Maz and M

I was asked to write about a character with a flaw/character trait as my character development needs work. The character had to attend some kind of event.

The clop clop of her knee-high dark brown Italian leather boots make an entrance even before she turns the corner. She loves those boots. Told him everything about where they were made, who made them and just how well they had been tailored. From memory today she is wearing red tights and an A-line blue dress with red poker dots precisely pinpointed across the fabric. 

One of the reasons he likes her as much as she does, she’s different, she does her own thing. Most people, he observed, are like gutter rats eagerly awaiting a tune from the Pied Piper. Not Maz, she is her own unique whirlwind in which a lullaby of life springs. The fact that she has made him a tiny beat in her melodic breeze makes him feel life is actually worth the effort. If only he could find a way of communicating what he sees in her and how she makes him feel.

‘Hi Buddha M, yes I know, I’m late today,’ Maz came to a standstill in front of him. From his level, first step level, he first takes in the view of her boots, they have a distressed look and remind him of baby tree trunks. He then runs his eyes quick and cautious past her bright tights over the flurry of poker dots to her face. His head arches to take all of her and the energy she brings with her in. 

‘They kept me in the gallery later than expected. I mentioned to the curator my idea about doing an exhibition on the history of lace, she loved it. She wants me on it immediately. Says she wants the show to be open by fall. Fall! Can you believe that? How I am supposed to get an exhibition ready and open by fall?’ Without even taking a breath she continues, ‘here you go, I bought you a hot-dog from uptown, it’s probably cold now, there was a horrible all twisted up car accident on forty-fifth. There must have been over fifty police and firefighters on the scene. The poor folks inside were caught inside like tuna fish waiting to be popped from a can.’

Maz didn’t mean it, she didn’t mean to make him coil up so tight inside he can feel his organs press solidly against his ribcage so it feels like they were squeezing the life out of themselves. The very mention of the words ‘car accident’ make his world cloud over. But how can Maz know about his past? How can she know anything about him? He’s never been able to tell her. 

It’s not that he doesn’t want to tell her. She has given him many opportunities to speak, even today, she allows a pause. It’s always just long enough for him to be able to comfortably respond. But he doesn’t. He can’t. Instead, Maz continues her own dialogue so he doesn’t feel even more overwrought at the thought of actually speaking. 

But none of what she says filters in, at the mention of a car accident, he begins to experience storm full of emotions raging inside him. He tells himself, for Maz’s sake, he simply must keep it together. Reaching his hand up to accept the hotdog he makes a concerted effort not to shake. He notices the warmth in her fingers as his own slide under hers and he takes the hot dog with gratitude.

Panic-stricken, his throat constricts to the point he can only suck in tiny sips of air. Silent hysteria grips at his body, shaking it, wringing it out. Any moment surely he’s going to pass out.

‘I have to leave you now I’m afraid, no time to stop today I have to get home and start planning “The History Of Lace” exhibition,’ he hardly notices Maz’s sudden inflection in her voice as she throws her hands in the air in upwards spirals as she says this. ‘I will see you in the morning Buddha M, stay safe out here.’ In a puff, she was gone.

His name isn’t Buddha M. Maz took to calling him that when they first met. At the time she was writing a poetry collection, which has since been published, about homeless men and women of the local streets actually being Buddha. ‘If they have street dwelling holy men in India called Sadhu’s, we have our own special variety of Holy Homeless Buddha’s right here,’ she’d told him. He was never sure where the M came into it. He didn’t want to think that in her process of knowing so many homeless folk he dropped down on the list alphabetically to M. He regarded his relationship with Maz oh a higher rung than a middle of the range M. A, he often thought. He was definitely A-type Buddha.

With Maz out of sight, he carefully places the hotdog to the side of him to focus on regathering some kind of equilibrium through slowing his breath down to that of a sleeping dog. A trick Aunt Helen had taught him. 

Mid inhale Maz reappears. Almost choking on the bubble of air he already sucked back, he coughed and spluttered in her direction. Maz carried on like nothing at all happened. ’Buddha M, I forgot to tell you. It’s my birthday on Saturday. I’m having a few friends over, I expect you to be there.’ 

His eyes peeled back and popped to the size of ping pong balls.

‘ … and no, you don’t get protest. There’s no need for you to do anything, I’d just like to see you there. Okay? As I said, my friends are coming, and you are my friend. Be good for you to get out of this doorway for a while. And no, I will not take no for an answer.’ Then she really is gone for the night.

The little patch of concrete inside the disused doorway to the familiar empty warehouse behind him is home. It provides him with shelter from the wind and rain, and it also keeps him off the streets. Living here is his own way of classifying he isn’t homeless. No other homeless folk venture up his way. It’s too far out of town for them. When you stay in the city you have more chance of people giving you money or food. He isn’t interested in money or food or even people anymore, well besides Maz that is. Maz is his friend. She even just said so.

If life had of turned out differently perhaps he could bring himself to speak to Maz, but life hadn’t turned out any other way than where he was right now. Living alone and having lost the ability to speak. 

Twenty-five years ago the doctors, psychiatrists and social workers all came to the conclusion that he is a selective mute. If he classified himself today he would drop the selective part of that diagnosis. He used to speak with Aunt Helen. That was before Aunt Helen died too. Since her death, he hasn’t been able to speak to anyone. Not a single soul. 

He wants to speak, he really does. Any attempt though causes his heart to quicken, his breath to fail and his mind to shudder. 

His own unravelling in his minds eye is an awakening of the locust. There are hundreds if not thousands of them laying dormant at the base of his belly. The swarm remain calm when he is left alone. However, the minute any person pays him attention, speaks to him, or even worse, expects him to speak back, the locust awaken. 

Rising at first in a restless flutter, one by one they awaken. The swarm zip into life occupying the pounding rhythm of terror on his heart. The cacophony they bring with them stirs the deepest void within him, it echo’s and reverberates through every inch of his body until he can quite literally no longer hear the person in front of him. And it doesn’t stop there. His throat becomes a windowless tunnel for locust hell bent on escaping. He pins his mouth tight shut, clenching his teeth to a grind. Desperate now, he needs the person in front of him to leave.

The mutism found its own force before Aunt Helen. It was the day his mother and father were taken away from him swifter than the winds in Tornado Alley. After what he witnessed that day, the thought of having to speak about what happened, what he witnessed made him involuntarily seize up in anxious trepidation. One day life was normal, he was the six-year-old only child of two doting parents. The next day, nothing was ever the same.

Open the hot dog. He directs himself. Get your mind on other things. 

Besides Maz, the food she bought him, and the tiny front door shelter of the warehouse, there’s nothing else he keeps in his life. Memories of his mother and father come every so often, much like a clouded dream, but these days they appear then dissipate before he has a chance to grab them and make them solid. If only he could bring them closer to him.

Aunt Helen was the last person he talked to in conversation.

‘Why did they have to go?’ He’d ask her, about his parents.

