Touch . . .

—From EF—

Stay connected. Stay six feet apart. Stay at home. But stay connected.

Say what?!!!

I don’t think we have ever before, within my 80 years of memory, needed the solace of touch more. I get up earlier, Conrad somewhat after, but for years and years the first thing that happens when we greet the morning together is a long full-frontal embrace, the kind that makes your knees wobble. It’s not just a good way to start the day, it’s essential soul-food.

So yes, the two of us can still embrace each other in our shelter. I rejoice in that more keenly every day. We talk on the phone as often as we can with our son Eli and with our daughter Johanna. And when will the day come when we can safely hug them again? Our children? The gorgeous people who long ago drank my milk?

In our long years when we toured Dessie all over this country as our part of combatting child abuse, we spoke to each audience after the harrowing performance to suggest what might happen in their community to keep young parents from falling into Dessie’s abyss. One part of this was knowing what all children need, including the hidden wounded children inside the abusive parents. One documented form of abuse is termed “failure to thrive.” Children deprived of loving touch do not thrive.

Can touch happen without physical contact? Conrad and I have explored this over the years. For more than forty years we have celebrated the full moon and the dark moon with our own personal ritual, without fail, whether together or apart. If I am in France and he is in Sebastopol, we agree on a mutual time and do our best to achieve touch. You’d be surprised.

As I write, we are losing beloveds, as we all do over and over. I lost my mother before I even knew who she was, but I wear the beautiful silver ring she wore, and when I touch it, I touch her. I loved two powerful actresses who both set sail from our shores in recent times, but I can still embrace each of them.

There’s a gospel song whose refrain is “This may be the last time, it may be the last time, I don’t know.” Last time to sing together, to love each other, to see each other . . . none of us knows. In the last years, every time I visit the stones in Carnac I sing this to myself as I walk. What comforts me is that ever since I bonded with that place, it has been so clear in my heart’s memory that I can close my eyes and be there, really be there. I can walk the half-hour’s path from the village to the hostel, seeing every foot of the path, smelling the pines, hearing the ocean.

Trees talk to each other with their roots and help each other when needed. (Really. Look it up.) Mycelium are the Earth’s internet. I think I tuned into that at Carnac, and the Earth is letting me dial up. The moon let Conrad and me use her high-speed channels. Check out our primal roots and see what they can do for you.


Leadership . . .

—From the Damned Fool—

As part of its economic stimulus package in addressing COVID-19, the Administration is reported to be including an additional trillion dollars to arm the U.S. population.

It would underwrite the mandatory purchase of a handgun, rifle, or semi-automatic weapon for each American over the age of six. It would accompany an executive order defining all use of such federally-subsidized weapons as “self-defense.”

The spokesman, who declined to be named, explained that the plan would protect otherwise vulnerable Americans from contamination by anyone coming within six feet of the shooter, including family members. It would prop up a vital industry, saving millions of jobs, “perhaps billions,” he said, as well as reducing unemployment statistics. It would cull the population of potentially infectious individuals and reduce the strain on Medicare, Social Security, and the overall health care system. 

In response to gun control advocates, he claimed that guidelines would be very strict and that anyone involved in a fatal shooting would have to fill out a form.

The spokesman denied rumors that the program targeted direct population reduction, especially in large-city Democratic strongholds. “Culling would be strictly nonpartisan,” he assured, “though no question it would have positive side effects for the environment.”

Might this not spur an increase in accidental deaths? “No death is accidental. It’s a consequence of predictable circumstances. We put our trust in the good will of the American people. No one wants to kill without purpose.”

In reply to the question of whether this might survive a court challenge, he expressed confidence. “We feel we’ve got the courts pretty well in hand.”

Addressing where the additional trillion would come from, a concern raised in regard to social programs, he replied, “The more debt we pile up, the greater the restraint on future Administrations in proposing vast wasteful spending programs.We are the party of restraint.”

[For more laughter from the belly of the beast, check out REALISTS, our novel of dystopian optimism, at]

Realists . . .

—From EF—

Is laughter is the only sane response? I’m seeing heartfelt pleas for sanity in the face of the virus from officials who know, and from people in Europe who know, and from patients in US hospitals who know. And then I see the stuff spewing out of Fox and on Facebook and wonder, are we all in the same universe? And I see that effective distancing is six feet minimum and then see the photos from O’Hare and Dallas airports with hundreds of unhappy souls jammed up shoulder to shoulder for six, eight, ten hours because of Administrative actions, having come from European locations well-supplied with the virus, and I think how many hot spots are going to start all over the country as a result. It’s as if our nation is made up of a number of bumper cars with no ability to communicate.

REALISTS. I’m sorry, but we wrote this sucker in 2001, and it’s actually funny, though terrifying. We inagined that there was an election, not many people voted, and an incompetent fascist was elected, then re-elected. Bud Pert, his name was, and his slogan was “Get Real.” Later it was “Give it to ’em. Hard.” The party was called the Realists, and that was the name of our novel. The Realists, in league with Big Pharma, declared dreaming illegal and mandated universal dosing with dream-suppressants (except for the elites), administered through the public water supply. Pee tests were required regularly. Of course people went nuts. Reality fragmented into sub-units and nobody could communicate with somebody who wasn’t part of their own sub-unit. Does this sound familiar?

A group of unrelated folks, designated as terrorists by the feds, are lured into a high-rise office by the promise of tax rebates. As they attempt to flee in an elevator, the encircling CIA and FBI shoot, severing the elevator cable, and everybody’s gonna die. Except for this: the predictions of a military physicist are right, that if you confine dream-deprived people into a tight space and subject them to stress, the fabric of reality splits. The group doesn’t hit bottom, they ricochet onto a westbound tour bus called the Blue Terrapin (inspired by the actual Green Tortoise). From that point they’re on their own, and it’s up to them to evade the black helicopters.

Well, yes, this is ridiculous, but then look at your daily news feed. Our hapless passengers succeed in creating community, banding together for survival, and discover that magic is possible. Can you imagine the terrified group stranded on a Badlands mesa called Stronghold, about to be blown away by massed military aircraft, and suddenly herds of ghost buffalo appear and wipe the airborne goons out?

If you don’t have enough suitable entertainment for your self-quarantine days, Realists is available for $2.99 on Smashwords or through our DamnedFool website for a hard copy, and no mattter how cracked it sounds, it’s funny. I may even start reading it again myself.




A weekly view of the world we
wake into every morning. 

Books and Media by
Bishop & Fuller


a novel of promises broken or kept

Blind Walls
a novel of blue-collar ghosts

Galahad's Fool
a novel of puppets & renewal

50 Years in the Making

A Memoir of the Creative Life

Rash Acts
35 Snapshots for the Stage

A Novel of Dystopian Optimism

Mythic Plays
From Inanna to Frankenstein

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