Behn's Journey: That Day On The Farm

The page, bare. Wait, for ideas to come. Twenty years ago, writing, writing then executing. Today, wrote, and there's no waiting. He guides my hand, from within, and without.

Ever wonder where our thoughts come from? Typed, and now it comes.

Four thousand years to plan, Six thousand to execute.

A play, it is not. A computer program, perhaps. Typed then, and There. And still editing.


The farm, circa '82.

Big brother's gone, and it's just me. The old man, silent, and with a look on his face What truck just hit me. E, and she's ice. She used to be frosty, slurped.

The cows, gone. The chickens, dead. The ducks... as the kid in Catcher said, what ever happened to the ducks? Seth, the helper, my only friend, gone after his motorcycle went over a cliff. Trees, lands. Rebbecca, at the wake, trying to give me his Beatles tape. Hers, the first breast my hands, hold, back when we were in the hay stack.

Three hundred and fifty acres, nothing. Only the calves, the heifers. Day after day, they grow. Grain, they come running.

Black kid, from the city. Playing, running around. Bothers, as I tried to read to impress E. Now, on the tractor. Pretend, to ride.
Now, lunch and a little nap.

At the shed. Looked, for tools. "Hey Ben" the old man, stared. Then, holding up a piece of metal. "The key", tilted, in my face. "Where's the key, the tractor" Flashed, and I'm on the ground. Kicked, and I'm screaming. Reached, under.
Later, E enters. Hugged, and she "Said" "To me, too" My face, burned.

Dinner, the kid's napping. Silence, but with a raw honesty.

After, and I'm just mullin'.Then, three came, on three-wheelers. Do you, heifers? They're, Rt. #35. My heart, punched.

The old man, on the 4 by 4, Ford. Drove, slow. "You" "For heifers" and what's his face 'em, known for taking other's livestock and butchering.

Parked, and we went up to the house. Hid, behind one of their cars. I, at the Cowboy hat, and with shot gun. "Dad," I "don't you think we should let them know we're here?"

Then, the look. A smile, deep and wide. A shy laugh.

Some men after losing most of what they got turn sullen and with self-pity. They pout, and they blame those around them. And a few, and in resignation, staring at defeat and sometimes death, laugh.

My old man had that smile, and it was the greatest gift he ever gave me.

"Who goes" we, jumped. "They might" he "in them wood"
We, walked. Tire tracks, fresh. And with the sun light, diminished.
"What do we do now"
Suddenly, a bolt, like a flash within. "C'm on!" I, yelled. "C'm on!" From a mile away, we hear. The grey, and their faces, black, white and with their big heads. Sucked, my hands, they shiver.
Then, onto the highway. Ran, and they follow. "C' mon!" with the old man in the truck behind.

Later, eating. Yellow, with the milk, white. Cold, in my mouth, but still having it, crunch.
E, to the kid. "The key" " Where?" Him, "In my pants?"
The old man, at me, in the kitchen. "I still" "You" " To do with it"
Now, the spoon, from my hand, dropped. The chair, and out the door. The sky, a line, pink. My fists, and that he was no longer my dad.

What's past, present. The future, written.




















The sun, beat, the window, soft.
In bed, the sheets, and they cover naked.
My wrist, His hand. Lips, tender and true. Wallowed, and with soft refrain. Kissed, and with a smile. Love which comes within, and from around.

"Get the mail" the old man. Cold, blowing now through the white, kicked.
It is a long hard trudge up the short steps, but a smile, lingered.
"Jesus Christ!" he, as he goes through the credit cards. And "Did I hurt your feelings?"

The car, his hand, the wheel. Classical music, and with violins. His nails, bit.
"You" "a job" "a life" stepped, increasing speed.
I, at Him. Past the window, but before the curb. With a confidance, not knowing.

A woman, from down the street. Dinner, prepared, with her long black hair, legs, tight. We were hungry, it's true. Me to play, but him--someone for him to conquer.
In the living room, with the tv, and her in between. Then, my shoulder, his fingers, tapped. "My" I, "he thinks he's fifteen years old!"
Outside now, a smoke. The pressure, billowed. The sweet tar, soothed. It is hard in the early spring at Pond Hill. The ground beckons to be cleansed. Dead leaves traverse. The trees stand naked, and ready.
Up the stairs, calm. Quiet, and empty. To the door, and it's locked. "This isn't happening" I, the door, bursted.
Naked they lay. His knee and with relief, covered. Her arms, her legs.
To the living room, and he "You should kiss my hand" paced. She, "We're adults" blahed.
I'm woderin' what "she would think 'bout if she were here" She being his third, with the first dyng and the second--my ma-- living death.
Downstairs and with my head, hung. Puffed, but the sight remains.

In the morning and "I'm getting too old for this" he, a shy smile. I, waiting to hear "Leave" again. Little warmth, kicked, with the sunlight. Staring at the soft black mud, squeezed, my foot.
Then "Maybe you should move to aprtment seven"

It would only be for a few months. But my own place, and me and Him sure had us fun.






