loot, root,
Moot, pollute and toot. When you returned,
And smiled, I felt your touch. Though
Hutch, clutch, Dutch and such, contrived to
Thwart my court, I smiled and clearly said,

"I'm very fond of you.
I love you very much."

[...and, again...]

I meant to say, "I'm very fond of you." But
All that came, a little lame, were words of
Unimportance, words about some fogs, about
Your dogs, togs, clogs, frogs and the bogs.
I meant to say, "I love you very much."
Instead, I spilt the split pea soup on you.
As you excused yourself to clean your dress,
The stress, I felt, completely overwhelmed
Attempts at calm and spontaneity. I feared
Disaster, master, plaster fast approached,
As only when I'm quite upset do rhyming
Unconnected thoughts ensue, like salamander,
Oleander, and newt, boot, fruit, loot, root,
Moot, pollute and toot. When you returned,
And smiled, I felt your touch. Though
Hutch, clutch, Dutch and such, contrived to
Thwart my court, I smiled and clearly said,

"I'm very fond of you.
I love you very much."

[...definitely, THE END]

Jay Leno and Me

2005-12-02T03:47:00.000-08:00

Morning Television

A Single Sentence Silly Sonnet By Izzy Sommers

On Channel 2, it’s NBC at half
Past three when Leno’s show is shown again,
Repeating yesterday’s or earlier
Old version of the comedy and shticks
Of Jay and others and the music of
A rocker or a ballad singer who
Has recently put out a record and
Cassette, CD or video designed
To catch the younger set of listeners
Who shouldn’t be a part of Leno’s
Audience at half past three or 30 tics
Before the clock strikes 12 and pumpkins
Re-appear and guys like me write poetry
That’s silly and inconsequentially.

THE END

COMPLIANCE

2005-12-01T19:49:00.000-08:00

Compliance

A Single Sentence
Silly Sonnet
By Izzy Sommers

Compliance necessary to attend
The seminar for learning to defend
The honour of the ladies at the court
Required completion of the heliport
At Queen Elizabeth’s at Birmingham
In order to request the curried lamb
Before the officer had rounded up
Participants in this year’s racing cup
Presented to the winner of the run
From Mercury to Pluto’s sun for fun
Provided that no cheating had occurred
And that no shouting had been made absurd
In writing poetry to read about
The subjects banished by a man with clout.

THE END

Worms and Awards

2005-12-01T19:40:00.000-08:00

Seven Worms

A Single Sentence
Silly Sonnet
By Izzy Sommers

While digging in her garden, Jennifer
Discovered seven worms that said to her,
“If you desist from harming us we will
Bestow on you a hundred dollar bill
With opportunities to make some more
If only you will open up your door
To worms and centipedes and bumble bees
And offer them some cheddar cheese and peas
And entertain them with some pulchritude
Allowing all of them some latitude,”
But, Jennifer replied, “A hundred’s not
Enough to buy the lovely charms I’ve got
And, too, I’d rather write some poetry
Than soil my fingers with the likes of thee.”

THE END

Bush and HIV/AIDS

2005-12-01T19:38:00.000-08:00

Izzy Sommers, MD[retired]
7-140 Elmview Street, West
Welland, ON L3C 4K7, Canada
TELEPHONE: 905-788-2237
EMAIL: canadizzy@yahoo.ca
Thursday, December 1, 2005
The Editor, The Welland Tribune
228 East Main Street
Welland, ON L3B 5P5, Canada
TELEPHONE: 905-732-2411
EMAIL: tribune@wellandtribune.ca
RE: Wake up folks...
Dear Editor and Staff,

Today is WORLD AIDS DAY. The problem is urgent. There are now over 40 million infected people worldwide. Death rates are high and not declining except in 2 countries, one of which is Brazil. The antibiotics do not kill the AIDS virus. A vaccine is yet to be developed. Thousands die daily. The threat is the economic breakdown of even the most civilized countries. In less wealthy nations, economic and social breakdowns are already occurring. The World Health Organization, Health agencies of the United Nations, and Health officials in practically every country in the world agree. They recommend the use of condoms, along with a universal educational programme, as the only effective way presently known to slow down the infection rate. Brazil is particularly proud of it’s programme involving governmental condom advice and universal education of it’s citizens. It has one of the only set of results, in the entire world, showing a decline in the incidence of the deadly disease.

Therefore, it is particularly illogical for President Bush, controller of the wealthiest country in the world, to promise aid with the proviso that birth control and condom advice not be given. His recommendation is abstinence. In the face of valid and extensive studies which show that recommendation of abstinence NEVER stops the spread of HIV/AIDS, this seems completely inappropriate. I hesitate to accuse the powers that be of stupidity or of misinformation. I hesitate to say that this is equivalent to malpractice or malfeasance in the medical and legal sense. I’m not sure I would hesitate to say that Bush is following his evangelistic tendencies and his divine direction, which are apparently that which led him to the Presidency of the USA and the Invasion of Iraq. Surely, it is not a willful and purposeful recommendation designed to allow HIV/AIDS to spread unhindered. Even by Evangelistic standards, that would be devilish, eh?

Thank you for listening.

Sincerely,

Izzy Sommers.

TAMING TECHNIQUES

2005-12-01T04:12:00.000-08:00

Domestication

A Single Sentence Silly Sonnet
By Izzy Sommers

Commensurate with occupations that
Provided people with a Persian cat,
Penelope perpetuated pink
By washing kittens in the kitchen sink
And promulgated propaganda in
Creation of the history of sin
Against the bibles of the holy world
Because the gauntlet had been surely hurled
And challenges of every kind had been
Engraved in plastic, copper, steel and tin
With illustrations of domestic hogs
Along with horses, chickens and some dogs
Allowing even sonneteers to come
Along and raise a most approving thumb.