Instead of answering outright, Aunt Helen used to take his hands in hers and discuss the ‘lacework of the universe’. He wished she would find another analogy, besides lace, but he knew she wanted to keep the memories of his parents alive, and he loved Aunt Helen so much, he would never say anything that could possibly upset her.

‘They haven’t gone, not really, everything is connected,’ she’d say as she ran her fingers over the lacework covering her dinner table. ‘Feel this with me,’ she’d say, taking his fingers and sliding them along the unending patterns of flowers, leaves, and vines made from the finest thread. ‘Just like this lace cloth your mother and father made just for me, everything is connected. In some places, the pattern is so full and so bursting with tiny intricacies we cannot even begin to imagine following the span of a single thread. In another place, you can see the pattern is sparse. It has much space between what has already passed by to what is up ahead. Then sometimes when you look too close, it just becomes confusing. When you feel your way around you can appreciate each section for the beauty it carries. Other times you must stand back, admire the big picture, observe the whole work in it’s entirety, for then everything makes perfect sense. Sometimes, nothing makes sense, but that doesn’t mean that one day it won’t. Don’t say they have gone, say one day you will meet again.’ 

Aunt Helen was trying to make him see the bigger picture. Trying to help him to speak, trying to be his mum, his dad, his everything. In the end, she left too. 

As Aunt Helen lay in the hospital dying, a social worker escorted him to and from the hospital. During this time she explained the new legalities of his life. ‘It’s up to you now,’ she said, ‘you have to take care of your own future. You are twenty-one years old, no longer in need of a legal guardian. Your whole life is ahead of you.’

But Aunt Helen, the only person he could speak to, the only person who connected him to the rest of the world went to find her place in the lacework of universe. Without him.

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‘Morning Buddha M,’ Maz approaches with her usual rapid flare. Today she wears black flat boots with tassels, a three quarter maroon corduroy skirt a pink floral top with a thick black belt around her belly. ‘Here you go.’  

Passing him a package of food, breakfast, he looks and smiles as best he can in thanks. He dearly hopes she understands his appreciation.

Buddha M often contemplates Maz as the kind of person who must have been born just as the sun was rising, she never runs out of energy. Even when she’s tired, she manages to keep her up-tempo vigour. 

‘Don’t forget Saturday,’ she reminds him, not that he needs reminding. ‘I’m looking forward to you finally coming over.’ 

All the while he holds her warm like a log cabin fire gaze. He doesn’t move a muscle, he is afraid if he does he may just fall apart like a tumbling tower of Jenga. Going to Maz’s house "with other people, scared the locust right up past belly level. What choice did he have? It’s Maz asking, his only friend.

‘Off to work for me then, you have a good day.’ And as fast as she arrived, she spins on her boots and is away like a hum of serendipity leaving his day.

He isn’t there, in his steadfast position, in the concrete entranceway when Maz walks past on her way home. She thinks it strange indeed that Buddha M is nowhere to be seen. Even after she spends some time looking for him, nothing. Regardless, she leaves a Reuben on rye sandwich wrapped in a plastic bag for him in his entrance to the warehouse then walks home a little less complete in her day.

It is Friday night and Maz has much to do to prepare for the party tomorrow. Getting busy cleaning means she is able to put Buddha M out of her thoughts, at least momentarily.

Saturday arrives Maz walks to the store to collect some last minute shopping. Once again she stopped by the entrance of the warehouse and sees Buddha M hasn’t returned, worse still the Reuben on rye sandwich is there, untouched. As she heads onwards up the street she wonders if perhaps it was wrong of her to invite him to her house for her birthday. It was probably all too much for him. She should never have demanded he come, she cursed herself. Going about everything the wrong way is a strong suit of hers.

In a funny way, Maz has come to rely on Buddha M, just as he has come to rely on her. They only see each other twice a day, sometimes, on the weekends she sees him more often, but generally it is just twice a day for no longer than ten minutes. Those ten minutes give her a touch of stability and routine in her days. Since her kids moved out, she too, like Buddha M, is all alone. 

Her tiny moments with Buddha M give her a sense of worth and also give her someone to talk about her day. Most of her friends are married, they all have someone to go home to, someone to debunk with, talk things over, talk, just talk. 

It is relieving for Maz to be able to unload onto Buddha M, and it matters not he never speaks a word to her. She sees in his eyes he not only understands, but he also cares. Wishing she knew more about Buddha M, she forever holds a candle of hope that one day he may open up like a lotus flower and tell her everything about himself. Something must have happened to bring him to live in the entrance of this warehouse. He has a backstory, but doesn’t want to share it for some reason. 

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It is harder than Buddha M imagined. He knew it was going to be hard, but in reality, it is actually infinitesimally harder again.

Once inside the warehouse, which had been unentered and untouched for near on thirty years, the sheer magnitude of his actions swept over him. He collapsed, right there in the doorway. He observes his surroundings move from dark shadows to blackness in a matter of seconds. He passes out. 

Waking disoriented some time later, he regains his own sense of what’s going on. I’m in the warehouse for the sole purpose of returning some kindness to Maz.

Standing, he walks almost mechanically around the space which he already knows like he does every square inch of the concrete step. He hasn't visited here since the accident. Besides Aunt Helen, when she was alive, lived in Ohio, there was no reason for them to come all the way to the warehouse.

Here for Maz, he reminds himself, mantra style, in his mind. 

Everything is just as he remembers it, the office and desks at the front just behind the reception area, and the lace machines, thick with dust and cobwebs behind. A thick glass wall separates one area from the other.

‘It’s so I can see what work is being done my boy, but more so to keep out the noise.’ His father, it is his father speaking, he hears the words, as they are freshly spoken. He even sees his father watching the goings on in the warehouse while he explains about the new glass wall. 

Freezing into position, thinking if he moves even a millimetre his father will vanish all over again. But you can’t stand still forever, especially when you have to breathe, you have to blink. Before he finishes this thought, his father is gone. 

‘Everything changes, nothing stays the same.’ The time it was his mother, his sweet, soulful, beautiful mother who, just like Aunt Helen, talked to him of the ways of the world, the ways of the stars and the cosmos, the nature of all things. 

Alone in the warehouse, he heaves with years old emotion. Memories spill forth like an overflowing dam. For years he cast his parents so far back into darkness, just to cope with each day. Now, here they are, front and centre, taking check of him, checking them.

Here for Maz. He screams mute into his own skull. The memories drip all over the warehouse like rain-laden washing. Here for  Maz. Here for Maz. Here for Maz. 

In a hypnotic daze, he makes himself a deal. He promises to return to the warehouse after Maz’s birthday celebrations. Yes, it’s time to confront the past he’s long since willed into a dream land so far away he honestly believed it never existed in the first place. 