"Go collect rent"
The cash, in the drawer. A can of beer, cracked.
Looking out now, the grass in the early summer.
"Ben" Alisa "can I" a few bucks.
"Sure" and now, slumped, the little hill. Looking down while she picks up the little rocks. Her breast, the white t-shirt, moved.
Drank, and I lean back. The sky, in a warm glow and with the clouds hazing.
Then, at the breasts.

Onto the tractor, the little one. Ignited, and the blades begin. Round and round, the grass with the smell and the dirt, flew.
Later, with Alisa and her pa, G the maintenance man. "Try this" pink schnapps.
His mother, "God" and about the drinking and smoking. I, drank.
"Try this one" and it's apple.
Now up and to the kitchen, dropped. On one knee.
G, the atheist "Don't do that here"

With Alisa at the old man's house. "She" and fifteen bucks. Him, eyebrows. "Here" and "get paint" with a faint smile.
At the townhouse. Sat, with a mug, ice cold.
"Paint" and he stood tall, black and with his SUV. "I can take you" Alisa.
Him to my left, and to my right, the breasts.

She's laughing and with one hand on the wheel. Down Pond Hill, fast. Shrieked, playfully and my smile cedes. The other side of the road, and with a little hill up ahead and I can't see I can't see
Over the hill and she gets back on the right side. Then, onto the grass.
Screamed, she. My head, the windshield.
I "Shut up"
G and his wife, and "I'm not going to" with blood, sprayed.

The needle thread, my head. Screamed, as a young woman comes, clip board. "Bowl movements?"
Doctor, "She wants to know if you can"
"You mean" I "can take a shiiit" Laughter. Smiled, then the doctor pulls.
Now the bed, and with the wires, my chest. The needle, my arm, popped, and it flows.

There would be no more collecting. The old man needled me 'bout going to see Mark (I, looked) the attorney 'bout getting insurance dough. Well I got it and he got it.
Poor Lis moved away from home and got knocked up.







We walked as three. Me, to the side; Big Brother, Brian. Handing, the spray paint. To the ground, "Disco Sucks". Standing, and we moved on.
Back at the house, and it was empty. A few chairs, kitchen table, the tv. The old man was gone and the old lady was hording the checks'ees.
"Late" she, and Big Brother teased. Now, around the kitchen and the table and me. Chasing, and with a bottle.
"The Odd Couple" The Honeymooners" "Star Trek" WPIX, from New York City.
My homework, while she screamed. He, laughs. Then it got serious.
Downstairs, the door, locking. To the drums, and him the guitar. Pounding, while she at the door.
When Brian would come we would sing our songs and shout and we called our band Cloud.
"Fay
I can't stay
I am fighting for you
So come on c'mon c'mon c'mon baby
Love me like you used to do"

Outside, and him to the Rabbi's house. The spray paint, "Fuck".
I, and he went inside.

Satuday morning, cartoons. "At the Hall of Justice"and "Scooby Doo Where Are You".
Sobbing, as I lay in bed. And "Where's" "Dad".
"Tom and Jerry" and the meat, though raw, hurt.

At school, the building was very large and very square. The teacher, a woman. My home work, to the class "Garbage" and to the trash can. Trying, but "Hey" "I think he's"

The kitchen, and Big Brother made the chicken legs. Phone call, but he wouldn't. His grades, and he couldn't.
Drinking, the Hawaiian Punch. Red, and my head reeled.
Outside, with it coming down, white. Trying, but he was too fast.
In the morning the school bus would come and my mom, over the bed, and out the window with her breasts. Yelling, "Not today! Not today!"
Smiling, and back to sleep.






Kathy, the screen door. She, her head bowed, suppressing a smile. The car, slammed. And "Let's go".
Drove, out the driveway and onto the street. Passed, the green lawns and the match-box houses. Her eyes stare straight ahead.
On the highway with her hair flying in back. She, laughed. Her tee-shirt, thin and white, cut just at the shoulders. Nipples, struck.
At the stop, for something to do it, eat. Three-fifty, a hot dog. I, "What" "Switzerland?" We bolt.
Into the car, and on the way out. She with her head out the window "What, Switzerland?"
At the fig Newtons. I, laughed.


The bridge, and I slide the tape in. "New York, New York" but on here face, fear.
To Millie Vanillie's place, and in the morning it'll be the train.

Fifth Avenue, Sixtieth Street. She, horrified. "People" "So many"
I, for her hand. She, her purse. And I, away.
"Wait" but through the people, the traffic. Moved, and occasionally looking back. "Wait"
Pass the cars, and the trucks, buses, and all those people. "Wait"
Then, to a cheap grocery shop. A beer and she, at all the faces. She hated black people.
At the statue of Liberty, and we head back up. The sea port, with the River to our right. Reddish pink, against the building, tall and all around, glimmered. We stop for a beer, and now it's back out.
"Give" "Your hand"
She, "Haven't" "High school"
My hand, hers, clasped.
Back onto Fifth, with the buildings from colonial times. The freaks, and the rich white. She, taking it all in.
Passing the big department stores. Here eyes, widened. The old church, and the other ones with the statues. She was a catholic who came to New York City to be rich and famous.
She, her hand. "There's" pointing, at where we first arrived. Then, her hand in mine.

