Like so many things in life, we know how we got to be in the position we are in, but don't want to admit it. Me, I was walking quite merrily down a road that I thought was well travelled. It seemed everyone was going the way I was going. Sure, I saw the forks and turn offs, the other paths, but I kept going the way I thought I was to go. For myself - yes, for others - yes, out of habit - probably, out of some sense of (misguided or not) duty - yes. And now, here I am. Stuck in a swamp, up to my waist in muck and stagnation. The smells around me are putrid, decaying life. And yes, swamps look wonderfully cool and beautiful from a boat, canoe, airplane, or some other means to keep you out of the mud. But once you are stuck, that is a different story...
I had bought this watch on a whim. The man on the TV said it would last forever and it would, in the words of a competitor, "take a lickin." I should have known that any off brand, particularly one named "Promise, " would break as soon as I hit the swamp. I looked in vain at the watch. 3:16. Same thing it said two hours ago; same thing it said this morning at dawn and last night at dusk. 3:16. I guess I am lucky even to have a broken watch. It takes my mind off of my real problems, even for just a second (I guess it is a second, the second hand no longer moves with "a determined sweep around the brushed metal face" of my watch).
I have been wandering aimlessly around this primordial paradise of mosquitoes, gators, rats, snakes, maggots, flies, leeches and various and sundry other pests for weeks now. I find what little food I can, but I am starving. My legs are weak, but probably no weaker than my determination. It has gotten increasingly hard to pull one foot up from the water and mud and put it down in front of me. I never know what I am going to step on or in. I never know if I will loose mu footing or my foot. The suspense is maddening. Stepping blindly here is like, if I can be so trite, playing twister with Death, and Death cheats. (My apologies to Twister, its manufacturer, Twister fans and anyone else offended by the analogy.) I have been standing in this spot now for quite awhile, contemplating my next move. Wondering if I should just lay down in the water and let nature take its course. Wondering if I deserve to go on, if anyone really notices me out here, or misses me out there. That was when I saw the flashing and decided to investigate.
A piece of metal - maybe from a cola can or something. I couldn't tell by the small bit I held or the washed out colors. In fact, the only thing I could read were some code numbers - you know, the ones some computer prints on the side of a can for reasons unknown to the average drinker. The code is faded and tough to read, but not impossible. 139-17-18. I have no idea what the makers of this bit of metal meant by the number. Curious. I walked over to this spot without much trouble and my hunger pains have been displaced for a time by my curiosity. But the reality of being lost in a swamp is still there, and I quickly return to my morbid ruminations.
And another distraction. I am not sure how I spotted it, but it seems as plain as day to me now. A tired old saying, really - plain as day, but I have no others. This distraction looks like a bit of cardboard. It too has only numbers upon it. Again the coding of some unknown manufacturer has provided me with some brief respite and goal. This code is just as mysterious to me as the last. 31-24. Why are these numbers put on things, and what can they be used for. I haven't a clue. This time the morbid thought don't return as quickly, as i look about for my next mystery, my next treasure.
43.5. Found on a piece of Styrofoam floating in a nameless swamp. 12/12. Found on a bit of glass. The glass rounded and dull, safe to the touch. Looking back at the day, I have come further than I would have ever dreamed. I have travelled through this swamp without getting eaten, falling, or losing my way. These numbers are providing a path, a way through the swamp. They are giving me a distraction from the dangers and the hunger. They are hopefully leading me out of the swamp. Magic thinking, maybe, but so far they are the only things giving any sort of results. I guess I will know in time...
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Why are good days so full of crap? She didn't understand why that always seemed to happen. Today was here first day of classes and everything seemed to go wrong. The Registrar was painfully ignorant of the basics of common decency, and it went down hill from there. But she'd made it through her first day and felt she was on her way to something so much better than what she'd ever had. She was not kidding herself, it would be difficult, he'd told her as much. But she was ready for difficult, difficult didn't bother her. It was success that she was worried about. She'd never done success well and it terrified her. But he said she could do it, and she believed him.
The rocks were worn smooth by the water. The sound irritated her. Everything irritated her. The birds, the kids and their harpy mothers, the bright blue sky and the crystal clear water. It had been three days now and she was hurting. Physically and spiritually. She didn't even believe she had a spirit, but it hurt like hell. She couldn't stop thinking about the guy at the store. He just stood there, looking at her...why? She couldn't shake the feeling that she was at a crossroad. She could chose to do what her body and mind screamed for her to do and find a fix or she could stop. For good. She was beginning to regret the decision she'd made. She had to find some help.
Soon the classes and school work seemed to melt into one. The gauntlet of the first day had given way to an easy monotony of classes, smiles, stale jokes and homework. She had never met people like these before. Sure, some were like her, trying to rebuild themselves, but others were fresh and unspoiled. In someways she envied them, but was old enough to know that it was useless to want to be them. She was who she was, through experience and choice. And for the first time in a long time she was beginning to enjoy herself, to enjoy who she was. The class work was hard, but not insurmountable. She was glad she could begin using words that were more than four letters long, words with rich almost forgotten histories. In fact, she found a thirst for words she had never known before and was drinking in new ones daily. In an odd way, words were her new fix. She had to learn a new one daily and felt cheated if she didn't. Some words were beautiful, some just felt good to say, some conjured mystery and others felt ordinary but strong. Much like the people in her life.
Rehab is a joke, full of losers and half-wits! At least that was what she'd thought when she'd started. Until it hit her that she was in rehab too. Then she started working for her sobriety. She'd graduated the 28 day program with high hopes and was lucky enough to find some housing that continued her treatment. They had made her get a job, but she was no longer picky abut what she did. After all, nothing could be as bad as what she had done in the past. Nothing. Bagging and delivering groceries wasn't half bad though. She got out, met people and enjoyed her country surroundings. Always the city girl, she had despised country people, but found that they had a wisdom missing from the city. They approached life honestly and with a realism that only seemed naive.
Graduation brought change. Graduation focused the mind on change. But change is not always bad. She had changed and that was a good thing. But more change was coming. The offer of a job, making good money, in a smaller city close to the coast was her dream come true. The offer had come out of nowhere and shocked her. She had been putting out resumes in the big cities, but never got anything back. Then the call had come to work in an established art house with the work requirements fitting her strengths almost perfectly. She wondered briefly if he had had a hand in the offer, but dismissed it as superstition. It had been a long time since she'd thought of him and the Incident.
She stood on the dock, about to make what she thought was a routine delivery. It was eerie though, standing here is in the dusk. The air was cool and whispered of winter to come. The woods looked like they were brooding and she she shivered from the looks of them as much as from the air. She had missed the early signs that might have alerted her to the coming events and so she went in ignorance to the woods.
Remembering now, it seemed strange how much her life has changed.
The woods quickly turned dusk into night. Her thoughts darkened almost as quickly. Why come here, why do this? Why continue the charade of sobriety? The beasts hidden in the woods, she imagined she could see their gleaming red eyes, howled back her thoughts. Their cries of anguish complimented her growing melancholy. And she almost turned back.
It was pointless to wonder what would've become of her if she had turned back, because she already knew. She would've been dead by now.
The woods gave way to what seemed to her a dismal clearing cluttered by a dilapidated shack. Weeds, unpainted shutters, and dim windows didn't help her impression. She'd always hated coming here, the place gave her the creeps. Being here at night didn't help. She'd never met the people who lived here - they were usually out on the lake or something, she wasn't sure. That they trusted her to come in their home and leave the groceries while they were not home creeped her out too. Surely they had to have something wrong with them if they trusted so much, right?
The memories came flooding back...
The house itself was dark, felt empty. Something was missing, but she couldn't put her finger on what. Whatever it was, she didn't want to get blamed. She rushed over to put the groceries down and that was when she saw it. An envelope addressed to her. She opened it without thinking...
The "Incident"
Dear -,
I daresay you will not remember me, but I want to thank you. You gave me hope the day we first met, and saved my life the last time we met. You may think these are the mad musings of a mad man, but they are not. I owe you a debt that I am afraid I can never repay, and I thought you should know. I have come to think of you as an Angel, one of God's divine creatures, sent to me in times of doubt and self destruction;sent to wake me from the stupor of my life.
The first time we met, I was walking without purpose through my life. I was in a dead marriage and a dead end job. I put on a good show though, and I don't think any but the most observant knew what I was hiding. Then you came flying into my life and stirred me from my slumber. It was your first attempt at getting me to see the important things of my life, though you did not know it. I have called you an Angel, but you were a dirty one. You did not know of your own divine nature. You were trapped in the filth of the world, but I could see you ached to be free of it. I could tell you wanted better. And somehow, I knew you deserved better. Then you left me, running into the night. I am sad to say I quickly returned to sleep and went about my life as if you'd never been.
So God sent you again. This time you made sure I would listen. I can vividly recall staring into your eyes as your gun was pressed to my forehead. I could not believe what I saw. They looked dead at first glance, consumed by desire for death. But underneath, where you were barely aware, was beauty. My God! You had the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen! I am not talking of an earthly beauty to be lusted after, I am talking a beauty of divine origin. A bountiful spirit and drive, a capacity to do great things. Yes, your outward appearance was that of a junkie, but inside you were a Godsend. I realized then I had to wake up.
And you let me live. You saved me physically and spiritually. A double gift! It was the next day that I was diagnosed with cancer. You see Ihad not been feeling well and had gotten rather depressed over my condition. I was quite prepared to kill myself that night, until you put the gun to my head and showed me my own cowardice. Such was the power of that encounter, and the beauty of your eyes, that I was able to hear my diagnosis without sinking into despair again. I then set out to free the people around me. As I said, my marriage was bad, so I let my wife out - to pursue her own happiness, a happiness she so richly deserves. I removed my self from the world to die on my own terms, in the place I loved best. Not as an act of despair, but as one of acceptance. I also set about learning about you. I know that sounds very "creepy," but I had to know who my Angel was. And learn I did.
Thank you, Angel. I can never repay my debt to you, but that does not mean I cannot try. I know that you have thrown off the yolk of addiction - but be ever watchful for its call - and that you want more for your life. I have arranged for you to be enrolled in school, if you so choose. I have made arrangements for your tuition, so you need not worry about cost. I know you can succeed, I know you are worth the effort and time. I know because I have seen it, in your eyes. My only hope is that you can now see it as well.
Please, accept my meager efforts and leave this place. Do not look around or pry. Leave and call the authorities, for if you are reading this, I have gone. I have loved you from afar for the gifts that you unknowingly gave. Please, accept that love, and learn to make it your own.
The rocks were worn smooth by the water. The sound irritated her. Everything irritated her. The birds, the kids and their harpy mothers, the bright blue sky and the crystal clear water. It had been three days now and she was hurting. Physically and spiritually. She didn't even believe she had a spirit, but it hurt like hell. She couldn't stop thinking about the guy at the store. He just stood there, looking at her...why? She couldn't shake the feeling that she was at a crossroad. She could chose to do what her body and mind screamed for her to do and find a fix or she could stop. For good. She was beginning to regret the decision she'd made. She had to find some help.
Soon the classes and school work seemed to melt into one. The gauntlet of the first day had given way to an easy monotony of classes, smiles, stale jokes and homework. She had never met people like these before. Sure, some were like her, trying to rebuild themselves, but others were fresh and unspoiled. In someways she envied them, but was old enough to know that it was useless to want to be them. She was who she was, through experience and choice. And for the first time in a long time she was beginning to enjoy herself, to enjoy who she was. The class work was hard, but not insurmountable. She was glad she could begin using words that were more than four letters long, words with rich almost forgotten histories. In fact, she found a thirst for words she had never known before and was drinking in new ones daily. In an odd way, words were her new fix. She had to learn a new one daily and felt cheated if she didn't. Some words were beautiful, some just felt good to say, some conjured mystery and others felt ordinary but strong. Much like the people in her life.
Rehab is a joke, full of losers and half-wits! At least that was what she'd thought when she'd started. Until it hit her that she was in rehab too. Then she started working for her sobriety. She'd graduated the 28 day program with high hopes and was lucky enough to find some housing that continued her treatment. They had made her get a job, but she was no longer picky abut what she did. After all, nothing could be as bad as what she had done in the past. Nothing. Bagging and delivering groceries wasn't half bad though. She got out, met people and enjoyed her country surroundings. Always the city girl, she had despised country people, but found that they had a wisdom missing from the city. They approached life honestly and with a realism that only seemed naive.
Graduation brought change. Graduation focused the mind on change. But change is not always bad. She had changed and that was a good thing. But more change was coming. The offer of a job, making good money, in a smaller city close to the coast was her dream come true. The offer had come out of nowhere and shocked her. She had been putting out resumes in the big cities, but never got anything back. Then the call had come to work in an established art house with the work requirements fitting her strengths almost perfectly. She wondered briefly if he had had a hand in the offer, but dismissed it as superstition. It had been a long time since she'd thought of him and the Incident.
She stood on the dock, about to make what she thought was a routine delivery. It was eerie though, standing here is in the dusk. The air was cool and whispered of winter to come. The woods looked like they were brooding and she she shivered from the looks of them as much as from the air. She had missed the early signs that might have alerted her to the coming events and so she went in ignorance to the woods.
Remembering now, it seemed strange how much her life has changed.
The woods quickly turned dusk into night. Her thoughts darkened almost as quickly. Why come here, why do this? Why continue the charade of sobriety? The beasts hidden in the woods, she imagined she could see their gleaming red eyes, howled back her thoughts. Their cries of anguish complimented her growing melancholy. And she almost turned back.
It was pointless to wonder what would've become of her if she had turned back, because she already knew. She would've been dead by now.
The woods gave way to what seemed to her a dismal clearing cluttered by a dilapidated shack. Weeds, unpainted shutters, and dim windows didn't help her impression. She'd always hated coming here, the place gave her the creeps. Being here at night didn't help. She'd never met the people who lived here - they were usually out on the lake or something, she wasn't sure. That they trusted her to come in their home and leave the groceries while they were not home creeped her out too. Surely they had to have something wrong with them if they trusted so much, right?
The memories came flooding back...
The house itself was dark, felt empty. Something was missing, but she couldn't put her finger on what. Whatever it was, she didn't want to get blamed. She rushed over to put the groceries down and that was when she saw it. An envelope addressed to her. She opened it without thinking...
The "Incident"
Dear -,
I daresay you will not remember me, but I want to thank you. You gave me hope the day we first met, and saved my life the last time we met. You may think these are the mad musings of a mad man, but they are not. I owe you a debt that I am afraid I can never repay, and I thought you should know. I have come to think of you as an Angel, one of God's divine creatures, sent to me in times of doubt and self destruction;sent to wake me from the stupor of my life.
The first time we met, I was walking without purpose through my life. I was in a dead marriage and a dead end job. I put on a good show though, and I don't think any but the most observant knew what I was hiding. Then you came flying into my life and stirred me from my slumber. It was your first attempt at getting me to see the important things of my life, though you did not know it. I have called you an Angel, but you were a dirty one. You did not know of your own divine nature. You were trapped in the filth of the world, but I could see you ached to be free of it. I could tell you wanted better. And somehow, I knew you deserved better. Then you left me, running into the night. I am sad to say I quickly returned to sleep and went about my life as if you'd never been.
So God sent you again. This time you made sure I would listen. I can vividly recall staring into your eyes as your gun was pressed to my forehead. I could not believe what I saw. They looked dead at first glance, consumed by desire for death. But underneath, where you were barely aware, was beauty. My God! You had the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen! I am not talking of an earthly beauty to be lusted after, I am talking a beauty of divine origin. A bountiful spirit and drive, a capacity to do great things. Yes, your outward appearance was that of a junkie, but inside you were a Godsend. I realized then I had to wake up.