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It’s her birthday, she is supposed to be happy, excited that her house will soon be filled with friends for a small, yet cosy celebration of all things good in her life. Buddha M is one of those good things, it seems, she has overstepped the boundaries. She asked for too much, he had run off. It was stupid of her really, to expect him to come and socialise with her friends. 

Even though she called each of them individually to let them know Buddha M is coming, ‘he doesn’t speak, and oh yes, he’s homeless, stays just up the road from me in fact,’ one or two of them started up about the safety aspect of inviting a virtual stranger into her home, a couple of them she could visibly hear them scrunch up their noses at the mention of ‘homeless.’ Maz had always done exactly what she wanted, her friends knew that too. Even as they started to object they all knew it was to no avail, Maz was Maz, and a Maz did what Maz did whenever Maz wanted to do it.

In some ways, Maz feels she has more in common with Buddha M than she does with her friends. Buddha M listens to her, without interrupting, she listens to everybody else. Buddha M is clearly intellectual what with all the books she delivers to him from the library each week. She couldn’t put her finger on it, there is just something about Buddha M that Maz has fond adoration of. Quite possibly it is the fact that he lives outside the perimeters of the daily banality of day to day life. A harsh reality, but nonetheless, his own and his own terms.

‘Now none of it matters, he’s gone. No note, nothing, he must have got scared and left. Stupid, stupid, stupid.’ Maz curses.

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There is no electricity in the warehouse, the water still runs, not hot, but fresh clean water. 

After having set himself three specific tasks, only three, not too hard, he begins fulfilling each. The first was shaving, showering and washing his hair. 

He remembers from all those years ago, his father used to keep a spare suit, shirt, and shoes in a cupboard in his office. ‘You never know when you may need to be looking good in a flash my boy,’ his father said time and time again with a wink in his direction. 

Sure enough, there is a new set of clothes waiting for him. In the bottom of the cupboard, he finds fathers shaving supplies where he knew they’d be. Aunt Helen taught him how to shave when he was fifteen. After Aunt Helen died, as with most things in his life, he no longer felt the need to fulfil the futile daily duties. 

Bathing takes much longer than expected. His body is coated in life. Life from cars, roads, pathways, life from sideways glances of passerby’s, life from garbage, feral animals, gutters, and sewers. 

Underneath his fingernails he pries away the looks of shame and disgust, from his armpits he wipes people's upturned up noses. In between his butt cheeks he removes the sneering, laughing, nasty children. He even washes from his hair and beard the daily routine of sitting in the entrance to the warehouse. 

In frigid water, his ablutions wear on a long time. When he finally emerges, stick-thin, naked and with a shiver, he realises, in the preceding hour he has washed away the last moment, the last minute, the last hour, week, year, years. He washed so much life away and arrived at right now. 

Examining his hairless face, his taught skin and clean lines he is reminded of Maz. Maz is always shining bright as the first star, the last star.

He slips into his father's shirt, suit and to his happy surprise, he slides comfortably into his father’s socks and shoes. Perfect fit. ‘Soon you will be big enough to fit my shoes son, don’t rush into it, you will never get back the now.’ 

His father is everywhere, in his breath, in the soft scent of his clothes, visions of his father pulsed through his blood, with each heart beat his father drew him closer. 

Not yet dad, soon, but not yet. He pushed his father back into the shadows once more. The realisation his father had been right there with him all along made him both sad and elated at the same time, time lost, time to find the now.

One task down. Next was to the office library. 

‘One day my boy, all of this will be yours, so when that day comes it is best you are educated on the finer details of lace. For a man to be successful a man needs to know exactly what he is talking about.’ 

He had only been six when his father had told him he would be taking over the family empire one day. 

Sliding once again into the folds of memory …

…… Here for Maz! 

The library of books are many. His father had a love of art and owned many books on many different styles of art, perhaps one day, he will show Maz this library. For now though, there is just one book he is looking for. 

Tracing his fingers along each shelf, bringing a trail of dust with it, his head tilts slightly to the side reading each title. ‘Contemporary America’, ‘Picasso, Line Drawings and Prints,’ ‘Michelangelo’, ‘Toros Y Toreros’, ‘Modernism in Art’, ‘Textile Reader,’ all the titles he is familiar with, for he has glanced through all of them time and again whilst waiting for his parents in this very library after school. 

Finger stopping. He finds what he needs. Slowly moving the book from its lodgings he wipes the thirty-year-old dust away.

‘The Complete History of Lace from Around The World.’ 

His father had this book commissioned when the lace business was approaching its peak. People all across America had nicknamed his mother and father Mr and Mrs Lace. It was his father’s family that had first introduced lace to America, but his father made an empire from lace. 

This book had always been his father’s pride and joy. Everything about lace, every country where it had thought to have been started, every empire it lived within, every famous woman who wore the most intricate designs close to her chest, it was all in there. Even mention of his mother and his father. He recalls how his father insisted on a photograph of the three of them in the opening pages.

A History of Lace, the perfect birthday present for Maz, he thinks.

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Maz has everything set and ready to go awaiting the arrivals of her guests. ‘I’m just going to check,’ she said aloud, to no-one in particular. Check if Buddha M has returned. She hopes the mightiest hope she has been mistaken about him running away. She wishes she had of conveyed how important he has become in her life, that their relationship isn’t as one sided as he may think.

He isn’t there. 

Maz’s heart fell almost to the concrete path underneath her feet. If only she didn’t have guests coming, she’d never have made such a kufaffal of her birthday. It was really just about getting Buddha M out of the warehouse entrance and into her house.

How foolish she has been. She can see that now. Clearly deluded, Buddha M has taken over her thoughts, her mind, and to what avail, he’s gone. 

The guests start arriving right on time. Glad of the distraction Maz fusses about filling glasses and offering her homemade canapés. Of course, they did ask of Buddha M’s whereabouts. 

‘He couldn’t make it,’ she offers no excuse.

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The third and final task for the day way to make his way to Maz’s house and give her the gift. Easier thought about than done. 

He checks himself in the mirror one last time. This time, his face looks weary. After his shower, he had been cup full of overflowing confidence. Now, it has all vanished right down the same place as his dirty shaven whiskers. 

For Maz!

He modifies his mantra for the final task. 

It’s fine, he says to himself, ‘Go to Maz’s house, give her the gift and then I will be free to leave. Maz will understand.’

He sets out carrying the book in an old paper carry bag with, ‘Moses Finest Lace’, printed on front and back in bold black lettering. The same words and logo still stood atop the warehouse where he spent his days living in the doorway.

There is a flutter at the base of his belly. Not today, he thought, today you will not rise up, today, I am in control.

For Maz!

On her front doorstep sooner than he expected, he paces left and right trying to summon enough courage to ring the doorbell. A woman with pale pink blotches igniting her face notices him through the front window. He has no escape now, he’s been spotted. The grand plan of not entering Maz’s house fell dead on the doorstep.

‘Hello,’ the blotch-face says, ‘are you here for Maz?’ 

Nodding, he is thankful for not needing to speak.