Night, and she's in the other room. The fan, I hear. My heart, and that she's laying on my chest, her hair, caressed.






Haifa, circa '78
Standing in formation with our uniforms before the start of school. The horn, sounded. Our heads, bowed. A friend, and he laughs. I, giggled.
Later, across the street and to the King David Condominium. Big Brother, the pinball machine. I, at the dolls. Six Million Dollar Man and I'm beating up the bad guys.
Later, trying to sleep, and Mom's doing it. The old man loves to travel.
I "How many" and Big Brother, from the bunk below me. "Six million"
Sobbed, and Mom comes running in. She, my shoulders, but nothing can stop me.

San Fransisco
We raced up the hill. Passing, the parked cars, through the empty streets. His skate board, yellow, and I ran. The traffic lights, flashing.
To the stacks of papers, and with the wind at my ears. Suddenly, my arm. Him, pulling. Him, my name, and I looked. "John Lennon Slain"
We went our separate way. The papers, throwing. I cried.
Back at the apartment. We read and reread the article. The picture, and he was old and with short hair. I, to myself, "They" "A better picture" The San Fransisco Chronicle.
A few weeks before I had a dream. Walking, with family, friends. A parade. Now, to the limousine, black. Thrust, on my back, the back seat. My chest, stabbing. A man's voice, counting. And "Now playing" "A theatre"
I awoke. Pains, like holes, in my chest.

Now, at the t.v. The Sound of Music, and man says that the Krouts'll take Mr. Vontrapp. The crowd, murmurs.
I, "Why" "Something"
"Because" My Big Brother "Can't"
I often wondered why his eyes glowed red in that picture while mine didn't.






Prague, '92

The bricks, reddish, and the thick dust. Along the buildings houses, and on the streets they were grey.
Up along the hills, with the trees and the grass perfectly cut.
"A Hard Rains Gonna Fall" and then "Born To Run" my ears.

I went to the woods to live deliberately, he wrote. To hell with that. New York City is hell and I am ready for a some wood chapin'.

In the tavern, and we drank our beers. They were rich with depth, bringing, a soft and focused.
He "U2" "Great" "When young"
I "Yes young" but knowing that when they matured they sung of importance.
"Young and raw"
"Yes, raw"
And it was to be the Paris of the Ninetees.
Monika with a 'k'. Here hand, my face, soft. Shoulder length blond, and every American wanted her. It was the firt thought of marriage.
Job, responsibility, money.

At the typewriter, and I'm editing. A line, looked. Soft, suddenly, on the right side of my brain. Then, a painful left for the next line until I rewrite it. So this is how Hem and the other greats did it, I, but that it's foolish.

The black kid just gave the other black kid the middle finger. There's no salvation at the Sony Plaza and the security see to it. It's good that Sira''s black so it's easier to forgive. Funny I don't think of her as black. Just the sight of relief and of solace.

On the island by the Charles Bridge, with the castle overlooking. His hair, shoulders, and with the guitar.
"Wild Horses" and we sing. They pass the joint. I, declined.
Booze may hit the liver but drugs eat up the brain. It was wonderful: not thinking of anyone and not missing anyone. Knowing there's no place
At rich kid's apartment, with wine. Laughed, laying and stretching, the floor.
"Jesus" at me and we laugh.
Cracked, jokes and I watch as they fall back. Poured, some more wine.
REM "It's the end as we know it" "I feel" from the speakers.
Later, him and her, the bed and the other him and her, to the other room.
"Ben--"
Outside, dark, and a comforting cool, glanced, my hair.
Onto the tram. You were suppose to buy a ticket before and sometimes a man with a badge would board and check but I never did. To the burger stand, and not seeing clear. Pork, instead of meat, but I didn't care.
I stayed with Anna and her kid. She wanted to pay me for English lessons but I told her to make me dinner once a week and it was nice.
A man, on occasion. Older, and with little hair. Smiled, as they left, like he's finaly getting it.
Flipping through the t.v., now. Thinking of the States; all that's wrong and all that could be right. The Olympics, and the Dream Team, and now it's the riots in Los Angelos. Hit, hard, with a sullen self righteousness that New York City burns and melts away.

His presence, in me. Spreading, as I walked the streets of Praha, which in English means threashold. My hand, moving. The crowd, seeing, that they were all moving according to His dictation.
My legs, moving, and I looked on incredulous.
Writing, now, at the typewriter. Pain, a hot iron, at my brain. To the ground, screamed.

Later, and the three of us to the trash bin. Anna's kid and his big brother, just back from the military. The books, the luggage. Most of the clothes. The modern typewriter, and I gave Anna's kid my Sony walkman radio. My Springsteen tapes, and the Beatles, Dylan. Three months back rent, I think she knew.
The night before, and I looked out the window. A good fall, but that Anna and her kid would have to
To the train station, the border with Deuchland.
The ground, and I the sign, Paris. A car, and I stood up. A moment, waiting. And my right hand opened the door.