And you let me live. You saved me physically and spiritually. A double gift! It was the next day that I was diagnosed with cancer. You see Ihad not been feeling well and had gotten rather depressed over my condition. I was quite prepared to kill myself that night, until you put the gun to my head and showed me my own cowardice. Such was the power of that encounter, and the beauty of your eyes, that I was able to hear my diagnosis without sinking into despair again. I then set out to free the people around me. As I said, my marriage was bad, so I let my wife out - to pursue her own happiness, a happiness she so richly deserves. I removed my self from the world to die on my own terms, in the place I loved best. Not as an act of despair, but as one of acceptance. I also set about learning about you. I know that sounds very "creepy," but I had to know who my Angel was. And learn I did.
Thank you, Angel. I can never repay my debt to you, but that does not mean I cannot try. I know that you have thrown off the yolk of addiction - but be ever watchful for its call - and that you want more for your life. I have arranged for you to be enrolled in school, if you so choose. I have made arrangements for your tuition, so you need not worry about cost. I know you can succeed, I know you are worth the effort and time. I know because I have seen it, in your eyes. My only hope is that you can now see it as well.
Please, accept my meager efforts and leave this place. Do not look around or pry. Leave and call the authorities, for if you are reading this, I have gone. I have loved you from afar for the gifts that you unknowingly gave. Please, accept that love, and learn to make it your own.
Monday, October 22, 2007
It was a little over two years ago that she'd first decided that her decent into Hell had gone far enough. The memories crashed in on her tonight; she was not sure why. Maybe it was the sound of the man's voice in alley, maybe it was the weather, maybe it was just fate or fate's cruel cousin, spite.
Barely able to stay awake, it had been a day or two since she lasted used. Who could tell how long it had been? Going from one cesspool to another, giving everything she had, including herself, to some sleaze for a few moments of peace. She stumbled along the alley and heard bits and pieces of an approaching argument.
"Forgiveness is the main theme, at least the way I look at it, but I see your point about redemption," said Voice One.
"Redemption is vital, without it we cannot approach the throne!" was Voice Two's response.
"But we can't afford redemption. We've tried and failed. That's why redemption had to bought for us. It was a gift in the form of forgiveness and sacrifice..."
And she was upon them. Middle aged suburban scum who should've stayed home tonight. She needed whatever they had - money, watched, cards - so she could get what she really needed. She jumped the second voice and he immediately fell. The first grabbed he and pried her off. Surprisingly strong for his looks. He looked at her and it was his eyes that stopped her.
She didn't remember if it was the drug, if it was withdrawal or just his eyes, but she stopped cold. There was something different about those eyes, but indescribable. She wanted to stare at them all night and at the same time rip them from their sockets. She hated what they represented - family, peace, love, self worth and joy. All the things that she needed.
Home, she loved thinking about that word, was a one bedroom sublet. The money she made as a delivery "boy" was just enough to pay the bills. For now. The "Incident" (It had now become capitalized in her mind, perhaps to emphasize the change it had brought) was changing that. She would be starting school next week, something she thought she would never do, much less look forward to doing. Graphic Arts. It had been her dream as a kid and had been destroyed by the choices she'd made. She could hardly believe that she was enrolled and her tuition paid in full. But it came at a price, like all things of value.
She saw those eyes one last time before going clean. They were alone at Mom & Pop store she was about to clean out. The gun made her feel in control, at least when she wasn't shaking form withdrawal and fear. He just stood there, by the chips and looked at her. Even when she pressed the gun to his forehead, he didn't say a word and just looked. It wasn't a stare, really, but a look. And all those things were still there, leaping out at her, begging her to go after her real dreams and hopes. Commanding her to give up the chemical chase and instead accept hope. A thousand things flew out from those eyes that she could barley comprehend, but she was secretly thankful for each and every one. She left without taking a thing and within a week was struggling with her new sobriety.
The price was only as high as she allowed it to be, though. No one was around to ensure its payment, except her. But she knew she was more than capable of paying this debt. The only price she had to pay was to be successful, to work hard, and to become the artist she knew she could be. The artist he knew she could be.
Barely able to stay awake, it had been a day or two since she lasted used. Who could tell how long it had been? Going from one cesspool to another, giving everything she had, including herself, to some sleaze for a few moments of peace. She stumbled along the alley and heard bits and pieces of an approaching argument.
"Forgiveness is the main theme, at least the way I look at it, but I see your point about redemption," said Voice One.
"Redemption is vital, without it we cannot approach the throne!" was Voice Two's response.
"But we can't afford redemption. We've tried and failed. That's why redemption had to bought for us. It was a gift in the form of forgiveness and sacrifice..."
And she was upon them. Middle aged suburban scum who should've stayed home tonight. She needed whatever they had - money, watched, cards - so she could get what she really needed. She jumped the second voice and he immediately fell. The first grabbed he and pried her off. Surprisingly strong for his looks. He looked at her and it was his eyes that stopped her.
She didn't remember if it was the drug, if it was withdrawal or just his eyes, but she stopped cold. There was something different about those eyes, but indescribable. She wanted to stare at them all night and at the same time rip them from their sockets. She hated what they represented - family, peace, love, self worth and joy. All the things that she needed.
Home, she loved thinking about that word, was a one bedroom sublet. The money she made as a delivery "boy" was just enough to pay the bills. For now. The "Incident" (It had now become capitalized in her mind, perhaps to emphasize the change it had brought) was changing that. She would be starting school next week, something she thought she would never do, much less look forward to doing. Graphic Arts. It had been her dream as a kid and had been destroyed by the choices she'd made. She could hardly believe that she was enrolled and her tuition paid in full. But it came at a price, like all things of value.
She saw those eyes one last time before going clean. They were alone at Mom & Pop store she was about to clean out. The gun made her feel in control, at least when she wasn't shaking form withdrawal and fear. He just stood there, by the chips and looked at her. Even when she pressed the gun to his forehead, he didn't say a word and just looked. It wasn't a stare, really, but a look. And all those things were still there, leaping out at her, begging her to go after her real dreams and hopes. Commanding her to give up the chemical chase and instead accept hope. A thousand things flew out from those eyes that she could barley comprehend, but she was secretly thankful for each and every one. She left without taking a thing and within a week was struggling with her new sobriety.
The price was only as high as she allowed it to be, though. No one was around to ensure its payment, except her. But she knew she was more than capable of paying this debt. The only price she had to pay was to be successful, to work hard, and to become the artist she knew she could be. The artist he knew she could be.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
The incident almost certainly changed her life. If you could call it that. Incident, it sounded so clinical and not at all like what it had actually been. But she couldn't think of a better word; words were not her thing anymore. She was an ex junkie making a real run at recovery. It had been two years since she'd last used and she was thankful for every one of those days, she'd earned them.
Come on, try it. She knew it was the stupidest line she'd ever heard and yet it made, in this briefest of seconds, an irrefutable argument.
If only she'd been able to come up with a suitable argument, she'd never have had to go to rehab, she'd never have had to live at the halfway house and she would never have gotten the delivery job. Maybe there really was a reason for everything. If she'd never gone along with the argument to just try it, she would have never experienced the "incident" in all its horror and glory. (She'd begun to think of the "incident" with quotes, since it seemed to better describe some essence of it without having to go to the trouble of actually using the best word, which she wouldn't have known anyway.)
Come on, try it. She knew it was the stupidest line she'd ever heard and yet it made, in this briefest of seconds, an irrefutable argument.
If only she'd been able to come up with a suitable argument, she'd never have had to go to rehab, she'd never have had to live at the halfway house and she would never have gotten the delivery job. Maybe there really was a reason for everything. If she'd never gone along with the argument to just try it, she would have never experienced the "incident" in all its horror and glory. (She'd begun to think of the "incident" with quotes, since it seemed to better describe some essence of it without having to go to the trouble of actually using the best word, which she wouldn't have known anyway.)
Monday, October 08, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
You know the old story about the frog and the boiling water? You know, if you drop the frog in boiling water, it will jump out; if you drop the frog in water and slowly heat the water to boiling it will sit there and get boiled to death. That is how life is, for the most part. I have made step by step decisions that have left me in a situation that is untenable. It is only through looking back can I see how the water got so hot. Trouble is, I don't know if I should jump, or do I wait, like the frog, hoping that someone will turn down the water. And what would that look like? Will I sense the change in water temp and complain, not realizing that the change is for my own survival? Only time will tell.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
The morning mist was delicious. Standing on the dock, he felt a sense of renewal and hope. He knew they wouldn't last long, but savored the feeling while he could. He watched the boat drift away with the current. His aching fingers had fumbled over the knots, but he'd been successful in releasing the boat, his only contact with the mainland. He knew he'd never be able to swim the distance to the mainland, but he didn't care. He'd made his choice and felt the cliched peace of acting on a long debated decision. He stood, smiling, breathing in the mist. It was a perfect scene, one he'd spent hours imagining and orchestrating. But the mist, that had been nature's coup de gras, letting him know she was still in charge and knew how to really set the scene.
"It's terminal, I'm afraid." The doctor's tone brooked no argument. His word on this, like God's, was final. He had been told he might have cancer, but wasn't expecting the biopsies and tests to be so finale. He really wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but in an oddly placed moment of clarity, he understood. He understood what was happening, what all this meant for him, and he began to think. He began to plan. Even while the doctor showed him the scans, reviewed the cytology, listed this or that factor, he was beginning to plan. Agreed, it was only in the farthest reaches of his mind, but the ideas were beginning to bubble. The doctor thought, with the wisdom of experience, that his glazed look was from the diagnosis; a reaction to being told that life, though always known to be terminal, was ending. The doctor was wrong. He knew what the doctor was trying to say and he understood everything. His cancer was terminal. His life was going to end a bit earlier than he'd anticipated. And he was OK.
The island itself was remote and had only the most primitive of developments. A minor path led from the dock into the woods. The dock looked like something lashed together in haste by inexperienced teen boys on a summer lark. But it had done its job with grace, if not style. The woods covered the small island like the frosting on a cake, decadent and luxurious. The leaves were just beginning to turn and within a couple of weeks would set the island afire in brilliant color. He had hoped he would see it one more time.
The divorce had been easier for him than he'd imagined. She'd protested at first, but not as much as she should have. He'd been right when he'd guessed that her love had died long before her kindness. She'd never said anything to him, and had continued on without complaint. But he'd noticed the sparkle missing from her eye. He had mourned the loss, had even felt guilty that he let her continue the charade of loving him. But in the end she had absolved him. He had only wanted on thing, their cabin. She had acquiesced, shed not a few tears and said her good-byes. He knew he would miss her, and she him. He had not told her the truth; he had not told her he was terminal.
The path lazily flowed through the woods. Like a ruddy stream, taking the easiest way to its destination. He had in the past complained about the circuitous nature of the path, particularly while carrying coolers and linens. Now he understood why the path was the way it was. Not to anger or hinder, but to relax and soothe. From the path you could drink in the woods at a leisurely pace. Like a fine seven course meal, the path offered its delights slowly and with purpose. Each moment to be enjoyed wholly before moving to the next. The path was smooth with age and made the walking easy. The mist added an other worldly quality to the woods. It softened and blurred the harsh edges of reality; it quieted the timbre of the woods. The trees stood in silent witness to his passing. The could not acknowledge someone so briefly in their presence. Trees, he often imagined, thought in years and not moments. The path soon gave way to a small clearing, in which stood the cabin.
He had told his work nothing. He had quietly submitted his resignation and went dreamily through his remaining days. Many had asked why he was leaving, where was he going, what were his plans; but he'd denied them all. He remained silent on the future and they finally gave up. He supposed he could have filled them in, but he had not wanted their sentimentality, their parties, or their hopes. It was cruel, he knew, but he allowed himself to believe there was no other way. He didn't resent the parties or the well wishes, they just did not seem important to him any longer. The office had always been a place of conflict. Not among his coworkers, but among his emotions. He had liked what he'd done, but had often wished to do something else. He had never pushed for a promotion, but had always done an excellent job. To his surprise, people resented him for that. He enjoyed the companionship and friendliness of the workplace, and he enjoyed the people he had served. All in all, he was satisfied with the job he'd done, if not always the job. Thinking himself a small cog, he knew his absence would soon be forgotten and his contributions folded into the company - no longer his. He didn't mind, in fact he preferred to be forgotten. He had always felt transparent and this was the perfect way to end his career. He packed all his belongings, all his workplace treasures and left without a final good-bye.
The cabin was small. He liked it though. At two bedrooms, it had been perfect as a getaway. It was well constructed and as far as he knew, had no major flaws. It was rustic, but with a distinct feminine touch. His wife had made her mark, but had been wise enough to leave the inherent masculinity of the building alone. He loved her all the more for that unspoken decision. The firewood was still stacked neatly along the front wall. He could just make out the garden, or what remained of the garden, along the north side of the cabin. The garden had been a singular joy for him and his wife. Carefully tending the garden on vacations, driving up on weekends throughout the summer, picking and harvesting in the fall and turning the soil. It was not very modern, and many of his friends thought them foolish, but it felt good. And the memory warmed him. The mist was beginning to burn off as the sun rose higher. Soon the sun would be spying directly down on the cabin, bringing with it it's own delicate warmth. His friends, they had taken a great deal of pleasure laughing at this place, his cabin. That too made him smile. Though at his expense, their laughter and the memory of it was joy. He had never cared when he was the butt of a joke, in fact preferred it. He just loved to hear people laugh. Remembering, he opened the door.
They were all there. All his friends and some of his enemies. All there for one last bash, though they didn't know it. He sat smiling in the corner, at his usual booth. His best friends around him. The whole pub was his tonight. The laughter, an opiate to an addict in need of a fix, was everywhere. Jokes, boasts, tall tales, and not so subtle jabs flew around him. This was, for him heaven. He was paying the tab of course, but that didn't matter either. What use did he have for money now. It was the gold that his friends unknowingly provided him that was his real treasure. He wanted this night to be one to remember, and he was taking care that he didn't enjoy too much of the local ale. He slowly looked around the room one last time. His heart filled with the purest of joy at the happiness he saw around him. No one was getting drunk, or fighting; they were all just good men and women smiling and laughing. He said one soft good-bye to his closest and snuck out. He didn't want any melodrama and was afraid he would descend that road, as he often did when he was overflowing with emotion. He did pay the tab, and a little extra to cover the night. And for his best friends, paid ahead, enough for a few years of moderate drinking.
The cabin was as he'd left it this morning. Not that he expected it to be different. The embers in the fireplace still gave off comforting warmth. The morning sun came gliding through the windows and gave the room a preternatural air. This morning he had risen, showered and even shaved. His only task had been to let loose the boat, ensuring his isolation and privacy. The task had taken exactly the right amount of time. Of course any amount of time would have been the right amount. The rest of the day would be spent in letter writing. His vanity forcing him to explain his behavior over the last few weeks. He didn't expect anyone to find him or the letters anytime soon, but they would be left waiting for whoever showed up to find him. Now that was the first unpleasant thought he'd had all morning. He knew he was going to die, maybe even today. Nothing he could do about that, as the doctor had quite clearly and clinically explained. But he didn't want some kind soul, who was merely looking in on him, to be startled or sickened by finding his corpse. He admitted to himself that this was the one flaw he had in his plan. If he had gone to hospice, everything would have been taken care of. But he wanted death, if it had to come, to find him on his own terms.