‘Come on in she’s out back.’ 

The woman, who could very well have been a bit tipsy, takes an extended slug from her wineglass and leads the way without so much as a look back in his direction. 

Too nervous to keep his head up, in case someone was looking his way, his eyes focus on Maz’s rustic timber floor. In an all too quick jittery flow, he finds himself in an arena of laughter, music, and conversation. He is right in the middle of the party.

‘Maz, there’s someone here for you, blotch-face woman blurts none too quiet. Try as he does he cannot look up. All eyes are on him, he feels them, and the previous banter is reduced to a magnified hush.

‘Hello, do I…’ …Maz.

Maz is confused. 

This will end badly, he thinks as he tries to get hold of air.

The all too familiar flutter comes in sudden waves. No time for him to even catch his breath as a tsunami of locusts drowning him from the inside out. Panicked, he stumbles catching himself at the last second on the table full of food. He glances up half in confusion, half in apology. He is falling down. He has ruined everything. Maz…. 

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Back inside the ‘Moses Finest Lace’ warehouse, he is alone, nursing his broken pride. 

Passing out in front of Maz and her friends was probably not the best entrance. Coming to with his head resting in Maz’s lap hearing her repeat over and over ‘Buddha M, I’m sorry, this is all my fault’, was not the best follow up. 

When he opened his eyes, it was to a ring full of strangers peering down at him. Some were staring in wonderment, some he saw pity, some even disgust. Only Maz had the same log cabin fire warmth blazing just like she always had. On one hand, he wished he could lay there forever, on the other, reality came like a shudder of thunder dancing in his bones. He needed to leave. 

Maz must have known what he was going to do because she let him stand, where he turned back to her, met her gaze and held it as long as physically possible for him. If only he could speak a thousand unspoken words. But of course, he cannot. Instead, he turned around, walked through a fog of misunderstandings, opened the front door, and somehow set his intention on getting back into the waiting time capsule - the Moses family lace warehouse. 

A tranquillized calm overrides him once inside. He sits in his fathers once too big leather chair.. Just sits. Not having any idea on what is next from here, however, understanding yes, it is time to confront the past.

He rests his head, tired and drifting, he hears, ‘One day my boy, all of this will be yours.’

What good is any of it father, without you, or mother of Aunt Helen? Tell me what good?

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Maz waits for the last of her guests to leave before she sits down quietly with the bag Buddha M carried in with him. Had he bought her a gift! 

The words on the bag intrigued her, she knew them well enough for them to be quietly familiar, she couldn’t quite place them.

Setting the thought aside, she slides the book from the ancient bag. A large book, heavy too. Although it is not new, she can see it has been kept in perfect condition. 

Spinning the cover around to face her, she reads,

‘The Complete History of Lace from Around The World.’ Written by Abe Goldstein, commissioned for Joe Moses.

Joe Moses, Joe Moses, now there is a name she hasn’t heard it what seems a lifetime.

Joe Moses, she recalls the name instantly. Joe was the owner of the lace factory, the building where Buddha M made his home in the entrance. Thinking out of turn, she wonders if Buddha M broke in to the disused warehouse to steal this book for her. 

‘No, surely not.’

Buddha M has known for a long time Maz has a love of all things lace, hence the strong almost overriding desire to put together a History of Lace exhibition. This book is the perfect gift from her homeless friend. A tenderness coils around her like a golden aura, holding the book to her chest. 

‘Ah,Buddha M!’

Yes, there is much more to Buddha M than she will probably every know. This book is really something. It concludes to her that all her her time spent with him has never once been wasted. He knows, he knows much more than he has ever let on. Stolen or not, this book truly touched her heart.

Carefully she opens the cover. There are two inscriptions. The first in black faded script,

Dearest Joe, Lulu and Arie, 

It is with my great pleasure I give you this book. 

Many thousands of hours of love has woven through these pages,

from me, to all of you. 

May you enjoy each page as you enjoy the abundance of 

love in each of your hearts. 

Sincerely, 

Abe Goldstein 

26th April, 1976

Maz is not familiar with Abe Goldstein, she is however reminded of this small family coming and going from the warehouse all the time. The boy, young and devilishly handsome. An only child, so well behaved. The mother, always held the boys hand, the father, quite often walking with his hand on the young boys shoulder.

But there was an accident, Joe and Lulu were killed instantly. A metal sheet had come loose off a lorry truck in front of them. Right through the front window of their black ford came the metal. An horrific accident. Devastating. It was all over the newspapers of the day. Both Joe and Lulu decapitated by the metal sheet. 

Arie their son, must have been around six years old was in the backseat, witnessed everything. After that day, Maz never saw that handsome little boy again. 

Wait.

‘No,’ she said out to her empty living room, ‘couldn’t be.’

Looking back at the inside cover of the book she read the other inscription. This one addressed to her.

Dear Maz,

For a long time now I have wanted to say 

two words to you. 

Thank you. 

Thank you for your kindness, your warmth and 

the happiness you bring to my life. 

Happy Birthday.

Love Your Friend, 

Arie Buddha (M)oses 

 made him a tiny beat in her melodic breeze makes him feel life is actually worth the effort. If only he could find a way of communicating what he sees in her and how she makes him feel.

‘Hi Buddha M, yes I know, I’m late today,’ Maz came to a standstill in front of him. From his level, first step level, he first takes in the view of her boots, they have a distressed look and remind him of baby tree trunks. He then runs his eyes quick and cautious past her bright tights over the flurry of poker dots to her face. His head arches to take all of her and the energy she brings with her in. 

‘They kept me in the gallery later than expected. I mentioned to the curator my idea about doing an exhibition on the history of lace, she loved it. She wants me on it immediately. Says she wants the show to be open by fall. Fall! Can you believe that? How I am supposed to get an exhibition ready and open by fall?’ Without even taking a breath she continues, ‘here you go, I bought you a hot-dog from uptown, it’s probably cold now, there was a horrible all twisted up car accident on forty-fifth. There must have been over fifty police and firefighters on the scene. The poor folks inside were caught inside like tuna fish waiting to be popped from a can.’

Maz didn’t mean it, she didn’t mean to make him coil up so tight inside he can feel his organs press solidly against his ribcage so it feels like they were squeezing the life out of themselves. The very mention of the words ‘car accident’ make his world cloud over. But how can Maz know about his past? How can she know anything about him? He’s never been able to tell her. 

It’s not that he doesn’t want to tell her. She has given him many opportunities to speak, even today, she allows a pause. It’s always just long enough for him to be able to comfortably respond. But he doesn’t. He can’t. Instead, Maz continues her own dialogue so he doesn’t feel even more overwrought at the thought of actually speaking. 

But none of what she says filters in, at the mention of a car accident, he begins to experience storm full of emotions raging inside him. He tells himself, for Maz’s sake, he simply must keep it together. Reaching his hand up to accept the hotdog he makes a concerted effort not to shake. He notices the warmth in her fingers as his own slide under hers and he takes the hot dog with gratitude.