THE END

PASTRAMI

2005-12-01T04:09:00.000-08:00

Pastrami

By Izzy Sommers

Napoleon Pastrami slowly let
Himself descend so expertly to set
Beside a monolith he recognized
From ancient scriptures that he realized
Since 1992 BC had not
Been seen by anyone and really ought
To be evacuated for review
By bible experts who were certain to
Establish the veracity of Saul
Because it stood before the wailing wall.
Unfortunately for Pastrami, he
Unleashed a trap of this antiquity
That wedged him firmly in between two stones
Which caused his death and leaving only bones
To show that he had been a visitor
Before a rediscovery meant for
The news that N. Pastrami sandwiched has
Been found in catacombs of blue topaz
In labyrinthine lighted corridors
That presently are lined with antique stores.

THE END

GO CANDIDATES!

2005-12-01T04:05:00.000-08:00

Izzy Sommers, MD[retired]
7-140 Elmview Street, West
Welland, ON L3C 4K7, Canada
TELEPHONE: 905-788-2237
EMAIL: canadizzy@yahoo.ca
Thursday, December 1, 2005
The Editor, The Welland Tribune
228 East Main Street
Welland, ON L3B 5P5, Canada
TELEPHONE: 905-732-2411
EMAIL: tribune@wellandtribune.ca
RE: Welland Riding Hopefuls
Dear Editor and Staff,

I was impressed with MARK TAYTI’S article in the Tribune, WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 31, 2005, entitled, “Candidates set to go,” and subtitled, “WELLAND RIDING HOPEFULS SAY THEY’RE READY FOR UPCOMING ELECTION BATTLE.” Mug shots are my favourite, so the mug shots of DIBARTOLOMEO, GRUNSTEIN and MALONEY, added to my enjoyment. These three are the NDP, CP and Liberal candidates for Welland Riding.

Jody Dibartolomeo blamed the Liberals for a Christmas campaign, a decline in the public health care system and regression in social and environmental programmes. He felt that the PC’s are allowing the Americanization of Canada. Mel Grunstein felt that the Liberals had performed miserably with regard to health care, distribution of wealth, distribution of tax burdens, undue campaign costs and unfair political manoeuvring. He encouraged voters to see through the Liberal attempt to buy the election with the voters’ money. John Maloney blamed the Bloc, PC’s and NDPers for the Christmas campaign and the failure to wait for the Gomery Report which is due 8 days after the Jan. 23 elections. He contradicted all the Liberal Party criticisms levelled by the others and felt they were doing a good job. He admitted the Liberals were not overconfident.

In the short weeks to follow, I’m sure we’ll hear more details of the actual issues and the attacks on the opponents and opposing parties. Perhaps we may hear more of the promises that are an important part of any campaign. Long lists of broken promises, after all, are what we voters hang on to for future references. Lists of accomplishments, generally, are much shorter. The mug shots are what help me the most, especially if they reflect the changing expressions as the polls change. In Tayti’s article, two out of three of the mug shots are smiling. It makes you wonder what the smiles represent. The serious look on the other is not as surprising.

Thank you for listening.
Sincerely,
Izzy Sommers.

Yech! This is water?

2005-11-30T08:20:00.000-08:00

Izzy Sommers, MD[retired]
7-140 Elmview Street, West
Welland, ON L3C 4K7, Canada
TELEPHONE: 905-788-2237
EMAIL: canadizzy@yahoo.ca

Wednesday, November 30, 2005

The Editor, The Welland Tribune
228 East Main Street
Welland, ON L3B 5P5, Canada
TELEPHONE: 905-732-2411
EMAIL: tribune@wellandtribune.ca

RE: Drinking water safety

Dear Editor and Staff,

Every day, we see flooding in communities due to heavy rain not accommodated by the drainage systems in place. When that happens, the rushing rainwater overwhelms the purification systems and raw sewage is swept into areas that might affect drinking water. Sometimes this causes a tragic situation with deaths. Sometimes, it results in a warning about the safety of drinking water and people are asked to boil all their water or switch to bottled water. In many areas of the world, tap water is never drunk or used to brush one’s teeth. In many areas of the world, the wells are contaminated and people are dying. Right here in Ontario, there were deaths due to E. coli in a situation where the administrators were aware that the safety of their water purification was compromised. A scandal resulted. After the investigation, it was revealed that many towns in Ontario have inadequate safety measures to insure safe water.

Yesterday, I noticed a funny taste to my tap water. I hesitate to be part of the tongue and nasal rangers of this area, but I was wondering if my tap water is safe to drink. Does Welland have an updated water purification system? Did yesterdays rain, and the rains before, affect my tap water in an adverse fashion? Will tomorrow’s rain be dangerous? Am I drinking water with more than 100,000 E. coli per litre, today? Have I been drinking, or will I be drinking contaminated water? In a city where there must be hundreds of leaking underground storage tanks abandoned by factories and gasoline stations, is my drinking water free of carcinogens, and other contaminants? Is the rumour true that there is still extremely dangerous waste just lying around on the old site of Union Carbide? If there’s a question about the landfill/garbage capacity, is there a question about my drinking water? Should I switch to bottled water or boiled tap water, like most of my neighbours have?

Thank you for listening.

Sincerely,

Izzy Sommers.