The day past easily and a bit too quickly. by nightfall the letters were written and properly addressed. His evening meal was an indulgence. Steak, baked potato, all the things the good doctor had denied him for years. By bedtime, he was exhausted. Looking back, he had not done much, but he was satisfied with his day. His overriding emotion was one of joy and peace. He was content. There was a stillness in his soul that he had forgotten was possible. He lay down on the mattress, one that had seemed hard for years, but now was the most comfortable thing he could have imagined. He reached up, happiness and joy flowing up and out of his heart and warming his entire being, and turned off the light for the last time.
"It's terminal, I'm afraid." The doctor's tone brooked no argument. His word on this, like God's, was final. He had been told he might have cancer, but wasn't expecting the biopsies and tests to be so finale. He really wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but in an oddly placed moment of clarity, he understood. He understood what was happening, what all this meant for him, and he began to think. He began to plan. Even while the doctor showed him the scans, reviewed the cytology, listed this or that factor, he was beginning to plan. Agreed, it was only in the farthest reaches of his mind, but the ideas were beginning to bubble. The doctor thought, with the wisdom of experience, that his glazed look was from the diagnosis; a reaction to being told that life, though always known to be terminal, was ending. The doctor was wrong. He knew what the doctor was trying to say and he understood everything. His cancer was terminal. His life was going to end a bit earlier than he'd anticipated. And he was OK.
The island itself was remote and had only the most primitive of developments. A minor path led from the dock into the woods. The dock looked like something lashed together in haste by inexperienced teen boys on a summer lark. But it had done its job with grace, if not style. The woods covered the small island like the frosting on a cake, decadent and luxurious. The leaves were just beginning to turn and within a couple of weeks would set the island afire in brilliant color. He had hoped he would see it one more time.
The divorce had been easier for him than he'd imagined. She'd protested at first, but not as much as she should have. He'd been right when he'd guessed that her love had died long before her kindness. She'd never said anything to him, and had continued on without complaint. But he'd noticed the sparkle missing from her eye. He had mourned the loss, had even felt guilty that he let her continue the charade of loving him. But in the end she had absolved him. He had only wanted on thing, their cabin. She had acquiesced, shed not a few tears and said her good-byes. He knew he would miss her, and she him. He had not told her the truth; he had not told her he was terminal.
The path lazily flowed through the woods. Like a ruddy stream, taking the easiest way to its destination. He had in the past complained about the circuitous nature of the path, particularly while carrying coolers and linens. Now he understood why the path was the way it was. Not to anger or hinder, but to relax and soothe. From the path you could drink in the woods at a leisurely pace. Like a fine seven course meal, the path offered its delights slowly and with purpose. Each moment to be enjoyed wholly before moving to the next. The path was smooth with age and made the walking easy. The mist added an other worldly quality to the woods. It softened and blurred the harsh edges of reality; it quieted the timbre of the woods. The trees stood in silent witness to his passing. The could not acknowledge someone so briefly in their presence. Trees, he often imagined, thought in years and not moments. The path soon gave way to a small clearing, in which stood the cabin.
He had told his work nothing. He had quietly submitted his resignation and went dreamily through his remaining days. Many had asked why he was leaving, where was he going, what were his plans; but he'd denied them all. He remained silent on the future and they finally gave up. He supposed he could have filled them in, but he had not wanted their sentimentality, their parties, or their hopes. It was cruel, he knew, but he allowed himself to believe there was no other way. He didn't resent the parties or the well wishes, they just did not seem important to him any longer. The office had always been a place of conflict. Not among his coworkers, but among his emotions. He had liked what he'd done, but had often wished to do something else. He had never pushed for a promotion, but had always done an excellent job. To his surprise, people resented him for that. He enjoyed the companionship and friendliness of the workplace, and he enjoyed the people he had served. All in all, he was satisfied with the job he'd done, if not always the job. Thinking himself a small cog, he knew his absence would soon be forgotten and his contributions folded into the company - no longer his. He didn't mind, in fact he preferred to be forgotten. He had always felt transparent and this was the perfect way to end his career. He packed all his belongings, all his workplace treasures and left without a final good-bye.
The cabin was small. He liked it though. At two bedrooms, it had been perfect as a getaway. It was well constructed and as far as he knew, had no major flaws. It was rustic, but with a distinct feminine touch. His wife had made her mark, but had been wise enough to leave the inherent masculinity of the building alone. He loved her all the more for that unspoken decision. The firewood was still stacked neatly along the front wall. He could just make out the garden, or what remained of the garden, along the north side of the cabin. The garden had been a singular joy for him and his wife. Carefully tending the garden on vacations, driving up on weekends throughout the summer, picking and harvesting in the fall and turning the soil. It was not very modern, and many of his friends thought them foolish, but it felt good. And the memory warmed him. The mist was beginning to burn off as the sun rose higher. Soon the sun would be spying directly down on the cabin, bringing with it it's own delicate warmth. His friends, they had taken a great deal of pleasure laughing at this place, his cabin. That too made him smile. Though at his expense, their laughter and the memory of it was joy. He had never cared when he was the butt of a joke, in fact preferred it. He just loved to hear people laugh. Remembering, he opened the door.
They were all there. All his friends and some of his enemies. All there for one last bash, though they didn't know it. He sat smiling in the corner, at his usual booth. His best friends around him. The whole pub was his tonight. The laughter, an opiate to an addict in need of a fix, was everywhere. Jokes, boasts, tall tales, and not so subtle jabs flew around him. This was, for him heaven. He was paying the tab of course, but that didn't matter either. What use did he have for money now. It was the gold that his friends unknowingly provided him that was his real treasure. He wanted this night to be one to remember, and he was taking care that he didn't enjoy too much of the local ale. He slowly looked around the room one last time. His heart filled with the purest of joy at the happiness he saw around him. No one was getting drunk, or fighting; they were all just good men and women smiling and laughing. He said one soft good-bye to his closest and snuck out. He didn't want any melodrama and was afraid he would descend that road, as he often did when he was overflowing with emotion. He did pay the tab, and a little extra to cover the night. And for his best friends, paid ahead, enough for a few years of moderate drinking.
The cabin was as he'd left it this morning. Not that he expected it to be different. The embers in the fireplace still gave off comforting warmth. The morning sun came gliding through the windows and gave the room a preternatural air. This morning he had risen, showered and even shaved. His only task had been to let loose the boat, ensuring his isolation and privacy. The task had taken exactly the right amount of time. Of course any amount of time would have been the right amount. The rest of the day would be spent in letter writing. His vanity forcing him to explain his behavior over the last few weeks. He didn't expect anyone to find him or the letters anytime soon, but they would be left waiting for whoever showed up to find him. Now that was the first unpleasant thought he'd had all morning. He knew he was going to die, maybe even today. Nothing he could do about that, as the doctor had quite clearly and clinically explained. But he didn't want some kind soul, who was merely looking in on him, to be startled or sickened by finding his corpse. He admitted to himself that this was the one flaw he had in his plan. If he had gone to hospice, everything would have been taken care of. But he wanted death, if it had to come, to find him on his own terms.
The day past easily and a bit too quickly. by nightfall the letters were written and properly addressed. His evening meal was an indulgence. Steak, baked potato, all the things the good doctor had denied him for years. By bedtime, he was exhausted. Looking back, he had not done much, but he was satisfied with his day. His overriding emotion was one of joy and peace. He was content. There was a stillness in his soul that he had forgotten was possible. He lay down on the mattress, one that had seemed hard for years, but now was the most comfortable thing he could have imagined. He reached up, happiness and joy flowing up and out of his heart and warming his entire being, and turned off the light for the last time.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Fantasy vs Reality
Someone once said that the problem with reality is that is is so damn real. I agree completely. It is nice to be able to sit back in fantasy and dream of impossible things. I mean, if you frag your best friend in fantasy, you know he will respawn in a few seconds and come looking to kick your ass so hard the Flood will look like a walk in the park. If you frag your friend in reality, well you're just an jerk who deserves to be made Bubba's new 'wife.' But as has been suggested, life cannot be lived in fantasy, no matter how tempting.
You will have to excuse the Halo reference. Yes you will, there is no arguing this point. I spent an enjoyable evening with my 14 year old last night waiting for Halo 3. We got to Walmart at 21:30 and the game was released at midnight. We were second in line. I had forgotten to pre-order the game, so this was the only solution. I also have to say that gamers, as a group, are generally pretty nice people. Some are a little odd, some are very odd, some are the usual rowdy college age folks, but as a whole, pretty decent people to hang around with for a couple of hours.
Anyway, it was, correctly (I think) pointed out that perhaps I am holding onto the fantasy of marriage; that I was holding onto some image of my spouse that no longer exists; that perhaps she is not who I think she is anymore. Not that she is a bad person, an evil person, or anything else in the negative. Just that she is different than she was and different than the image I have in my mind of who she is and what she is about. I want to say that this is in no way judgemental or pointing fingers or a game of gotcha. We hold images and ideas in our heads of the people we know. Sometimes, maybe without our realizing it those people become different from that image we have. We mourn the loss, etc, but it doesn't change the fact that our fantasy is different from reality. I will have to mull this over and deal with it. On the surface and after some reflection, it seems correct, but I still want to think it through. Reality sucks.
By the way, I didn't get to play Halo last night. Nor will I get to play it anytime soon as my two teens will be all over it. Somehow, that's OK. I enjoy hearing about it from them and watching them play. It is amazing to see the team work and coordination that flows from the game play. It is amazing to see their hand-eye coordination improve. It shows how old I am getting that they have surpassed me in almost all games except driving and RTS. I have been playing games for a long time - from pong forward. I like to see that the kids have a decent balance - they play for awhile, the go out and play football in the yard. They switch back and forth, depending on how many friends are over and how hot it is outside. I think I may have to get the latest Metroid Prime for the Wii while they play Halo3, but there I go again with the fantasy...
You will have to excuse the Halo reference. Yes you will, there is no arguing this point. I spent an enjoyable evening with my 14 year old last night waiting for Halo 3. We got to Walmart at 21:30 and the game was released at midnight. We were second in line. I had forgotten to pre-order the game, so this was the only solution. I also have to say that gamers, as a group, are generally pretty nice people. Some are a little odd, some are very odd, some are the usual rowdy college age folks, but as a whole, pretty decent people to hang around with for a couple of hours.
Anyway, it was, correctly (I think) pointed out that perhaps I am holding onto the fantasy of marriage; that I was holding onto some image of my spouse that no longer exists; that perhaps she is not who I think she is anymore. Not that she is a bad person, an evil person, or anything else in the negative. Just that she is different than she was and different than the image I have in my mind of who she is and what she is about. I want to say that this is in no way judgemental or pointing fingers or a game of gotcha. We hold images and ideas in our heads of the people we know. Sometimes, maybe without our realizing it those people become different from that image we have. We mourn the loss, etc, but it doesn't change the fact that our fantasy is different from reality. I will have to mull this over and deal with it. On the surface and after some reflection, it seems correct, but I still want to think it through. Reality sucks.
By the way, I didn't get to play Halo last night. Nor will I get to play it anytime soon as my two teens will be all over it. Somehow, that's OK. I enjoy hearing about it from them and watching them play. It is amazing to see the team work and coordination that flows from the game play. It is amazing to see their hand-eye coordination improve. It shows how old I am getting that they have surpassed me in almost all games except driving and RTS. I have been playing games for a long time - from pong forward. I like to see that the kids have a decent balance - they play for awhile, the go out and play football in the yard. They switch back and forth, depending on how many friends are over and how hot it is outside. I think I may have to get the latest Metroid Prime for the Wii while they play Halo3, but there I go again with the fantasy...
Monday, September 24, 2007
Writing again, sooner than I thought, and in no better of a place. Oh well. I was reminded recently that it is not so important that you fail, since everyone fails, but rather how you respond to failure. Seems I can't even fail properly, because my response to failure has been a failure. Whatever test I am taking in life, I seem to be failing that too. I think the word I am looking for is abject or total. PPP
Sitting alone in the dark for so many years, I had no choice but to start to eat the darkness. I breathed it in and used it to sustain me. You don't think of the consequences when you do that sort of thing, you only think about surviving the day. If I had it to do over, I would like to think I would have allowed myself to starve to death; I would have allowed myself to suffocate rather than take in the dark. You see, when you use something to sustain you, it becomes part of you. Bit by bit, atom by atom, cell by cell, you become that which you consumed. It really is true that you are what you eat.
But what happened to the light? I used to be sitting in a well lit room. I used to know what direction I was to go in. I used to know where tthe handhold were if I should stumble. I used to know a lot of things. I can't say when it happened. I can't point to a time and say that was when my world became dark. I know when the earthquake hit. I know when the tsunami ran through my life, I know the disaster points. What I don't know is exactly when I stopped seeing the light. You see, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the light is there. I just cannot see it. I exist in the dark, and I am willing to bet that it is my fault. I know fault is something we don't like to assign, but there it is - my fault. Did I give up on the light? Perhaps. Do I believe that the light can still show me the way, warm me and destroy the dark? Yes. Why then do I sit in the dark.
Is it self pity? I don't think so. I know the subtitle of this blog references self pity, but I think I have gone beyond that. You see I earnestly believe I don't deserve pity - from me or others. I am not sure what I deserve, but it is not pity. At any rate, I found myself sitting in the dark. Or perhaps I didn't find myself, which sounds so innocent and sweet, but I rather woke up to the fact that I had gotten myself into the dark.
No matter how much of the dark I try to destroy; no matter how much of the dark that I consume in an effort to control it; no matter what I do to the dark, I cannot stop it from ultimately consuming me. I feel it crawling inside, weighing down my chest, covering my eyes and plugging my ears. I feel it plundering my soul, isolating me and rejecting me at the same time. I feel it destroying me, and I don't care. I have lived in my dark for so long that I just don't care what it does anymore.
The funny thing, in a non-humorous way, about the dark is the type of vision it gives you. You can see all about you, without seeing what is really important. You can't see the handholds or the life lines, but you can in nightmarish stark clarity what you have lost. You can also see what you are going to lose. You see hope impaled on reality, you see dreams trampled beneath the jackboots of life, you see faith burned at the stake. The dark also brings with it un-welcomed visitors. The creatures that the light would destroy, find haven in the dark. And you are becoming a creature of the dark yourself. You can feel the flaying touch of the whips of remorse, the stinging bite of the flail of guilt, the piercing and scratching claws of failure. And you see what you are becoming, because you are the one cracking the whips, swing the flail and growing out the claws.
I know what you are thinking. "How can you be so bloody selfish!" "What about the kids?" And honestly, I don't know how to best answer. I do have the sense that the kids are going to be alright. I do know that I do a good job of not allowing the darkness that I see and feel and consumed touch my kids. I smile and play and joke and do all the right things - within the the normal human failings. Still, I think I do OK. But the dark is still there, diminishing me. And to address the selfishness...I have no defense, other than to say that I have been a human doormat for a long time. So is it really selfishness when all you can see is the dirt people drop on you, all the crap people wipe all over you, as they proceed into their separate lives? I don't know.
If you have the fortitude, forgive me for writing this. I know there is light out there and that is may even be shining on me, but I just don't see it. I feel consumed by my dark and see no surviving hope or dreams. If you have anything left, indeed, if you have read this far without giving up in disgust ( who would blame you??), pray for me. That is all I have left.