Panic-stricken, his throat constricts to the point he can only suck in tiny sips of air. Silent hysteria grips at his body, shaking it, wringing it out. Any moment surely he’s going to pass out.

‘I have to leave you now I’m afraid, no time to stop today I have to get home and start planning “The History Of Lace” exhibition,’ he hardly notices Maz’s sudden inflection in her voice as she throws her hands in the air in upwards spirals as she says this. ‘I will see you in the morning Buddha M, stay safe out here.’ In a puff, she was gone.

His name isn’t Buddha M. Maz took to calling him that when they first met. At the time she was writing a poetry collection, which has since been published, about homeless men and women of the local streets actually being Buddha. ‘If they have street dwelling holy men in India called Sadhu’s, we have our own special variety of Holy Homeless Buddha’s right here,’ she’d told him. He was never sure where the M came into it. He didn’t want to think that in her process of knowing so many homeless folk he dropped down on the list alphabetically to M. He regarded his relationship with Maz oh a higher rung than a middle of the range M. A, he often thought. He was definitely A-type Buddha.

With Maz out of sight, he carefully places the hotdog to the side of him to focus on regathering some kind of equilibrium through slowing his breath down to that of a sleeping dog. A trick Aunt Helen had taught him. 

Mid inhale Maz reappears. Almost choking on the bubble of air he already sucked back, he coughed and spluttered in her direction. Maz carried on like nothing at all happened. ’Buddha M, I forgot to tell you. It’s my birthday on Saturday. I’m having a few friends over, I expect you to be there.’ 

His eyes peeled back and popped to the size of ping pong balls.

‘ … and no, you don’t get protest. There’s no need for you to do anything, I’d just like to see you there. Okay? As I said, my friends are coming, and you are my friend. Be good for you to get out of this doorway for a while. And no, I will not take no for an answer.’ Then she really is gone for the night.

The little patch of concrete inside the disused doorway to the familiar empty warehouse behind him is home. It provides him with shelter from the wind and rain, and it also keeps him off the streets. Living here is his own way of classifying he isn’t homeless. No other homeless folk venture up his way. It’s too far out of town for them. When you stay in the city you have more chance of people giving you money or food. He isn’t interested in money or food or even people anymore, well besides Maz that is. Maz is his friend. She even just said so.

If life had of turned out differently perhaps he could bring himself to speak to Maz, but life hadn’t turned out any other way than where he was right now. Living alone and having lost the ability to speak. 

Twenty-five years ago the doctors, psychiatrists and social workers all came to the conclusion that he is a selective mute. If he classified himself today he would drop the selective part of that diagnosis. He used to speak with Aunt Helen. That was before Aunt Helen died too. Since her death, he hasn’t been able to speak to anyone. Not a single soul. 

He wants to speak, he really does. Any attempt though causes his heart to quicken, his breath to fail and his mind to shudder. 

His own unravelling in his minds eye is an awakening of the locust. There are hundreds if not thousands of them laying dormant at the base of his belly. The swarm remain calm when he is left alone. However, the minute any person pays him attention, speaks to him, or even worse, expects him to speak back, the locust awaken. 

Rising at first in a restless flutter, one by one they awaken. The swarm zip into life occupying the pounding rhythm of terror on his heart. The cacophony they bring with them stirs the deepest void within him, it echo’s and reverberates through every inch of his body until he can quite literally no longer hear the person in front of him. And it doesn’t stop there. His throat becomes a windowless tunnel for locust hell bent on escaping. He pins his mouth tight shut, clenching his teeth to a grind. Desperate now, he needs the person in front of him to leave.

The mutism found its own force before Aunt Helen. It was the day his mother and father were taken away from him swifter than the winds in Tornado Alley. After what he witnessed that day, the thought of having to speak about what happened, what he witnessed made him involuntarily seize up in anxious trepidation. One day life was normal, he was the six-year-old only child of two doting parents. The next day, nothing was ever the same.

Open the hot dog. He directs himself. Get your mind on other things. 

Besides Maz, the food she bought him, and the tiny front door shelter of the warehouse, there’s nothing else he keeps in his life. Memories of his mother and father come every so often, much like a clouded dream, but these days they appear then dissipate before he has a chance to grab them and make them solid. If only he could bring them closer to him.

Aunt Helen was the last person he talked to in conversation.

‘Why did they have to go?’ He’d ask her, about his parents.

Instead of answering outright, Aunt Helen used to take his hands in hers and discuss the ‘lacework of the universe’. He wished she would find another analogy, besides lace, but he knew she wanted to keep the memories of his parents alive, and he loved Aunt Helen so much, he would never say anything that could possibly upset her.

‘They haven’t gone, not really, everything is connected,’ she’d say as she ran her fingers over the lacework covering her dinner table. ‘Feel this with me,’ she’d say, taking his fingers and sliding them along the unending patterns of flowers, leaves, and vines made from the finest thread. ‘Just like this lace cloth your mother and father made just for me, everything is connected. In some places, the pattern is so full and so bursting with tiny intricacies we cannot even begin to imagine following the span of a single thread. In another place, you can see the pattern is sparse. It has much space between what has already passed by to what is up ahead. Then sometimes when you look too close, it just becomes confusing. When you feel your way around you can appreciate each section for the beauty it carries. Other times you must stand back, admire the big picture, observe the whole work in it’s entirety, for then everything makes perfect sense. Sometimes, nothing makes sense, but that doesn’t mean that one day it won’t. Don’t say they have gone, say one day you will meet again.’ 

Aunt Helen was trying to make him see the bigger picture. Trying to help him to speak, trying to be his mum, his dad, his everything. In the end, she left too. 

As Aunt Helen lay in the hospital dying, a social worker escorted him to and from the hospital. During this time she explained the new legalities of his life. ‘It’s up to you now,’ she said, ‘you have to take care of your own future. You are twenty-one years old, no longer in need of a legal guardian. Your whole life is ahead of you.’

But Aunt Helen, the only person he could speak to, the only person who connected him to the rest of the world went to find her place in the lacework of universe. Without him.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

‘Morning Buddha M,’ Maz approaches with her usual rapid flare. Today she wears black flat boots with tassels, a three quarter maroon corduroy skirt a pink floral top with a thick black belt around her belly. ‘Here you go.’  

Passing him a package of food, breakfast, he looks and smiles as best he can in thanks. He dearly hopes she understands his appreciation.

Buddha M often contemplates Maz as the kind of person who must have been born just as the sun was rising, she never runs out of energy. Even when she’s tired, she manages to keep her up-tempo vigour. 

‘Don’t forget Saturday,’ she reminds him, not that he needs reminding. ‘I’m looking forward to you finally coming over.’ 