And apologies to all those that I have wronged. My sins are legion and I hope God is willing to forgive me again. I will write again soon, hopefully I will be in a better place, but life has to go on. I need a miracle, so please pray for me.
But what happened to the light? I used to be sitting in a well lit room. I used to know what direction I was to go in. I used to know where tthe handhold were if I should stumble. I used to know a lot of things. I can't say when it happened. I can't point to a time and say that was when my world became dark. I know when the earthquake hit. I know when the tsunami ran through my life, I know the disaster points. What I don't know is exactly when I stopped seeing the light. You see, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the light is there. I just cannot see it. I exist in the dark, and I am willing to bet that it is my fault. I know fault is something we don't like to assign, but there it is - my fault. Did I give up on the light? Perhaps. Do I believe that the light can still show me the way, warm me and destroy the dark? Yes. Why then do I sit in the dark.
Is it self pity? I don't think so. I know the subtitle of this blog references self pity, but I think I have gone beyond that. You see I earnestly believe I don't deserve pity - from me or others. I am not sure what I deserve, but it is not pity. At any rate, I found myself sitting in the dark. Or perhaps I didn't find myself, which sounds so innocent and sweet, but I rather woke up to the fact that I had gotten myself into the dark.
No matter how much of the dark I try to destroy; no matter how much of the dark that I consume in an effort to control it; no matter what I do to the dark, I cannot stop it from ultimately consuming me. I feel it crawling inside, weighing down my chest, covering my eyes and plugging my ears. I feel it plundering my soul, isolating me and rejecting me at the same time. I feel it destroying me, and I don't care. I have lived in my dark for so long that I just don't care what it does anymore.
The funny thing, in a non-humorous way, about the dark is the type of vision it gives you. You can see all about you, without seeing what is really important. You can't see the handholds or the life lines, but you can in nightmarish stark clarity what you have lost. You can also see what you are going to lose. You see hope impaled on reality, you see dreams trampled beneath the jackboots of life, you see faith burned at the stake. The dark also brings with it un-welcomed visitors. The creatures that the light would destroy, find haven in the dark. And you are becoming a creature of the dark yourself. You can feel the flaying touch of the whips of remorse, the stinging bite of the flail of guilt, the piercing and scratching claws of failure. And you see what you are becoming, because you are the one cracking the whips, swing the flail and growing out the claws.
I know what you are thinking. "How can you be so bloody selfish!" "What about the kids?" And honestly, I don't know how to best answer. I do have the sense that the kids are going to be alright. I do know that I do a good job of not allowing the darkness that I see and feel and consumed touch my kids. I smile and play and joke and do all the right things - within the the normal human failings. Still, I think I do OK. But the dark is still there, diminishing me. And to address the selfishness...I have no defense, other than to say that I have been a human doormat for a long time. So is it really selfishness when all you can see is the dirt people drop on you, all the crap people wipe all over you, as they proceed into their separate lives? I don't know.
If you have the fortitude, forgive me for writing this. I know there is light out there and that is may even be shining on me, but I just don't see it. I feel consumed by my dark and see no surviving hope or dreams. If you have anything left, indeed, if you have read this far without giving up in disgust ( who would blame you??), pray for me. That is all I have left.
And apologies to all those that I have wronged. My sins are legion and I hope God is willing to forgive me again. I will write again soon, hopefully I will be in a better place, but life has to go on. I need a miracle, so please pray for me.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Sunday, September 16, 2007
In church today, I was reminded of somethings. First and foremost, I was reminded that I am supposed to keep my eyes on God. If I will keep my eyes on the Prize, so to speak, it will be easier to put up with all of life's frustrations. As the preacher said, sometimes we let the cares of the world prevent us from growing in Christ. I am certainly guilty of that. I have been mad at God, disappointed and have lost much of my faith. I want God to fix things, to provide miracles, but I have been unwilling to give Him His time to do whatever it is He is going to do. I still believe that God does NOT believe in divorce. I have not considered it my ministry or my cross to bear, but perhaps it is. Maybe long suffering is supposed to be my lot. Point is I don't know, but I haven't given God the opportunity to let me know. I should experience joy daily, but I don't. I should experience His love daily, but I don't. I am left cold and alone, wondering if God will provide a miracle in my life. I have sunk about as low as I can go in my life. I feel hopeless and faithless, but for the first time in a long time today, I felt as if God cared. Why?
I DO want to have my marriage back, but I have to wait on God and my wife. I will not abandon her. I have not abandoned her, no matter what she's done thus far. It is just really hard to hear her get a phone call, with the voice of a male on the other end, and for her then to spend significant time outside talking to that person. It is hard to feel rejected on a daily basis. It is hard to know she doesn't want me around. But maybe that was the point of the sermon this am. There will ALWAYS be something that will be hard or painful. How would I feel if I could do as God said and keep my eyes on Him? How much better would I feel on a day to day basis if I were to truly embrace the whole Lilly of the field philosophy?? I imagine it would be a whole lot better. Once again, I have to ask what is wrong with me?
In reflection, over the past several years, I would have to say that I have backslidden (is that a word??) or fallen from grace. I can remember how close I felt to God, how I actually felt He was listening to what I had to say. I can remember moving forward. I think it was then that the Devil started coming after me and the marriage. Has he won, sometimes I wonder. Have we, my wife and I, handed the victory to our enemy? It seems so very clear now, in retrospect. I know that God can take what looks like a defeat, a death and bring victory to it. That is the heart of the Christian mystery, isn't it? How, when everything looked defeated and Jesus hung dead on a cross, God was actually accomplishing a victory. God's victory was sealed at the very moment all of Jesus' followers saw defeat. Mysterious ways, indeed.
I have to refocus and grow. It will be and is very hard. I know what my heart desires; I know that God has promised me good things here and in Heaven; I know that he mourns my marriage as much as I do. I just want to see His victory. And what a message it would send, what a testimony it would be, to have a marriage that God so obviously healed. And it would be God, because there is nothing I can do, nothing humans can do.
If you read this, and if you believe in Jesus, please pray for me. If you read this and you don't believe in Jesus, please search your heart and the Bible and see that He is a real and ready to be there for you. I am only now starting to remember that fact.
I DO want to have my marriage back, but I have to wait on God and my wife. I will not abandon her. I have not abandoned her, no matter what she's done thus far. It is just really hard to hear her get a phone call, with the voice of a male on the other end, and for her then to spend significant time outside talking to that person. It is hard to feel rejected on a daily basis. It is hard to know she doesn't want me around. But maybe that was the point of the sermon this am. There will ALWAYS be something that will be hard or painful. How would I feel if I could do as God said and keep my eyes on Him? How much better would I feel on a day to day basis if I were to truly embrace the whole Lilly of the field philosophy?? I imagine it would be a whole lot better. Once again, I have to ask what is wrong with me?
In reflection, over the past several years, I would have to say that I have backslidden (is that a word??) or fallen from grace. I can remember how close I felt to God, how I actually felt He was listening to what I had to say. I can remember moving forward. I think it was then that the Devil started coming after me and the marriage. Has he won, sometimes I wonder. Have we, my wife and I, handed the victory to our enemy? It seems so very clear now, in retrospect. I know that God can take what looks like a defeat, a death and bring victory to it. That is the heart of the Christian mystery, isn't it? How, when everything looked defeated and Jesus hung dead on a cross, God was actually accomplishing a victory. God's victory was sealed at the very moment all of Jesus' followers saw defeat. Mysterious ways, indeed.
I have to refocus and grow. It will be and is very hard. I know what my heart desires; I know that God has promised me good things here and in Heaven; I know that he mourns my marriage as much as I do. I just want to see His victory. And what a message it would send, what a testimony it would be, to have a marriage that God so obviously healed. And it would be God, because there is nothing I can do, nothing humans can do.
If you read this, and if you believe in Jesus, please pray for me. If you read this and you don't believe in Jesus, please search your heart and the Bible and see that He is a real and ready to be there for you. I am only now starting to remember that fact.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
A Quote from P.D. James' book The Children of Men:
A failed marriage is the most humiliating confirmation of the transitory seduction of the flesh. Lovers can explore every line, every curve and hollow, of the beloved's body, can together reach the height of inexpressible ecstasy; yet how little it matters when love or lust at last dies and we are left with disputed possessions, lawyer's bills, the sad detritus of the lumber-room, when the house chosen, furnished, possessed with enthusiasm and hope has become a prison, when faces are set in lines of peevish resentment and bodies no longer desired are observed in all their imperfections with a dispassionate and disenchanted eye.
In a book I already think is sad, this bit really is depressing
A failed marriage is the most humiliating confirmation of the transitory seduction of the flesh. Lovers can explore every line, every curve and hollow, of the beloved's body, can together reach the height of inexpressible ecstasy; yet how little it matters when love or lust at last dies and we are left with disputed possessions, lawyer's bills, the sad detritus of the lumber-room, when the house chosen, furnished, possessed with enthusiasm and hope has become a prison, when faces are set in lines of peevish resentment and bodies no longer desired are observed in all their imperfections with a dispassionate and disenchanted eye.
In a book I already think is sad, this bit really is depressing
Thursday, September 13, 2007
A response...
Here are some questions I received about this post (from another site, where I cross post everything - well almost everything):
I have some questions:You left out an element here (no pun intended). Who’s doing the cooking? Why are the bubbles boorish? To spite the ordinary water? And are the bubbles really friends?At what point does the watched warning wax wicked?
I will try to take these in order and to answer the questions to the best of my abilities.
Who’s doing the cooking?
You know the movie about the rat that can cook and controls the red headed guy by pulling his hair? It's not that guy or the rat. The cook is the Great They. The Great They (or GT*) is well know to everyone and anyone who pays attention to the world. The GT are not hidden, as you can hear them being referenced in newspapers, online, on TV, in fact almost everywhere. Some examples: "They stole my monkey!" or "They snuck in my car and turned up the volume on my radio!" Sometimes the GT are more nefarious, as in: "They control everything, ya know, from the internet to the MSM; they shot JFK and MLK**; they are watching us!" Thus, the question of who is cooking is easily answered by "They are!"
*The Great Infinite They or Great They can be abbreviated as shown or by the less common, but more telling GIT.
**GIT particularly dislikes those whose name end in 'K' as demonstrated by the example. GIT was not responsible for AL's death. Notice too, that GIT only goes after leaders with THREE initial in their popular names, and not those with two. I have since dropped my middle initial in common parlance to avoid being on anyone's list.
Why are the bubbles boorish?
Short answer: Ask their wives. For a more detailed explanation, we must turn to a little known and over appreciated 17th century poet. Very few details remain to provide insight into the life of this poet. We do know that the poet enjoyed a healthy obsession with alliteration. His least know poem is mostly forgotten and lost. Probably because it was not known very well. A snippet is reproduced here as reproducing the full poem would violate copyright law and would tax my alliterative reserve.
Bouncing, Boiling Bubbles, Boorish
Welcome well water washed
Scrubbed scalded scolded scion
Nomad, Nomad, Nomad, None
I have no idea what it means, but I have a pretty good idea of why no one remembers this poem. So, there you have it, Boorish Bubbles. The poet's name was said to be Duncan. Hope that helps.
To spite the ordinary water?
Bubble number 765433 was asked his motivation (No sexism here, be warned! The bubbles are boorish and everyone knows that females cannot be boorish, at least not as bubbles. Besides, look at the bubbles and I defy you to tell me that they are sexed incorrectly. I'll wait here while you look....) and he replied, "What!? Now doan go ascribin' 'uman characterissics to us bubbles!" This sentiment was reflected by almost every bubble we spoke to, only with better grammar and pronunciation. The only exception was bubble number 12, who indicated that he'd shown up because number 8 had said that the women would be hot.
And are the bubbles really friends?
The Soggsby Group, in a survey of a representative sampling of a cohort of bubbles circa Great Boiling of 12 September 2007, came to the following conclusion: 13.6% of those polled described themselves as very friendly, 48.2% as friendly, 11.4% as less friendly, but not particularly mean. These same respondents also indicated by a majority, 77.3%, that they would enjoy boiling with the same cohort again. A stunning 97.1% described their fellow boilers as being friendly and "fun to bump into." The poll had a margin of error or 2%. After reviewing the data, the New York Bubble Times declared that the bubbles did not like each other. Foxy Bubble News correspondent, Jeraldo Riviera, could not be reached for comment since he was busy uncovering Al Caponte's secret cache of Soda and Pop. So, I guess this question will have to remain up in the air.
At what point does the watched warning wax wicked?
Ah, the heart of the matter and the point at which seriousness has to reach a boiling point. The original point of the post was warning signs and how we tend to ignore them. If we ignore warnings in ourselves or others, things may get out of control. This is true in many aspects of life. I had been thinking of the warning signs in my own life when I began this. I was thinking of how I feel that at times I am at the boiling point and no one seems to notice. The post then took on a life of its own and I got silly with it. I don't like the word silly, it sound so, well, silly. It is, however, the best descriptor. To wax philosophic or perhaps religious, I think that sometimes when we need something it can be provided for us in interesting and frankly weird ways. While I began that post in all seriousness, I ended up not depressing myself further by getting all glum with it. Perhaps I can see the hand of God in this misdirection that ended up lifting my mood and turning down the water temperature, at least temporarily.
To more properly answer the oddly alliterative question, I have a question of my own. Is wax, or can wax, be wicked? And wicked in what sense. Wicked as in, "that's a wicked cool car your brother has," or wicked as in evil? I know wax can have a wick, so in that sense is it wicked? It has been my experience that warnings tend to wane instead of wax. So, is this an atypical warning that waxes? Is this a tidal warning that alternately waxes and wanes? and finally, where am I going with this?
As always, by Ocam's Razor, there is a short answer. And the answer is 3. Don't know if I spelled the razor's name right, though. Even if I did misspell it, the answer is still 3.
I have some questions:You left out an element here (no pun intended). Who’s doing the cooking? Why are the bubbles boorish? To spite the ordinary water? And are the bubbles really friends?At what point does the watched warning wax wicked?
I will try to take these in order and to answer the questions to the best of my abilities.
Who’s doing the cooking?
You know the movie about the rat that can cook and controls the red headed guy by pulling his hair? It's not that guy or the rat. The cook is the Great They. The Great They (or GT*) is well know to everyone and anyone who pays attention to the world. The GT are not hidden, as you can hear them being referenced in newspapers, online, on TV, in fact almost everywhere. Some examples: "They stole my monkey!" or "They snuck in my car and turned up the volume on my radio!" Sometimes the GT are more nefarious, as in: "They control everything, ya know, from the internet to the MSM; they shot JFK and MLK**; they are watching us!" Thus, the question of who is cooking is easily answered by "They are!"
*The Great Infinite They or Great They can be abbreviated as shown or by the less common, but more telling GIT.
**GIT particularly dislikes those whose name end in 'K' as demonstrated by the example. GIT was not responsible for AL's death. Notice too, that GIT only goes after leaders with THREE initial in their popular names, and not those with two. I have since dropped my middle initial in common parlance to avoid being on anyone's list.
Why are the bubbles boorish?
Short answer: Ask their wives. For a more detailed explanation, we must turn to a little known and over appreciated 17th century poet. Very few details remain to provide insight into the life of this poet. We do know that the poet enjoyed a healthy obsession with alliteration. His least know poem is mostly forgotten and lost. Probably because it was not known very well. A snippet is reproduced here as reproducing the full poem would violate copyright law and would tax my alliterative reserve.