All the while he holds her warm like a log cabin fire gaze. He doesn’t move a muscle, he is afraid if he does he may just fall apart like a tumbling tower of Jenga. Going to Maz’s house "with other people, scared the locust right up past belly level. What choice did he have? It’s Maz asking, his only friend.

‘Off to work for me then, you have a good day.’ And as fast as she arrived, she spins on her boots and is away like a hum of serendipity leaving his day.

He isn’t there, in his steadfast position, in the concrete entranceway when Maz walks past on her way home. She thinks it strange indeed that Buddha M is nowhere to be seen. Even after she spends some time looking for him, nothing. Regardless, she leaves a Reuben on rye sandwich wrapped in a plastic bag for him in his entrance to the warehouse then walks home a little less complete in her day.

It is Friday night and Maz has much to do to prepare for the party tomorrow. Getting busy cleaning means she is able to put Buddha M out of her thoughts, at least momentarily.

Saturday arrives Maz walks to the store to collect some last minute shopping. Once again she stopped by the entrance of the warehouse and sees Buddha M hasn’t returned, worse still the Reuben on rye sandwich is there, untouched. As she heads onwards up the street she wonders if perhaps it was wrong of her to invite him to her house for her birthday. It was probably all too much for him. She should never have demanded he come, she cursed herself. Going about everything the wrong way is a strong suit of hers.

In a funny way, Maz has come to rely on Buddha M, just as he has come to rely on her. They only see each other twice a day, sometimes, on the weekends she sees him more often, but generally it is just twice a day for no longer than ten minutes. Those ten minutes give her a touch of stability and routine in her days. Since her kids moved out, she too, like Buddha M, is all alone.

Her tiny moments with Buddha M give her a sense of worth and also give her someone to talk about her day. Most of her friends are married, they all have someone to go home to, someone to debunk with, talk things over, talk, just talk. 

It is relieving for Maz to be able to unload onto Buddha M, and it matters not he never speaks a word to her. She sees in his eyes he not only understands, but he also cares. Wishing she knew more about Buddha M, she forever holds a candle of hope that one day he may open up like a lotus flower and tell her everything about himself. Something must have happened to bring him to live in the entrance of this warehouse. He has a backstory, but doesn’t want to share it for some reason. 

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

It is harder than Buddha M imagined. He knew it was going to be hard, but in reality, it is actually infinitesimally harder again.

Once inside the warehouse, which had been unentered and untouched for near on thirty years, the sheer magnitude of his actions swept over him. He collapsed, right there in the doorway. He observes his surroundings move from dark shadows to blackness in a matter of seconds. He passes out. 

Waking disoriented some time later, he regains his own sense of what’s going on. I’m in the warehouse for the sole purpose of returning some kindness to Maz.

Standing, he walks almost mechanically around the space which he already knows like he does every square inch of the concrete step. He hasn't visited here since the accident. Besides Aunt Helen, when she was alive, lived in Ohio, there was no reason for them to come all the way to the warehouse.

Here for Maz, he reminds himself, mantra style, in his mind. 

Everything is just as he remembers it, the office and desks at the front just behind the reception area, and the lace machines, thick with dust and cobwebs behind. A thick glass wall separates one area from the other.

‘It’s so I can see what work is being done my boy, but more so to keep out the noise.’ His father, it is his father speaking, he hears the words, as they are freshly spoken. He even sees his father watching the goings on in the warehouse while he explains about the new glass wall. 

Freezing into position, thinking if he moves even a millimetre his father will vanish all over again. But you can’t stand still forever, especially when you have to breathe, you have to blink. Before he finishes this thought, his father is gone. 

‘Everything changes, nothing stays the same.’ The time it was his mother, his sweet, soulful, beautiful mother who, just like Aunt Helen, talked to him of the ways of the world, the ways of the stars and the cosmos, the nature of all things. 

Alone in the warehouse, he heaves with years old emotion. Memories spill forth like an overflowing dam. For years he cast his parents so far back into darkness, just to cope with each day. Now, here they are, front and centre, taking check of him, checking them.

Here for Maz. He screams mute into his own skull. The memories drip all over the warehouse like rain-laden washing. Here for  Maz. Here for Maz. Here for Maz. 

In a hypnotic daze, he makes himself a deal. He promises to return to the warehouse after Maz’s birthday celebrations. Yes, it’s time to confront the past he’s long since willed into a dream land so far away he honestly believed it never existed in the first place. 

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

It’s her birthday, she is supposed to be happy, excited that her house will soon be filled with friends for a small, yet cosy celebration of all things good in her life. Buddha M is one of those good things, it seems, she has overstepped the boundaries. She asked for too much, he had run off. It was stupid of her really, to expect him to come and socialise with her friends. 

Even though she called each of them individually to let them know Buddha M is coming, ‘he doesn’t speak, and oh yes, he’s homeless, stays just up the road from me in fact,’ one or two of them started up about the safety aspect of inviting a virtual stranger into her home, a couple of them she could visibly hear them scrunch up their noses at the mention of ‘homeless.’ Maz had always done exactly what she wanted, her friends knew that too. Even as they started to object they all knew it was to no avail, Maz was Maz, and a Maz did what Maz did whenever Maz wanted to do it.

In some ways, Maz feels she has more in common with Buddha M than she does with her friends. Buddha M listens to her, without interrupting, she listens to everybody else. Buddha M is clearly intellectual what with all the books she delivers to him from the library each week. She couldn’t put her finger on it, there is just something about Buddha M that Maz has fond adoration of. Quite possibly it is the fact that he lives outside the perimeters of the daily banality of day to day life. A harsh reality, but nonetheless, his own and his own terms.

‘Now none of it matters, he’s gone. No note, nothing, he must have got scared and left. Stupid, stupid, stupid.’ Maz curses.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

There is no electricity in the warehouse, the water still runs, not hot, but fresh clean water. 

After having set himself three specific tasks, only three, not too hard, he begins fulfilling each. The first was shaving, showering and washing his hair. 

He remembers from all those years ago, his father used to keep a spare suit, shirt, and shoes in a cupboard in his office. ‘You never know when you may need to be looking good in a flash my boy,’ his father said time and time again with a wink in his direction. 

Sure enough, there is a new set of clothes waiting for him. In the bottom of the cupboard, he finds fathers shaving supplies where he knew they’d be. Aunt Helen taught him how to shave when he was fifteen. After Aunt Helen died, as with most things in his life, he no longer felt the need to fulfil the futile daily duties. 

Bathing takes much longer than expected. His body is coated in life. Life from cars, roads, pathways, life from sideways glances of passerby’s, life from garbage, feral animals, gutters, and sewers. 

Underneath his fingernails he pries away the looks of shame and disgust, from his armpits he wipes people's upturned up noses. In between his butt cheeks he removes the sneering, laughing, nasty children. He even washes from his hair and beard the daily routine of sitting in the entrance to the warehouse. 