Bouncing, Boiling Bubbles, Boorish
Welcome well water washed
Scrubbed scalded scolded scion
Nomad, Nomad, Nomad, None
I have no idea what it means, but I have a pretty good idea of why no one remembers this poem. So, there you have it, Boorish Bubbles. The poet's name was said to be Duncan. Hope that helps.
To spite the ordinary water?
Bubble number 765433 was asked his motivation (No sexism here, be warned! The bubbles are boorish and everyone knows that females cannot be boorish, at least not as bubbles. Besides, look at the bubbles and I defy you to tell me that they are sexed incorrectly. I'll wait here while you look....) and he replied, "What!? Now doan go ascribin' 'uman characterissics to us bubbles!" This sentiment was reflected by almost every bubble we spoke to, only with better grammar and pronunciation. The only exception was bubble number 12, who indicated that he'd shown up because number 8 had said that the women would be hot.
And are the bubbles really friends?
The Soggsby Group, in a survey of a representative sampling of a cohort of bubbles circa Great Boiling of 12 September 2007, came to the following conclusion: 13.6% of those polled described themselves as very friendly, 48.2% as friendly, 11.4% as less friendly, but not particularly mean. These same respondents also indicated by a majority, 77.3%, that they would enjoy boiling with the same cohort again. A stunning 97.1% described their fellow boilers as being friendly and "fun to bump into." The poll had a margin of error or 2%. After reviewing the data, the New York Bubble Times declared that the bubbles did not like each other. Foxy Bubble News correspondent, Jeraldo Riviera, could not be reached for comment since he was busy uncovering Al Caponte's secret cache of Soda and Pop. So, I guess this question will have to remain up in the air.
At what point does the watched warning wax wicked?
Ah, the heart of the matter and the point at which seriousness has to reach a boiling point. The original point of the post was warning signs and how we tend to ignore them. If we ignore warnings in ourselves or others, things may get out of control. This is true in many aspects of life. I had been thinking of the warning signs in my own life when I began this. I was thinking of how I feel that at times I am at the boiling point and no one seems to notice. The post then took on a life of its own and I got silly with it. I don't like the word silly, it sound so, well, silly. It is, however, the best descriptor. To wax philosophic or perhaps religious, I think that sometimes when we need something it can be provided for us in interesting and frankly weird ways. While I began that post in all seriousness, I ended up not depressing myself further by getting all glum with it. Perhaps I can see the hand of God in this misdirection that ended up lifting my mood and turning down the water temperature, at least temporarily.
To more properly answer the oddly alliterative question, I have a question of my own. Is wax, or can wax, be wicked? And wicked in what sense. Wicked as in, "that's a wicked cool car your brother has," or wicked as in evil? I know wax can have a wick, so in that sense is it wicked? It has been my experience that warnings tend to wane instead of wax. So, is this an atypical warning that waxes? Is this a tidal warning that alternately waxes and wanes? and finally, where am I going with this?
As always, by Ocam's Razor, there is a short answer. And the answer is 3. Don't know if I spelled the razor's name right, though. Even if I did misspell it, the answer is still 3.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Look closely at the pot. There, hidden in the bottom edge, under the water. A single bubble. Very small and easily missed. But it is important. It is the herald of things to come. It is the messenger of the future. A scout for an army of such bubbles, soon to emerge and overwhelm the pot. But first, back up and have a look at where it came from.
The pot was lifted, new from the rack and brought home. It shiny and smooth. A beautiful example of a two quart pot. Perfect for sundry boilings and mixings and general pot appropriate activities. The pot, it had no ambitions of its own. It had no desire to be anything other than a pot, to be used in pot like ways, in a pot friendly home and to be washed with pot friendly cameo. Truth be known, the pot had absolutely no desires. It was after all, just a pot and not some anthropomorphized metaphor of a pot to be used in NON-pot friendly fashion. Clearly, we are talking about a pot. But let us return to the non-pot-centric portion of this story.
The pot was lifted one day from its resting place and brought to the sink. The sink was a normal stainless steel sink, used in mundane sink-like ways...forget it. It was a sink with a faucet. The faucet was used to put water in the pot. Just water. Tepid tap water. Plain ordinary tap water.
As an aside, there are those who would argue that there is no such thing as plain or ordinary tap water. They would argue that a tremendous amount of work goes into insuring the quality and purity of that which we denigrate with the monikers of plain or ordinary. To them I would say a resounding "Yes!" But that is not entirely the point, is it? We are trying to get back to the aforementioned bubble. Were this a story about the wonders of modern tap water, well then, you'd have an excellent starting point with the hero bending over muck and reciting all the ways he will make this safe for grandma to wash her teeth in. Let us now put the aside to the side and carry on.
The pot, with the gloriously pure tap water was then placed on a stove. Not an ordinary stove, mind you. What else would you expect, having come this far, than a stunningly extraordinary stove. This marvel of modern cooking science had all the bells and whistles; being, of course, responsible for the timer alerts, I-have-heated-to-the-proper-temperature alarms, the oven-is-sparkling-clean tone, etc. This stove also had elements! Roundish swirls of metal connected to an electrical source. The electricity, purchased at great expense to the stove owner, would course through the metal and would meet a bit of resistance. The electricity, preferring to flow freely, would get a little hot under the collar with the metal and this heat would then be used to cook things. At least I think I have that right. Anyway, pot (new), with water (pure), on stove (marvelous), with electricity (angry) through the element (aghast at the anger of the electricity). Now, the bubble.
As I said the bubble is a harbinger of things to come. It is the tornado siren of the...you get the idea. The bubble is a sign that the water is about to boil. Yes the eddies and currents in the water, were you to pay attention, would let you know that the water is heating and nearing the bubble making stage. Of course, if you are not paying attention, then the bubble also goes unnoticed, the water boils and the pot is ruined, and this story is pointless. Come to think of it, if you were not paying attention, you would not be reading this, having long ago abandoned these pleasantries for a rousing game of Go Fish with the petulant but annoyingly cute neighbor child you happen to be baby sitting. It appears as if I am berating the faithful few who have gotten this far, and for that I am heartily sorry. But I am not repentant! I think I am drifting again.
The single bubble brings another, perhaps a friend from down the lane. Alas, this friend also happens to be somewhat of a boor and invites half the neighborhood to your quiet get together. These in turn invite their boorish friends and before you know it you've got a potful of bubbles falling (roiling??) all over themselves. This leads, as things do when excitable and boorish bubbles get together, to boiling. The sudden, massive, in-human wave of bubbles that spring from the bottom of the pot, rise to the mosh pit of the surface and escape into the air.
As a second aside, where do the bubbles go from there? Sure, some of you so called "realists" will insist that the suitably excited water molecules are steaming away from the gadfly bubbles, leaving the bubbles to join the air and float merrily away, ready to join another pot party round the corner. Have you ever thought that maybe the bubbles, after a rousing party in the pot have to go back to work at the soda factory? There to be placed, under duress, into sugary sweet bottles of Formula X? 'Course you haven't, it is an exceedingly silly and stupid idea. Let us put this aside beside the first aside just off to the side of the stove and carry on.
The bubble represents to me, as I have said, a warning sign. Seemingly small and inconsequential, it can herald chaos and eventual ruin if it is not watched. Much like out emotions and behaviors. All of that to say this simple truth: watch the little warning signs in your life and do something about them. Either turn down the heat, or move the pot, or go ahead and let it boil and make some soup. Mmmmm, soup. Just watch it, whatever else you do.
Now, pass the five-for-a-dollar-noodle-based-soup-product if you please.
The pot was lifted, new from the rack and brought home. It shiny and smooth. A beautiful example of a two quart pot. Perfect for sundry boilings and mixings and general pot appropriate activities. The pot, it had no ambitions of its own. It had no desire to be anything other than a pot, to be used in pot like ways, in a pot friendly home and to be washed with pot friendly cameo. Truth be known, the pot had absolutely no desires. It was after all, just a pot and not some anthropomorphized metaphor of a pot to be used in NON-pot friendly fashion. Clearly, we are talking about a pot. But let us return to the non-pot-centric portion of this story.
The pot was lifted one day from its resting place and brought to the sink. The sink was a normal stainless steel sink, used in mundane sink-like ways...forget it. It was a sink with a faucet. The faucet was used to put water in the pot. Just water. Tepid tap water. Plain ordinary tap water.
As an aside, there are those who would argue that there is no such thing as plain or ordinary tap water. They would argue that a tremendous amount of work goes into insuring the quality and purity of that which we denigrate with the monikers of plain or ordinary. To them I would say a resounding "Yes!" But that is not entirely the point, is it? We are trying to get back to the aforementioned bubble. Were this a story about the wonders of modern tap water, well then, you'd have an excellent starting point with the hero bending over muck and reciting all the ways he will make this safe for grandma to wash her teeth in. Let us now put the aside to the side and carry on.
The pot, with the gloriously pure tap water was then placed on a stove. Not an ordinary stove, mind you. What else would you expect, having come this far, than a stunningly extraordinary stove. This marvel of modern cooking science had all the bells and whistles; being, of course, responsible for the timer alerts, I-have-heated-to-the-proper-temperature alarms, the oven-is-sparkling-clean tone, etc. This stove also had elements! Roundish swirls of metal connected to an electrical source. The electricity, purchased at great expense to the stove owner, would course through the metal and would meet a bit of resistance. The electricity, preferring to flow freely, would get a little hot under the collar with the metal and this heat would then be used to cook things. At least I think I have that right. Anyway, pot (new), with water (pure), on stove (marvelous), with electricity (angry) through the element (aghast at the anger of the electricity). Now, the bubble.
As I said the bubble is a harbinger of things to come. It is the tornado siren of the...you get the idea. The bubble is a sign that the water is about to boil. Yes the eddies and currents in the water, were you to pay attention, would let you know that the water is heating and nearing the bubble making stage. Of course, if you are not paying attention, then the bubble also goes unnoticed, the water boils and the pot is ruined, and this story is pointless. Come to think of it, if you were not paying attention, you would not be reading this, having long ago abandoned these pleasantries for a rousing game of Go Fish with the petulant but annoyingly cute neighbor child you happen to be baby sitting. It appears as if I am berating the faithful few who have gotten this far, and for that I am heartily sorry. But I am not repentant! I think I am drifting again.
The single bubble brings another, perhaps a friend from down the lane. Alas, this friend also happens to be somewhat of a boor and invites half the neighborhood to your quiet get together. These in turn invite their boorish friends and before you know it you've got a potful of bubbles falling (roiling??) all over themselves. This leads, as things do when excitable and boorish bubbles get together, to boiling. The sudden, massive, in-human wave of bubbles that spring from the bottom of the pot, rise to the mosh pit of the surface and escape into the air.
As a second aside, where do the bubbles go from there? Sure, some of you so called "realists" will insist that the suitably excited water molecules are steaming away from the gadfly bubbles, leaving the bubbles to join the air and float merrily away, ready to join another pot party round the corner. Have you ever thought that maybe the bubbles, after a rousing party in the pot have to go back to work at the soda factory? There to be placed, under duress, into sugary sweet bottles of Formula X? 'Course you haven't, it is an exceedingly silly and stupid idea. Let us put this aside beside the first aside just off to the side of the stove and carry on.
The bubble represents to me, as I have said, a warning sign. Seemingly small and inconsequential, it can herald chaos and eventual ruin if it is not watched. Much like out emotions and behaviors. All of that to say this simple truth: watch the little warning signs in your life and do something about them. Either turn down the heat, or move the pot, or go ahead and let it boil and make some soup. Mmmmm, soup. Just watch it, whatever else you do.
Now, pass the five-for-a-dollar-noodle-based-soup-product if you please.
She had no idea where he'd come from, but his presence was at once reassuring and frightening. He was tall and handsome. Handsome, not in the traditional sense, but in a rugged Eastern European way. He was dressed to the nines, if she wasn't too young to make that observation. Strange, here, someone dressed as well as he, staring back at a hungry wolf and protecting her. But something in his eyes suggested he was just as hungry as the wolf. And despite the obvious gravity of her situation, she couldn't help but chuckle at her inner Duran Duran turn of a phrase.
"Get up, or I will let him have his way with you." It was the last thing she'd ever hear him say.
"Get up, or I will let him have his way with you." It was the last thing she'd ever hear him say.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
She said last night, speaking of encroaching depression, that part of it was the devil acting against her. This statement is a product of a Christian worldview and if you come from that view, you can agree with her. I agree with her. Sure, there are neurochemical, cognitive and behavioral components. But it is the spiritual side that the atheist mind forgets.
If she can see this, why can't she see how hard the devil has worked to destroy our marriage? And he's quite possibly near victory. We were active in the church, prayer, family, donations, etc. Then The devils attention was caught and he began his campaign. We are both wounded and battle worn. I am not pointing fingers or blame. All I really want to know is when will we see the real battle here? When will we see the real enemy and when will God save us?
When, God?
Only He can save us, our marriage and our family.
When, God? What am I doing wrong?
If she can see this, why can't she see how hard the devil has worked to destroy our marriage? And he's quite possibly near victory. We were active in the church, prayer, family, donations, etc. Then The devils attention was caught and he began his campaign. We are both wounded and battle worn. I am not pointing fingers or blame. All I really want to know is when will we see the real battle here? When will we see the real enemy and when will God save us?
When, God?
Only He can save us, our marriage and our family.
When, God? What am I doing wrong?
Thursday, September 06, 2007
I comb my hair and smile at myself in the mirror. Outside again and the sun is a warm bath, soothing and cleansing the soul. The air is heavy with the flowers of spring and the birds glory in their flight. I smile at the world and sit, waiting for the right time. Butterflies, busy in their tasks. Insects buzzing around, diligent. A dog barks in the distance. And still I wait. The sun is warm, the world is at peace, so the waiting is easy. Long sunny days are perfect for waiting, and plotting. The grass is a cool carpet for my bare feet, and the breeze keeps the sun from being too hot. Dressed in white, loose fitting clothes, I am the picture of relaxed comfort. I enjoy the game, the wait.
"She's here," he whispered.
"She's here," he whispered.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
In 463BC a hand carved tablet was buried in what would become Ulster. No one know who buried it or why. No one knew who carved the intricate designs. Thus far, only one person has been able to decipher their meaning. And no one believes the translation that has been offered. That one person, Alexandra, now lays bruised, burned and possibly dying at the bottom of a nameless chasm somewhere in the Caucasus Mountains. The wounds at her neck are quite probably the worst of the lot. Those running the length of her arms and legs are not far behind. No matter how serious these wound appear, however, they are nothing compared to the seriousness of the bared fangs of the wolf standing over her.
"Get up," He growled.
"Get up," He growled.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
He stood on the hill, looking at the object of his quest in the valley below. He was tall, road weary and tanned. His body hard from his struggle to rise and meet this challenge. It had been a difficult journey, but now he was here, on the verge of paradise.
He had been told as a boy of the fabled city, dedicated to Aphrodite, and the treasures it held. He had decided at at a rather young and brash age, that he would find that city and make it's treasures his own. It was then that the training began.
Daily he would train. He would use his imagination, trying to imagine the privation of the road and journey, to help him prepare. He would practice swordplay, strengthening his grasp. He would practice the art of persuasion, sharpening his tongue. He would practice defense and camouflage, so as to hide from his enemies and surprise his prey. He would practice his spells, testing his resolve. He would pound his body, building himself up through self abuse. He would do without food or drink, bringing definition to his senses and tastes. Daily he would train, until the day came for him to leave his home and strike out against the world.