In frigid water, his ablutions wear on a long time. When he finally emerges, stick-thin, naked and with a shiver, he realises, in the preceding hour he has washed away the last moment, the last minute, the last hour, week, year, years. He washed so much life away and arrived at right now. 

Examining his hairless face, his taught skin and clean lines he is reminded of Maz. Maz is always shining bright as the first star, the last star.

He slips into his father's shirt, suit and to his happy surprise, he slides comfortably into his father’s socks and shoes. Perfect fit. ‘Soon you will be big enough to fit my shoes son, don’t rush into it, you will never get back the now.’ 

His father is everywhere, in his breath, in the soft scent of his clothes, visions of his father pulsed through his blood, with each heart beat his father drew him closer. 

Not yet dad, soon, but not yet. He pushed his father back into the shadows once more. The realisation his father had been right there with him all along made him both sad and elated at the same time, time lost, time to find the now.

One task down. Next was to the office library. 

‘One day my boy, all of this will be yours, so when that day comes it is best you are educated on the finer details of lace. For a man to be successful a man needs to know exactly what he is talking about.’ 

He had only been six when his father had told him he would be taking over the family empire one day. 

Sliding once again into the folds of memory …

…… Here for Maz! 

The library of books are many. His father had a love of art and owned many books on many different styles of art, perhaps one day, he will show Maz this library. For now though, there is just one book he is looking for. 

Tracing his fingers along each shelf, bringing a trail of dust with it, his head tilts slightly to the side reading each title. ‘Contemporary America’, ‘Picasso, Line Drawings and Prints,’ ‘Michelangelo’, ‘Toros Y Toreros’, ‘Modernism in Art’, ‘Textile Reader,’ all the titles he is familiar with, for he has glanced through all of them time and again whilst waiting for his parents in this very library after school. 

Finger stopping. He finds what he needs. Slowly moving the book from its lodgings he wipes the thirty-year-old dust away.

‘The Complete History of Lace from Around The World.’ 

His father had this book commissioned when the lace business was approaching its peak. People all across America had nicknamed his mother and father Mr and Mrs Lace. It was his father’s family that had first introduced lace to America, but his father made an empire from lace. 

This book had always been his father’s pride and joy. Everything about lace, every country where it had thought to have been started, every empire it lived within, every famous woman who wore the most intricate designs close to her chest, it was all in there. Even mention of his mother and his father. He recalls how his father insisted on a photograph of the three of them in the opening pages.

A History of Lace, the perfect birthday present for Maz, he thinks.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

Maz has everything set and ready to go awaiting the arrivals of her guests. ‘I’m just going to check,’ she said aloud, to no-one in particular. Check if Buddha M has returned. She hopes the mightiest hope she has been mistaken about him running away. She wishes she had of conveyed how important he has become in her life, that their relationship isn’t as one sided as he may think.

He isn’t there. 

Maz’s heart fell almost to the concrete path underneath her feet. If only she didn’t have guests coming, she’d never have made such a kufaffal of her birthday. It was really just about getting Buddha M out of the warehouse entrance and into her house.

How foolish she has been. She can see that now. Clearly deluded, Buddha M has taken over her thoughts, her mind, and to what avail, he’s gone. 

The guests start arriving right on time. Glad of the distraction Maz fusses about filling glasses and offering her homemade canapés. Of course, they did ask of Buddha M’s whereabouts. 

‘He couldn’t make it,’ she offers no excuse.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

The third and final task for the day way to make his way to Maz’s house and give her the gift. Easier thought about than done. 

He checks himself in the mirror one last time. This time, his face looks weary. After his shower, he had been cup full of overflowing confidence. Now, it has all vanished right down the same place as his dirty shaven whiskers. 

For Maz!

He modifies his mantra for the final task. 

It’s fine, he says to himself, ‘Go to Maz’s house, give her the gift and then I will be free to leave. Maz will understand.’

He sets out carrying the book in an old paper carry bag with, ‘Moses Finest Lace’, printed on front and back in bold black lettering. The same words and logo still stood atop the warehouse where he spent his days living in the doorway.

There is a flutter at the base of his belly. Not today, he thought, today you will not rise up, today, I am in control.

For Maz!

On her front doorstep sooner than he expected, he paces left and right trying to summon enough courage to ring the doorbell. A woman with pale pink blotches igniting her face notices him through the front window. He has no escape now, he’s been spotted. The grand plan of not entering Maz’s house fell dead on the doorstep.

‘Hello,’ the blotch-face says, ‘are you here for Maz?’ 

Nodding, he is thankful for not needing to speak.

‘Come on in she’s out back.’ 

The woman, who could very well have been a bit tipsy, takes an extended slug from her wineglass and leads the way without so much as a look back in his direction. 

Too nervous to keep his head up, in case someone was looking his way, his eyes focus on Maz’s rustic timber floor. In an all too quick jittery flow, he finds himself in an arena of laughter, music, and conversation. He is right in the middle of the party.

‘Maz, there’s someone here for you, blotch-face woman blurts none too quiet. Try as he does he cannot look up. All eyes are on him, he feels them, and the previous banter is reduced to a magnified hush.

‘Hello, do I…’ …Maz.

Maz is confused. 

This will end badly, he thinks as he tries to get hold of air.

The all too familiar flutter comes in sudden waves. No time for him to even catch his breath as a tsunami of locusts drowning him from the inside out. Panicked, he stumbles catching himself at the last second on the table full of food. He glances up half in confusion, half in apology. He is falling down. He has ruined everything. Maz…. 

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

Back inside the ‘Moses Finest Lace’ warehouse, he is alone, nursing his broken pride. 

Passing out in front of Maz and her friends was probably not the best entrance. Coming to with his head resting in Maz’s lap hearing her repeat over and over ‘Buddha M, I’m sorry, this is all my fault’, was not the best follow up. 

When he opened his eyes, it was to a ring full of strangers peering down at him. Some were staring in wonderment, some he saw pity, some even disgust. Only Maz had the same log cabin fire warmth blazing just like she always had. On one hand, he wished he could lay there forever, on the other, reality came like a shudder of thunder dancing in his bones. He needed to leave. 

Maz must have known what he was going to do because she let him stand, where he turned back to her, met her gaze and held it as long as physically possible for him. If only he could speak a thousand unspoken words. But of course, he cannot. Instead, he turned around, walked through a fog of misunderstandings, opened the front door, and somehow set his intention on getting back into the waiting time capsule - the Moses family lace warehouse. 

A tranquillized calm overrides him once inside. He sits in his fathers once too big leather chair.. Just sits. Not having any idea on what is next from here, however, understanding yes, it is time to confront the past.

He rests his head, tired and drifting, he hears, ‘One day my boy, all of this will be yours.’

What good is any of it father, without you, or mother of Aunt Helen? Tell me what good?

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

Maz waits for the last of her guests to leave before she sits down quietly with the bag Buddha M carried in with him. Had he bought her a gift! 

The words on the bag intrigued her, she knew them well enough for them to be quietly familiar, she couldn’t quite place them.