He found many cities on the road. Some filled with rogues and turncoats that neither satisfied nor filled him. He found cities full of earthly delights, but found them to be shallow and thinly disguised ugliness. He found cities of gold and silver, but found the flash to be nothing more than vanity. He found cities long forgotten and was tempted by the refuge they offered, but travelled onward.
The road was cold, it was hot. It was starvation and danger. The road provided many things he needed, but not direction. And still he travelled, searching for clues. Looking for answers and hopes. Mountains, valleys, lush forests and deserts saw him pass through on his quest.
It was the sister mountains that gave him his first hope. He had spotted them from afar and remembered what the old men had said of the legend. The sister range was the first sign, the entrance by which you must pass, if ever the city you would hope to reach. He found them as they had been described. Full of life and bearing fruit he'd never seen. The fruit was beautiful, smooth in taste and nourishing. He imagined correctly that many a man could lose himself here and never quest forward. With anguish in his heart, he pressed on and left the mountains behind.
The plains below were equally as fertile as the mountains. Crystal clear rivers, gently rolling hills and warm sunshine. An Eden of soft grasses and refreshing breezes. He strolled through the pastures and fields slowly, savoring every moment. Here too, a man could lose his vision and his quest. No one would think any such man a fool, for only a fool would leave such a place.
Weeks past. And he was well. He felt replenished and whole; satisfied and with an inner calm that had never before graced his mind. In the distance he spotted another range of weather worn hills with a forested valley below. It was here, he felt, he knew, that his quest would take him. And he pushed on, strong, powerful after the long road.
He stood on the hill, looking at the object of his quest below. The forest, glade really, surrounded the city. It was like no city he'd seen previously. It took his breath away to behold this vision, this object so long sought, this hope, this dream made real. He prepared himself, for he did not know what defenses the city had. Would the city welcome him, or deny him? Would the city let loose beasts and terrors to devour him and deny him his goal?
The sentry post passed, and no alarm was raised. The birds were singing in the forest. Joy and peace emanated form the landscape. Even the rivers and streams reflected pure life and seemed to revel in themselves. He was unafraid and yet terrified. Tension ran through him, building his anticipation, while strengthening his resolve. And then he saw what he could not believe. The gates were opening, calling him in, welcoming him.
He could not know, he did not know, at that moment what the future held for him. He passed through the gates and into the city. Ready to accept his future, ready to accept his fate. Joy, peace, passion accomplished, and fulfillment are the last we see of him as he enters his dream.
He had been told as a boy of the fabled city, dedicated to Aphrodite, and the treasures it held. He had decided at at a rather young and brash age, that he would find that city and make it's treasures his own. It was then that the training began.
Daily he would train. He would use his imagination, trying to imagine the privation of the road and journey, to help him prepare. He would practice swordplay, strengthening his grasp. He would practice the art of persuasion, sharpening his tongue. He would practice defense and camouflage, so as to hide from his enemies and surprise his prey. He would practice his spells, testing his resolve. He would pound his body, building himself up through self abuse. He would do without food or drink, bringing definition to his senses and tastes. Daily he would train, until the day came for him to leave his home and strike out against the world.
He found many cities on the road. Some filled with rogues and turncoats that neither satisfied nor filled him. He found cities full of earthly delights, but found them to be shallow and thinly disguised ugliness. He found cities of gold and silver, but found the flash to be nothing more than vanity. He found cities long forgotten and was tempted by the refuge they offered, but travelled onward.
The road was cold, it was hot. It was starvation and danger. The road provided many things he needed, but not direction. And still he travelled, searching for clues. Looking for answers and hopes. Mountains, valleys, lush forests and deserts saw him pass through on his quest.
It was the sister mountains that gave him his first hope. He had spotted them from afar and remembered what the old men had said of the legend. The sister range was the first sign, the entrance by which you must pass, if ever the city you would hope to reach. He found them as they had been described. Full of life and bearing fruit he'd never seen. The fruit was beautiful, smooth in taste and nourishing. He imagined correctly that many a man could lose himself here and never quest forward. With anguish in his heart, he pressed on and left the mountains behind.
The plains below were equally as fertile as the mountains. Crystal clear rivers, gently rolling hills and warm sunshine. An Eden of soft grasses and refreshing breezes. He strolled through the pastures and fields slowly, savoring every moment. Here too, a man could lose his vision and his quest. No one would think any such man a fool, for only a fool would leave such a place.
Weeks past. And he was well. He felt replenished and whole; satisfied and with an inner calm that had never before graced his mind. In the distance he spotted another range of weather worn hills with a forested valley below. It was here, he felt, he knew, that his quest would take him. And he pushed on, strong, powerful after the long road.
He stood on the hill, looking at the object of his quest below. The forest, glade really, surrounded the city. It was like no city he'd seen previously. It took his breath away to behold this vision, this object so long sought, this hope, this dream made real. He prepared himself, for he did not know what defenses the city had. Would the city welcome him, or deny him? Would the city let loose beasts and terrors to devour him and deny him his goal?
The sentry post passed, and no alarm was raised. The birds were singing in the forest. Joy and peace emanated form the landscape. Even the rivers and streams reflected pure life and seemed to revel in themselves. He was unafraid and yet terrified. Tension ran through him, building his anticipation, while strengthening his resolve. And then he saw what he could not believe. The gates were opening, calling him in, welcoming him.
He could not know, he did not know, at that moment what the future held for him. He passed through the gates and into the city. Ready to accept his future, ready to accept his fate. Joy, peace, passion accomplished, and fulfillment are the last we see of him as he enters his dream.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Welcome home. Well, welcome to my home. This is commonly called the Challenger Deep and is 35,840 feet below sea level. At this depth, that is almost 8 tons of pressure per square inch. This is a metaphor. Admittedly it is not much of a metaphor, and if you will excuse the pun, it is rather shallow. Oh yes, how brilliant indeed, the ocean is a deep place, with pressure yet, and you're gonna use it as a metaphor for the pressure you feel every day. Brilliant, I say! If you're a nutter.
So, enough with the metaphor. Life sucks, or is crushing, or is filled with unbearable pressure, or whatever other little complaint I can come up with when I am feeling miserable. But it does go on, doesn't it. Whether you want it to or not. And there have been a lot of nots lately, right? Anyway, I see myself in a box, which would be another friggin' metaphor! Apparently, the box I am in is the box of never ending pointless metaphors. Each more juvenile than the last.
Gotta go, before I hurt myself on another metaphor. Makes me wonder why I put this babbling BS to virtual ink. Again, PPP
So, enough with the metaphor. Life sucks, or is crushing, or is filled with unbearable pressure, or whatever other little complaint I can come up with when I am feeling miserable. But it does go on, doesn't it. Whether you want it to or not. And there have been a lot of nots lately, right? Anyway, I see myself in a box, which would be another friggin' metaphor! Apparently, the box I am in is the box of never ending pointless metaphors. Each more juvenile than the last.
Gotta go, before I hurt myself on another metaphor. Makes me wonder why I put this babbling BS to virtual ink. Again, PPP
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
What's wrong with me?
Today I got a purple bracelet/band from someone I work with that said AComplaintFreeWorld.org. My first reaction? This is Pollyanna/New Age-ish B.S. What kind of reaction is that for a basically good idea to try to get people to stop complaining so much? I know that a decrease in complaining can help foster a more positive mental attitude and outlook. Needles to say, but saying it anyway, my first reaction was poor. Do I complain too much? I try to keep it to myself a lot, except for a few people I kinda trust. Most of the time, I get the sense that people don't really care about what you are complaining about or going through. False sentimentality and fell-good pablum psychobabble are infuriating. I should know, I dispense it by the truckload. ( at least that's how I feel sometimes) Sometimes I buy the crap that I am selling and it seems to work for awhile. Too bad it doesn't come with a money-back guarantee. The again, what does?
I imagine myself stuck in a hole and I am struggling to climb out. I sometimes get very tired of climbing and stop. Cold. Sometimes I think I am not so much climbing, because the exit doesn't get any closer, as much as there is someone underneath digging like hell to make the hole deeper. And contrary to popular opinion, I don't think it is me doing the digging. I am in one of those moods today. Tired of climbing, I don't see the point anymore. What, after all, is there of a foreseeable future for me? Getting up, coming to work, going home, repeat. Wash rinse and repeat. The secret of life was apparently hidden on the back of the shampoo bottle all this time.
So, am I complaining too much? Is it complaining to review your situation? Wife who doesn't love me and would rather be anywhere else - and anyone else - and may already. Check. Involuntary virgin status. Check. Unruly adult man-child who berates me and projects all of his ills on me. Check. Finances in the toilet. Check. Job sucked dry of any joy. Check. Feeling burned out and dreading coming to work. Check. Office managers who behave as if they want you gone, fired, forced out, or otherwise removed. Check. An employer that chastises you for not appearing supportive of the office manager with one hand while the other hand pulls the supports out from under you. Check. Institutional VP's going behind your back to find any dirt, and when they can't making ad hominem attacks about your character. Check. Plenty more to check, but you get the point.
The road stretches forward, I keep on walking, but I don't really know why. I have become the most pathetic thing I know. And not in anyway that deserves any sympathy or empathy. More of an object of morbid curiosity. Weak in spirit, mind, reserve, strength, character, drive, hope, faith.... Plain old PPP
Today I got a purple bracelet/band from someone I work with that said AComplaintFreeWorld.org. My first reaction? This is Pollyanna/New Age-ish B.S. What kind of reaction is that for a basically good idea to try to get people to stop complaining so much? I know that a decrease in complaining can help foster a more positive mental attitude and outlook. Needles to say, but saying it anyway, my first reaction was poor. Do I complain too much? I try to keep it to myself a lot, except for a few people I kinda trust. Most of the time, I get the sense that people don't really care about what you are complaining about or going through. False sentimentality and fell-good pablum psychobabble are infuriating. I should know, I dispense it by the truckload. ( at least that's how I feel sometimes) Sometimes I buy the crap that I am selling and it seems to work for awhile. Too bad it doesn't come with a money-back guarantee. The again, what does?
I imagine myself stuck in a hole and I am struggling to climb out. I sometimes get very tired of climbing and stop. Cold. Sometimes I think I am not so much climbing, because the exit doesn't get any closer, as much as there is someone underneath digging like hell to make the hole deeper. And contrary to popular opinion, I don't think it is me doing the digging. I am in one of those moods today. Tired of climbing, I don't see the point anymore. What, after all, is there of a foreseeable future for me? Getting up, coming to work, going home, repeat. Wash rinse and repeat. The secret of life was apparently hidden on the back of the shampoo bottle all this time.
So, am I complaining too much? Is it complaining to review your situation? Wife who doesn't love me and would rather be anywhere else - and anyone else - and may already. Check. Involuntary virgin status. Check. Unruly adult man-child who berates me and projects all of his ills on me. Check. Finances in the toilet. Check. Job sucked dry of any joy. Check. Feeling burned out and dreading coming to work. Check. Office managers who behave as if they want you gone, fired, forced out, or otherwise removed. Check. An employer that chastises you for not appearing supportive of the office manager with one hand while the other hand pulls the supports out from under you. Check. Institutional VP's going behind your back to find any dirt, and when they can't making ad hominem attacks about your character. Check. Plenty more to check, but you get the point.
The road stretches forward, I keep on walking, but I don't really know why. I have become the most pathetic thing I know. And not in anyway that deserves any sympathy or empathy. More of an object of morbid curiosity. Weak in spirit, mind, reserve, strength, character, drive, hope, faith.... Plain old PPP
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Close your eyes and try to relax.
Good.
Unclench your jaw and relax your toes.
Good.
Breathe, softly and slowly.
Good.
Relax your shoulders and let go.
Good.
Now, wait....
The scent of salt air comes uninvited to your senses. The barest outline of a door can be seen behind closed eyes. Soft, gently breaking waves pull you forward.
Wait, you are almost there.
Good.
Now open the door...
The world is cast in dim aquamarine gliding light. It is as if you've stepped into an aquarium. The salt air is heavier, but not overwhelming. The waves are just as your ears imagined. The call of gulls under the water a welcome aural accent piece.
Look around and tell me what you see.
A beach of pure white sand perhaps fifty yards across, leading from a smooth rocky ground to the sea. The rocky surface soon gives way to a tropical forest rising up the mountain and into the water, the top unseen. A Stone bridge connects two outcroppings of rock, both two to three stories tall. The one, surrounded by forest is rough and natural. The other, by the beach is smooth, carved out to make a home. Comfortable looking couches and chairs, tables full of fruit, and soft light can be seen in the seaside rock.
Good.
What else do you see?
The sea stretches forever. No other land is visible. The sea is gently rolling, no whitecaps or large waves. Fish are jumping - the smallest are man sized. They provide a backdrop of gentle arcs and curves as they leap and fly through the air. Water pours out of the sky like a reverse waterfall and sounds like a brief but intense rain. The ghostly for of a reef can be seen at some small distance from the shore. And between here and there, colorful fish of every variety, shape, and size. A pointillist seascape, ever changing. A child's kaleidoscope; beautiful chaos.
Notice the sky.
The sky is a soothing blue, bright lights flashing through its depth. White bellied fish dot the sky. The gulls circle beneath the sky and call out to each other. The sky, beginning less than a thousand feet up from the seaside, is water. Light shines through the water, speaking to its shallowness, and gives the beach that aquarium look. It is every bit as awe inspiring and beautiful as it is impossible.
And what do you feel here?
Safe, relaxed. Peaceful. At ease. Humble. Amazed. Tranquil. At home, at last...
Good.
Good.
Unclench your jaw and relax your toes.
Good.
Breathe, softly and slowly.
Good.
Relax your shoulders and let go.
Good.
Now, wait....
The scent of salt air comes uninvited to your senses. The barest outline of a door can be seen behind closed eyes. Soft, gently breaking waves pull you forward.
Wait, you are almost there.
Good.
Now open the door...
The world is cast in dim aquamarine gliding light. It is as if you've stepped into an aquarium. The salt air is heavier, but not overwhelming. The waves are just as your ears imagined. The call of gulls under the water a welcome aural accent piece.
Look around and tell me what you see.
A beach of pure white sand perhaps fifty yards across, leading from a smooth rocky ground to the sea. The rocky surface soon gives way to a tropical forest rising up the mountain and into the water, the top unseen. A Stone bridge connects two outcroppings of rock, both two to three stories tall. The one, surrounded by forest is rough and natural. The other, by the beach is smooth, carved out to make a home. Comfortable looking couches and chairs, tables full of fruit, and soft light can be seen in the seaside rock.
Good.
What else do you see?
The sea stretches forever. No other land is visible. The sea is gently rolling, no whitecaps or large waves. Fish are jumping - the smallest are man sized. They provide a backdrop of gentle arcs and curves as they leap and fly through the air. Water pours out of the sky like a reverse waterfall and sounds like a brief but intense rain. The ghostly for of a reef can be seen at some small distance from the shore. And between here and there, colorful fish of every variety, shape, and size. A pointillist seascape, ever changing. A child's kaleidoscope; beautiful chaos.
Notice the sky.
The sky is a soothing blue, bright lights flashing through its depth. White bellied fish dot the sky. The gulls circle beneath the sky and call out to each other. The sky, beginning less than a thousand feet up from the seaside, is water. Light shines through the water, speaking to its shallowness, and gives the beach that aquarium look. It is every bit as awe inspiring and beautiful as it is impossible.
And what do you feel here?
Safe, relaxed. Peaceful. At ease. Humble. Amazed. Tranquil. At home, at last...