Setting the thought aside, she slides the book from the ancient bag. A large book, heavy too. Although it is not new, she can see it has been kept in perfect condition. 

Spinning the cover around to face her, she reads,

‘The Complete History of Lace from Around The World.’ Written by Abe Goldstein, commissioned for Joe Moses.

Joe Moses, Joe Moses, now there is a name she hasn’t heard it what seems a lifetime.

Joe Moses, she recalls the name instantly. Joe was the owner of the lace factory, the building where Buddha M made his home in the entrance. Thinking out of turn, she wonders if Buddha M broke in to the disused warehouse to steal this book for her. 

‘No, surely not.’

Buddha M has known for a long time Maz has a love of all things lace, hence the strong almost overriding desire to put together a History of Lace exhibition. This book is the perfect gift from her homeless friend. A tenderness coils around her like a golden aura, holding the book to her chest. 

‘Ah,Buddha M!’

Yes, there is much more to Buddha M than she will probably every know. This book is really something. It concludes to her that all her her time spent with him has never once been wasted. He knows, he knows much more than he has ever let on. Stolen or not, this book truly touched her heart.

Carefully she opens the cover. There are two inscriptions. The first in black faded script,

Dearest Joe, Lulu and Arie, 

It is with my great pleasure I give you this book. 

Many thousands of hours of love has woven through these pages,

from me, to all of you. 

May you enjoy each page as you enjoy the abundance of 

love in each of your hearts. 

Sincerely, 

Abe Goldstein 

26th April, 1976

Maz is not familiar with Abe Goldstein, she is however reminded of this small family coming and going from the warehouse all the time. The boy, young and devilishly handsome. An only child, so well behaved. The mother, always held the boys hand, the father, quite often walking with his hand on the young boys shoulder.

But there was an accident, Joe and Lulu were killed instantly. A metal sheet had come loose off a lorry truck in front of them. Right through the front window of their black ford came the metal. An horrific accident. Devastating. It was all over the newspapers of the day. Both Joe and Lulu decapitated by the metal sheet. 

Arie their son, must have been around six years old was in the backseat, witnessed everything. After that day, Maz never saw that handsome little boy again. 

Wait.

‘No,’ she said out to her empty living room, ‘couldn’t be.’

Looking back at the inside cover of the book she read the other inscription. This one addressed to her.

Dear Maz,

For a long time now I have wanted to say 

two words to you. 

Thank you. 

Thank you for your kindness, your warmth and 

the happiness you bring to my life. 

Happy Birthday.

Love Your Friend, 

Arie Buddha (M)oses 

Author's Note

If you are of true legendary status and make it to the end - I would love your honest thoughts - I am really trying to improve ..

Reviews

[Kathy Van Kurin]

KWP,
I love how you bring so much interesting information and realistic psychological personality into your characters. Maz and Buddha are a wonderful diametrically opposed couple of people which really fed my my interest as I was reading. Friendship and caring can grow in unexpected places I guess. It was warm and exciting too how the relationship grew within the hearts of these two people. This was a very cool experience as it seemed I was reading a true story. I wish you a continuing constructive and satisfying life as a writer. You are gifted. Blessings Kathy

[KWP]

Oh thanks so much for reading this Kathy, I feel my later pieces here are better because I have learn new tools and techniques. I am loving this process of learning as I go ... I was listening to a story today about a guy who 'tapped in' to the big consciousness when he was doing economics at university. His tapping in meant all the answers were waiting for him and he never had to research or study again. I am hoping to do this with my writing - wouldn't that be nice X

[KWP]

Thank you again X

[Einstein Noodle]

i read this yesterday and had my comments almost done ..then was called away from the computer for a tiny emergency and came back to find i was too long gone :(( i like the plot and development of characters ..i want to know more about how things evolve with Buddha M and Maz .. your challenge hooked me as at first i thought it might be Maz and being too caught up in physical looks ..then i thought OK ..its the Buddha ...but no ..its all of Maz's friends who suffer from judging attitudes ... your story might be read more if you post one copy ;) ... i already have my own positive love ending for your two characters ... wonder what twists and turns may be in store? :))
E.

[KWP]

Hey E... thank you so much for taking the time to read ... I have has some feedback from a friend who said pretty similar about not knowing who the central character is ... I guess I am trying to portray too much in too short of time ...

my main aim was to portary Buddha M as a mute and homeless and how he coped in life ... he also had to attend an event which I found everything else spiralled out from ... ahh

it's all learning, so it's all good :)

take care you XXX

[Einstein Noodle]

short stories and books are a whole other genre ..i have much admiration for those who give it a go .. i think you developed his character very well ...he (as i read it) much deeper than mute and homeless .. do you think you will be bringing another chapter to the Cafe? ;)

[KWP]

NO this one is done and dusted ... moving on Xx

[Davidgeo]

The first three paragraphs have a lot of word for word redundancy, I imagine you made some kind of editing mistake. It's a very glaring one as they are word for word copies of each other.

I see this was reviewed without that being mentioned.

That blows my mind.

Those "people" put zero effort into reading you but still reviewed you anyway.... That's sad.

[KWP]

oh s**t ... yup ... how did that happen ... must be the drugs!

Cheers X

[KWP]

in any case ... if I get even the tiniest bit of feedback that ruffles my thoughts ... then it's a good day :)

[Davidgeo]

Your standard for feedback is horse s**t KWP. No offense intended of course.

[KWP]

it is what it is ... some of us can see the spectrum, others can only ever envisage GOD as a MAN :)

[Davidgeo]

I will never excuse a completely disingenuous attempt to review someone's artistic endeavors. It's the sign of a vain and selfish person. They are leaving vapid statements to be noticed. They are frauds and there is no excuse. God is a dog in my neighbors backyard that won't stop barking at nothing.

[KWP]

:) thanks for the video on LSD :) it's so true ...

these things frustrate me too, but I am trying to move away from kneejerk emotional reactions because it keeps me attached immaterial material :)

[Davidgeo]

Kneejerk reactions can be unfortunate... but also extraordinarily honest. The more you think, sometimes, the more you skew things to put yourself in a better light. Emotionally anyway, objective stuff takes months.... sometimes years. Writing is very far from objective though.

[wordman]

not bad for a bush woman,lol you are a great book writer

[KWP]

thanks you .... says me lighting the billy on the campfire ... you want some bush tea?

[wordman]

i would love some ! or as they say in wales, cup o tae ate some bbq billy goat when i was a kid
read morei would love some ! or as they say in wales, cup o tae ate some bbq billy goat when i was a kid
uncle went hunting for a deer,he didn`t find one so he bought a goat..

[Valentine]

Parts are slow and some tenses did not read right to me. The part about hearing his father in the warehouse I liked the most. I do not grasp the idea for this type of a write from your introduction. Valentine

[KWP]

Thanks so much for reading - even more so for your honest feedback!