Good.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
I glanced back, briefly. Hesitation? I lifted my hand and looked at it as I drifted back and finally into the sea. Slowly sinking, I could feel the weight of my existence pulling me down. This then is my journey.
The colors are brilliant and their forms peaceful. I know there is an underlying violence here as fish defend their small bit of coral; as one living thing devours another, but it doesn't matter. The beauty is the thing. It is relaxing to the mind and soul. The gentle pull of the tides pushing fans back and forth, the fish schooling and swimming in mad shapes, the corals waving to the sea horses passing through. The sounds are muted and distinct at the same time. A contradiction made possible by the sea. Parrot fish crunching as the surface sounds fade.
One by one, the colors fade. Red abandons me, followed by orange and yellow. Greens fade into blues and I am left with violet. The mid level blues surround me as I sink deeper. The veneer of coral gaiety is replaced by the growing mass of the fish. Small becomes large and many grow fewer. The choices in the middle are bigger than when I was in the shallows, but they are less diverse. Sharks and predators glide by; barracuda above, hiding in the last glare of the sun. The gabbing eels, running their mouths, hide in their homes.
There is a sense of peace as I move on. Free floating and sinking, almost blind. Strange creatures, caricatures of earlier beings flash across my view. They are more specialized, they are the survivors. They can handle the dark, chilly depths of life. But they are grotesque and menacing. The crush of the sea is unbearable, and yet the sense remains that I am going where I am supposed to go. Am I wrong in this assessment? Have I simply chosen to spread my arms wide and accept the downward crush of life and its medium, the sea?
Bottom. And life reverts to its simplest forms. Infantile appearing worms and tubular creatures. Is this what is meant by the circle of life? Not really a circle, but a return to infancy the deeper we go? Choices and diversity are scarce. Life here is cold, barren, crushed. As I lay in the dust, remembering where I've been, I thought of just your face.
The colors are brilliant and their forms peaceful. I know there is an underlying violence here as fish defend their small bit of coral; as one living thing devours another, but it doesn't matter. The beauty is the thing. It is relaxing to the mind and soul. The gentle pull of the tides pushing fans back and forth, the fish schooling and swimming in mad shapes, the corals waving to the sea horses passing through. The sounds are muted and distinct at the same time. A contradiction made possible by the sea. Parrot fish crunching as the surface sounds fade.
One by one, the colors fade. Red abandons me, followed by orange and yellow. Greens fade into blues and I am left with violet. The mid level blues surround me as I sink deeper. The veneer of coral gaiety is replaced by the growing mass of the fish. Small becomes large and many grow fewer. The choices in the middle are bigger than when I was in the shallows, but they are less diverse. Sharks and predators glide by; barracuda above, hiding in the last glare of the sun. The gabbing eels, running their mouths, hide in their homes.
There is a sense of peace as I move on. Free floating and sinking, almost blind. Strange creatures, caricatures of earlier beings flash across my view. They are more specialized, they are the survivors. They can handle the dark, chilly depths of life. But they are grotesque and menacing. The crush of the sea is unbearable, and yet the sense remains that I am going where I am supposed to go. Am I wrong in this assessment? Have I simply chosen to spread my arms wide and accept the downward crush of life and its medium, the sea?
Bottom. And life reverts to its simplest forms. Infantile appearing worms and tubular creatures. Is this what is meant by the circle of life? Not really a circle, but a return to infancy the deeper we go? Choices and diversity are scarce. Life here is cold, barren, crushed. As I lay in the dust, remembering where I've been, I thought of just your face.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Sitting, thinking, gazing out....I lay my head back and my hand stretches out to touch the window. Softly flowing through the window my fingers graze the bench. Warm and rough and plastic wood. A thousand McLunches melted into my hand and out. The weeping branches of the next door shrub prickle inside my veins. The sadly smiling leaves clean the capillaries and soak the poison dust of life. The hot air sun surface of the ground pulls me through and down. Worm kings vie for lunch at my passing and out into the dawn. I burst free concrete and asphalt hair and denim cloth my seared clean soul. I can feel it build to a radiant pulse, quark, muons, gluons and gamma force me to disintegrate. And now..."Sir, the clerk will see you now. Have a nice Day!" Thanks, I whisper, the touch of the sun still on my fingers.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
One question.
One singularly infinite question. Or is it an infinitely singular question. Or maybe the shear repetitiveness of the questions shows up its inane nature. That one question...What is the point?
I don't think I know the answer anymore, if I ever did.
I suppose you could respond with, "Of what?" And I would have to volley the ball back to your court with, "of anything." You name it, what is the point? Kids, life, jobs, trying to feel happy, writing this, anything. What's the point. To fulfill some biologic imperative to roll the DNA dice so that "life" can go on?? To achieve immortality through your children in the form of memory and chemical messengers?? To get some thrill out of a squirt of dopamine or some other neurotransmitter?? What's the point of it all?
One singularly infinite question. Or is it an infinitely singular question. Or maybe the shear repetitiveness of the questions shows up its inane nature. That one question...What is the point?
I don't think I know the answer anymore, if I ever did.
I suppose you could respond with, "Of what?" And I would have to volley the ball back to your court with, "of anything." You name it, what is the point? Kids, life, jobs, trying to feel happy, writing this, anything. What's the point. To fulfill some biologic imperative to roll the DNA dice so that "life" can go on?? To achieve immortality through your children in the form of memory and chemical messengers?? To get some thrill out of a squirt of dopamine or some other neurotransmitter?? What's the point of it all?
Saturday, July 21, 2007
The days become a blur, and I grow weary. I didn't think that my week long getaway would turn into this, and if I ever get home I won't be using a cheap travel agent again. The days have few changes - there is the free food and shelter, the nightly terrors, and the sacrifices. With each one my chest hurts more and more; my heart burns in empathy.
I found some ancient writings. They are difficult to understand and I have to puzzle through them. Whenever I think I have made some progress, I only come to realize the depth of my ignorance. The writings seem to point to some way out, to a different temple full of wonder and peace. I wish I knew who left this and why. I wish I knew who or what was making the sacrifices. I was only glad that they had yet to find me.
I don't know how long it's been. I don't know how long I can last here. Too afraid to leave, tired of being in this Temple Clearing, I don't know what to do any more. I have finally learned who is making the sacrifices. And that knowledge scares me even more...
As I sat alone in the metaphoric darkness of the temple grounds, I wanted to end it all. I desperately wanted to end my life, while knowing I would not. I had been searching the temple, my home, for some clues about its existence and purpose. At last, I'd found some writings on the alter, in a script that took me months to begin to decipher. I puzzled over the writings each day, with the pain of each days sacrifice burning next to me. These were harder to understand than the ancient text I'd earlier discover, and they consumed me.
Give to me your heart, Innocence in blood and spirit, Give to me your heart with each day you breathe, Renew in each dawning, That which you give, Give to me your heart and I will be yours, Give to me freely and I will be your reward, Pleasure and bliss, Joy without measure, Give to me your heart, And mine I will give to you.
I stared at what I had deciphered, not knowing what to think. That was when it hit me. The world, it seems is full of bitter surprises. Funny thing, in a not-so-funny way, is that the surprises are never really surprises. They are the kind of surprise you get when you order something, forget about it, then see that the postman has left it on the doorstep. You always knew about it, but for the briefest of moments, you are surprised to see it. That is how it hit me, like the postman bringing the tax summons that I always knew was coming. I pulled open my shirt and saw the proof. Scars. Dozens, hundreds of scars across the left side of my chest. The screams in the night were my own. The sound of bones splitting and flesh ripping were of my doing. It was my heart I was sacrificing, nightly, upon this alter to a false god.
There was no pleasure, bliss or joy without measure. I was sacrificing in impotence, getting nothing in return. This temple's god was deaf, didn't care, or was too busy rewarding others. And I felt, without much surprise, empty.
And I still sit there now, wondering what to do - how to escape. I have done some minor cleaning of one of the other temples, just to see what it held. I have stopped going to sleep in my dark temple room; there is no need. Nightly, I sacrifice my heart as I seem powerless to stop myself. The ancient text is all but forgotten, though I still have some hope that what it contains is the truth. Forget me now for there is nothing you can do. Only heed my example, and don't sacrifice yourself in impotence and in vain.
I found some ancient writings. They are difficult to understand and I have to puzzle through them. Whenever I think I have made some progress, I only come to realize the depth of my ignorance. The writings seem to point to some way out, to a different temple full of wonder and peace. I wish I knew who left this and why. I wish I knew who or what was making the sacrifices. I was only glad that they had yet to find me.
I don't know how long it's been. I don't know how long I can last here. Too afraid to leave, tired of being in this Temple Clearing, I don't know what to do any more. I have finally learned who is making the sacrifices. And that knowledge scares me even more...
As I sat alone in the metaphoric darkness of the temple grounds, I wanted to end it all. I desperately wanted to end my life, while knowing I would not. I had been searching the temple, my home, for some clues about its existence and purpose. At last, I'd found some writings on the alter, in a script that took me months to begin to decipher. I puzzled over the writings each day, with the pain of each days sacrifice burning next to me. These were harder to understand than the ancient text I'd earlier discover, and they consumed me.
Give to me your heart, Innocence in blood and spirit, Give to me your heart with each day you breathe, Renew in each dawning, That which you give, Give to me your heart and I will be yours, Give to me freely and I will be your reward, Pleasure and bliss, Joy without measure, Give to me your heart, And mine I will give to you.
I stared at what I had deciphered, not knowing what to think. That was when it hit me. The world, it seems is full of bitter surprises. Funny thing, in a not-so-funny way, is that the surprises are never really surprises. They are the kind of surprise you get when you order something, forget about it, then see that the postman has left it on the doorstep. You always knew about it, but for the briefest of moments, you are surprised to see it. That is how it hit me, like the postman bringing the tax summons that I always knew was coming. I pulled open my shirt and saw the proof. Scars. Dozens, hundreds of scars across the left side of my chest. The screams in the night were my own. The sound of bones splitting and flesh ripping were of my doing. It was my heart I was sacrificing, nightly, upon this alter to a false god.
There was no pleasure, bliss or joy without measure. I was sacrificing in impotence, getting nothing in return. This temple's god was deaf, didn't care, or was too busy rewarding others. And I felt, without much surprise, empty.
And I still sit there now, wondering what to do - how to escape. I have done some minor cleaning of one of the other temples, just to see what it held. I have stopped going to sleep in my dark temple room; there is no need. Nightly, I sacrifice my heart as I seem powerless to stop myself. The ancient text is all but forgotten, though I still have some hope that what it contains is the truth. Forget me now for there is nothing you can do. Only heed my example, and don't sacrifice yourself in impotence and in vain.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
The travel brochure was not the most accurate. It had details, or rather generalities masquerading as details, about the woods. Once I'd decided to go, there was nothing to do but go. Admittedly, I tried to back out a couple of times, but in the end, it was off on my journey. The thing about travel brochures, it's not what they say that is important. It's what they don't say. Like how they tell you that you will have a local tour guide, but fail to tell you that he'll whack you on the head at his earliest convenience and leave you for dead. In a place you didn't want to be. Without any hope. I guess you get what you pay for, and life is a free admission (for the one entering life), but the pay as you go aspect of life, that can get expensive. I am getting ahead of myself.
I'd wanted to see the scenery, the sights, the vistas of the world. The great conifer and broad leaf forests, the ancient ruins and temples to pagan gods. I wanted to see the castles of old and imagine their heroes. Oh, I got all of that, but not in the way I'd expected. Another beautiful quality of life really - expect one thing and get another. Like the tour guide I guess. What I got was not serene and pastoral; what I got was Mordor on a bad day, on a vengefully bad day.
I woke in the middle of the forest with a splitting head ache and a matching split head. This forest, lets call it the forest of stark reality, was grim. The light was blocked by the canopy from Toldyaso's and the Neverknewthat's. The sickly perfumes of the Siren Flowers and the budding Betraya Trees clogged the air and twisted my stomach. The delicate Forget-me-nots were being choked by the vines of the Forgotchas. The path was blocked at every turn by the thorny Phkya, tearing and ripping my legs and body as I walked. It was with some relief then, that I found the clearing.
Relief is a funny thing. Totally relative to your situation, it is. (Great, now I'm talking like Yoda) Say for instance, you are standing in a furnace. It is certainly a relief to step out of the furnace, even if you step into a cloudless 130 degree day. Relative. The clearing was a relief in that relative sort of way. The clearing held a couple small temples and a larger central one. It was obvious that no one prayed at the smaller temples, as they were overgrown and weedy. This will sound strange, since I just described the smaller temples as unused, but they had a clean feel to them. I can't describe it any better than that and you'll just have to trust me on this. The larger temple, that did not feel clean. You could tell it was well tended and in use. By who, I wasn't sure when I first saw it.
In a wood as gloomy as this, night is a difficult thing to judge. Degrees of grey turning to black is your first clue. Screeches, moans, howls and the cries of the night are the last clues you'll get. Seeing nowhere else, I sought refuge in the largest of the three...
I found a room. It was cold, dark and not particularly comfortable. But at least it was out of the elements and provided a relative safety from the night predators. The room is windowless and door-less. The winding passage into the interior of the temple and to my room was sufficiently twisted enough to eliminate the possibility of light. It was here that I was to make my home.
Whispers in the night, calling. "Follow me," "Come this way," "Leave this temple and you will find another." On and on they called, whispered, begged and cajoled. I slept in fits, afraid of what might happen. I heard scratches in the night, like a saw on bone. Screams and pleading voices resonated through the walls until day.
I don't really know how I knew it was day, except for the silence. I felt my way back through the passage until I was outside again. Oddly enough, there was food on the ground. I had ceased to be surprised by what ever happened here, and I guess I just took it for granted when I walked out into the far from blinding light and found ready to eat food. It was tasty and filling. I had the impression that there was more of it about than I was able to find, but I don't know why.
The temple, my safe haven in this wood, was beautiful. All the temples were, but this one was well cared for. The stone was polished and shone, reflecting my image in granite pools of color. The temple was large, as I've said, and there was a central stairway to the alter. Something like a Mayan ruin, I suppose. And at the top, my morning fell into despair.
There was blood on the alter, fresh blood. And remains. The remains of a burnt offering, of what looked like a human heart. Just looking at it made my heart hurt, my chest ache. Who could do such a thing? Who could take a life and destroy it, just to pray to some sort of false god? And why didn't they find me, hidden in their temple?
I'd wanted to see the scenery, the sights, the vistas of the world. The great conifer and broad leaf forests, the ancient ruins and temples to pagan gods. I wanted to see the castles of old and imagine their heroes. Oh, I got all of that, but not in the way I'd expected. Another beautiful quality of life really - expect one thing and get another. Like the tour guide I guess. What I got was not serene and pastoral; what I got was Mordor on a bad day, on a vengefully bad day.
I woke in the middle of the forest with a splitting head ache and a matching split head. This forest, lets call it the forest of stark reality, was grim. The light was blocked by the canopy from Toldyaso's and the Neverknewthat's. The sickly perfumes of the Siren Flowers and the budding Betraya Trees clogged the air and twisted my stomach. The delicate Forget-me-nots were being choked by the vines of the Forgotchas. The path was blocked at every turn by the thorny Phkya, tearing and ripping my legs and body as I walked. It was with some relief then, that I found the clearing.
Relief is a funny thing. Totally relative to your situation, it is. (Great, now I'm talking like Yoda) Say for instance, you are standing in a furnace. It is certainly a relief to step out of the furnace, even if you step into a cloudless 130 degree day. Relative. The clearing was a relief in that relative sort of way. The clearing held a couple small temples and a larger central one. It was obvious that no one prayed at the smaller temples, as they were overgrown and weedy. This will sound strange, since I just described the smaller temples as unused, but they had a clean feel to them. I can't describe it any better than that and you'll just have to trust me on this. The larger temple, that did not feel clean. You could tell it was well tended and in use. By who, I wasn't sure when I first saw it.
In a wood as gloomy as this, night is a difficult thing to judge. Degrees of grey turning to black is your first clue. Screeches, moans, howls and the cries of the night are the last clues you'll get. Seeing nowhere else, I sought refuge in the largest of the three...
I found a room. It was cold, dark and not particularly comfortable. But at least it was out of the elements and provided a relative safety from the night predators. The room is windowless and door-less. The winding passage into the interior of the temple and to my room was sufficiently twisted enough to eliminate the possibility of light. It was here that I was to make my home.
Whispers in the night, calling. "Follow me," "Come this way," "Leave this temple and you will find another." On and on they called, whispered, begged and cajoled. I slept in fits, afraid of what might happen. I heard scratches in the night, like a saw on bone. Screams and pleading voices resonated through the walls until day.
I don't really know how I knew it was day, except for the silence. I felt my way back through the passage until I was outside again. Oddly enough, there was food on the ground. I had ceased to be surprised by what ever happened here, and I guess I just took it for granted when I walked out into the far from blinding light and found ready to eat food. It was tasty and filling. I had the impression that there was more of it about than I was able to find, but I don't know why.
The temple, my safe haven in this wood, was beautiful. All the temples were, but this one was well cared for. The stone was polished and shone, reflecting my image in granite pools of color. The temple was large, as I've said, and there was a central stairway to the alter. Something like a Mayan ruin, I suppose. And at the top, my morning fell into despair.
There was blood on the alter, fresh blood. And remains. The remains of a burnt offering, of what looked like a human heart. Just looking at it made my heart hurt, my chest ache. Who could do such a thing? Who could take a life and destroy it, just to pray to some sort of false god? And why didn't they find me, hidden in their temple?
Monday, July 02, 2007
The corridor was dark and I felt as if I was blind. Of course, you don't have to be blind to be unable to see where you are going. I can look back, in my minds eye, and see how I'd arrived here. And yet, I had no idea how I'd come to be in this place. I could eventually make out some features of the corridor, and all I could see where doors. Not wanting to stand still in my darkness, I tried the first door. I will tell you, all the rooms looked like they were built on the same model - square. No fancy furnishings, no decorations, just small square rooms with single occupants.
The first room held a child, but one whose eyes were dark and full of malice. "You promised it wouldn't be this way!" "You promised things would work out differently!" The promise of youth facing the reality of the adult world and screaming impotently against all that had been promised. The eyes of my childhood saw so much promise in life, so much opportunity. Until they were darkened and clouded over by reality. I shut the door, aching with memory. How much had I hoped for; how much had I dreamed; how much had I thought possible? Fulfillment, white picket fences, happily ever after; rubbish now and filling those young eyes with disgust at ever having allowed himself to be deceived.
I opened the next door. A man stood still in the center of the room, looking a bit like Munch's Scream. Looking around, he seemed to be surrounded by hundreds of people, all laughing and joking. They were smiling, drinking and generally carrying on like most party goers. Until they walked right through the man. They seemed not to see or notice. He was nothing to them. He stayed quiet, and I could see in his eyes that he'd given up trying to make himself heard or seen. He was loneliness personified. In a room crowded with life, he was a nothing, a nobody to be ignored and walked through. He just looked at me, his face changing not a bit when I closed his door.
The next door held a skinny man at a feast. He ate and ate, never stopping to notice my arrival. He was small and barely visible behind the roast duck. No matter how I moved to get a better look, he'd unconsciously dodge behind some other pile of food - squash and fresh fruit, puddings and cakes, ham and cheeses, on and on. I caught one glimpse of his eyes and he was scared. Scared he'd be noticed, scared he'd be seem for who he really is, scared to enjoy what was right in front of him. I shut him back in his room, saddened.
The penultimate door held a chair, upon which rested a card. It was a tarot card, I think, and looked like the Lovers. I picked it up, but the image was indistinct and looked as if it was covered in dust. I foolishly blew the dust. It swelled up from the card and covered everything in the room, including me. I could taste it, smell it, and it changed the way I saw the world. I left, afraid of what I'd done. I had the sense that from now on, everything I saw, tasted, smelled, or touched would be tainted by this dust; that I could never get it out of my system. It had a strange addicting quality, at one time making you feel good and making you regret having it cover your life.
The last door, and I was out. But with no clearer of an understanding of where I was. A strange waking nightmare of an experience. I will journey on and follow my path, not knowing where it leads and having no clear direction. It seems obvious to me now, but I didn't realize it at the time. Perhaps feeling blinded by the dark I had failed to make the connection, but all the faces behind the doors, they were mine.
The first room held a child, but one whose eyes were dark and full of malice. "You promised it wouldn't be this way!" "You promised things would work out differently!" The promise of youth facing the reality of the adult world and screaming impotently against all that had been promised. The eyes of my childhood saw so much promise in life, so much opportunity. Until they were darkened and clouded over by reality. I shut the door, aching with memory. How much had I hoped for; how much had I dreamed; how much had I thought possible? Fulfillment, white picket fences, happily ever after; rubbish now and filling those young eyes with disgust at ever having allowed himself to be deceived.
I opened the next door. A man stood still in the center of the room, looking a bit like Munch's Scream. Looking around, he seemed to be surrounded by hundreds of people, all laughing and joking. They were smiling, drinking and generally carrying on like most party goers. Until they walked right through the man. They seemed not to see or notice. He was nothing to them. He stayed quiet, and I could see in his eyes that he'd given up trying to make himself heard or seen. He was loneliness personified. In a room crowded with life, he was a nothing, a nobody to be ignored and walked through. He just looked at me, his face changing not a bit when I closed his door.
The next door held a skinny man at a feast. He ate and ate, never stopping to notice my arrival. He was small and barely visible behind the roast duck. No matter how I moved to get a better look, he'd unconsciously dodge behind some other pile of food - squash and fresh fruit, puddings and cakes, ham and cheeses, on and on. I caught one glimpse of his eyes and he was scared. Scared he'd be noticed, scared he'd be seem for who he really is, scared to enjoy what was right in front of him. I shut him back in his room, saddened.
The penultimate door held a chair, upon which rested a card. It was a tarot card, I think, and looked like the Lovers. I picked it up, but the image was indistinct and looked as if it was covered in dust. I foolishly blew the dust. It swelled up from the card and covered everything in the room, including me. I could taste it, smell it, and it changed the way I saw the world. I left, afraid of what I'd done. I had the sense that from now on, everything I saw, tasted, smelled, or touched would be tainted by this dust; that I could never get it out of my system. It had a strange addicting quality, at one time making you feel good and making you regret having it cover your life.
The last door, and I was out. But with no clearer of an understanding of where I was. A strange waking nightmare of an experience. I will journey on and follow my path, not knowing where it leads and having no clear direction. It seems obvious to me now, but I didn't realize it at the time. Perhaps feeling blinded by the dark I had failed to make the connection, but all the faces behind the doors, they were mine.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
OK, I'd said I would give his idea a try. It sounded good, all those possibilities laying at my feet. I looked at him and wondered if he was pulling something over my eyes, but I reached down anyway. I straightened up and looked at what I'd grabbed. A sea urchin, and a dead one at that. The next thought that registered was the pain of one of its spines sticking out of my hand. I looked at him, pleading for him to do something as he reached up to remove the urchin. Don't forget, that although there are millions of possibilities laying there at your feet, there are also dangers. The world is not perfect, he reminded me. Nor should any metaphor. You have to be aware of where you are and what is at your feet and not blindly grab at the first thing you feel - you might get stung. The pebbles and possibilities are still there, but watch out for the traps and dangers laying around as well. Be choosy about what you are after and reduce your risk of injury. But don't be too afraid of hurting yourself, or else you'll never reach out in the first place and you miss even the most elemental of possibilities. Why, I wondered, couldn't he have told me to watch out before I got stuck. He seemed to know what I was thinking, but only smiled that enigmatic grin of his and walked on.
This Gordon Lightfoot song pretty much says how I feel much of the time. Never a big fan of Gordon Lightfoot, but he hit this one on the head.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Look at it this way, he said. Each pebble or stone on the beach is a potential, a possibility. You crush dozens under your feet every time you take a step. Some may cause you to stumble or twist your ankle. Others come large as boulders and can either block your way or can, once surmounted, provide a better view of the landscape. All these pebbles, they look different - different colors, shapes and textures. You never know which are gonna be good or bad until you lift 'em up and take a look at them. Some you toss some away and they go plunk in the water. Others skip across the water and you say to yourself that you wish you could find another like it 'cause it skipped so well and made you happy. But the point is, really, that all these possibilities are just lying at your feet, ready to be picked up. And they've been here waitin' for you. God put them here ages ago, knowing you were goin' to be walking by someday, and that you would need them.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Sometimes an errant phrase will just pop into my mind and will set up camp. I can't shake the thought or ignore it. I am not talking about all the navel gazingly negatives I have been dwelling on, but rather truly random thoughts or images put to words. I cannot ignore them; I often have just as much trouble growing them further.
The leaf green trees bend in the wind
Where do these things come from? Sometimes they grab hold and refuse to let go, keeping me from thinking other things. Sometimes they sound good the first time, and the second time they stink. Sometimes the good ones come and go so fast I can barely remember them. I try to reconstruct them later, but usually without success.
Twisted toes and twinkling twilight makes me smile into the night
The tone varies from idiocy to depressive to barely literate middle school prose. You will have to be the judge, as I have lost perspective for most of this. I guess I will just have to keep listening for them and write them down, hoping for a gem. But like all gems, the quality ones will be very rare, and typically not on display is a piece of fluff.
Farnot and Eve point the way. Waving and saying goodbye.
The leaf green trees bend in the wind
Where do these things come from? Sometimes they grab hold and refuse to let go, keeping me from thinking other things. Sometimes they sound good the first time, and the second time they stink. Sometimes the good ones come and go so fast I can barely remember them. I try to reconstruct them later, but usually without success.
Twisted toes and twinkling twilight makes me smile into the night
The tone varies from idiocy to depressive to barely literate middle school prose. You will have to be the judge, as I have lost perspective for most of this. I guess I will just have to keep listening for them and write them down, hoping for a gem. But like all gems, the quality ones will be very rare, and typically not on display is a piece of fluff.
Farnot and Eve point the way. Waving and saying goodbye.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
I can understand why people drink, smoke pot, do crack - at least those that do it to forget or use it as a salve. I have never used - never. I know it is hard to believe, but I haven't used any drugs and I rarely drink alcohol. But it is an easy escape and I wish sometimes that I could take it. Culturally, everyone say it is OK. But I know it is not - I have seen the results. Still, I can understand the temptation.
I thought of making two lists. Things I deserve, and things I don't think I will have. The things I deserve include love, tenderness, romance, walks on the beach (yes, I have a very definite feminine side), laughing with someone special, flirty looks with someone I love, to hold the hand of someone special, hugs, kisses, companionship, cuddling (feminine side!), to be adored, support, forgiveness, a shoulder to cry on, someone to share my life with, someone to share my heart with who will appreciate it, hope, peace, someone to tell me I can make it, someone to remind me of my strengths, someone to remind me to work on my weaknesses, a smile in the morning, the guilty pleasure of watching the person you love laugh & sleep & breath & smile & eat & think, someone to argue with that will still love me when its over, someone.
The second list, the things I don't think I will have is, as it turns out, the same as the first list.
The second list, the things I don't think I will have is, as it turns out, the same as the first list.
Warning:Mass Confusion Ahead
How can I express the anguish, panic, pain, frustration and fear I feel if I can't explain why I feel that way. I don't want to explain because of , what, pride or respect or I simply don't know. A part of me has been torn and for the first time I don't know if I can fix it. I don't know where to turn or what to say. I have gotten through so much and now to be confronted with something I had already known - NOW I'M THROWN FOR A LOOP????! How was I able to deal with the images, the betrayal, the loss of self image, the f ' ing situation before and not now? I just want this to be done and in the past. God, please take this from my mind and help me forgive! Help me get passed! Help me, PLEASE!
Take this burden and this pain of the spirit and so me how to forgive. Show me how to move forward toward YOU and your grace. Take these images from my head and purify my spirit. Protect me from this attack - I cannot do this....
God, I need your grace. I need the peace of Christ to wash over me. Forgive me for having these thoughts and doubts.
God, please..................................................................................................................................
Take this burden and this pain of the spirit and so me how to forgive. Show me how to move forward toward YOU and your grace. Take these images from my head and purify my spirit. Protect me from this attack - I cannot do this....
God, I need your grace. I need the peace of Christ to wash over me. Forgive me for having these thoughts and doubts.
God, please..................................................................................................................................
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Being confronted with something that you've "known" to be true can be devastating. While simply "knowing" it can provide grief and pain, the truth of it, when fully understood can wreck you. I have "known" some things for some time now, but those things were brought from my fevered imagination of "knowing" to the full light of day recently. And I regret ever having "known" - then or now.
On to a different, yet equally morbid, topic: nightmares. I have never been one to have many nightmares. In fact, I can still remember 2 of my worst. The first I define as a nightmare simply because it was boring. It was as a child and I had just watched a TV show that involved Chinese labor in railroads and mines. The whole nightmare consisted of row upon row of workers going back and forth with picks and loads of dirt. I can remember wishing I could get out of the dream. The second - which I have had on more than one occasion - involved my dorm in college. I was in my room when the radio changed channels on its own. As I walked over I began to be pulled down through the floor and into Hell. I have rarely felt so frightened.
Recently, I have had several dreams that I would consider nightmare and have woken from them scared, demoralized and depressed. They involved my wife.
The first was generally about her making me look like a bad parent in order to get the kids in court. I cannot stress enough that this was a dream - she HAS NOT made any effort to make me look bad in any context in regard to the kids. The second dream involved her trying to convince me that an affair was over while secretly going on with it behind my back. To the best of my knowledge, this too is just a dream and not a reality. Nightmares. Demoralizing and depressing and a reflection of my stress and worries. I hope to leave these in the realm of dreams and I will work to keep myself from dragging my fears into the waking world.
On to a different, yet equally morbid, topic: nightmares. I have never been one to have many nightmares. In fact, I can still remember 2 of my worst. The first I define as a nightmare simply because it was boring. It was as a child and I had just watched a TV show that involved Chinese labor in railroads and mines. The whole nightmare consisted of row upon row of workers going back and forth with picks and loads of dirt. I can remember wishing I could get out of the dream. The second - which I have had on more than one occasion - involved my dorm in college. I was in my room when the radio changed channels on its own. As I walked over I began to be pulled down through the floor and into Hell. I have rarely felt so frightened.
Recently, I have had several dreams that I would consider nightmare and have woken from them scared, demoralized and depressed. They involved my wife.
The first was generally about her making me look like a bad parent in order to get the kids in court. I cannot stress enough that this was a dream - she HAS NOT made any effort to make me look bad in any context in regard to the kids. The second dream involved her trying to convince me that an affair was over while secretly going on with it behind my back. To the best of my knowledge, this too is just a dream and not a reality. Nightmares. Demoralizing and depressing and a reflection of my stress and worries. I hope to leave these in the realm of dreams and I will work to keep myself from dragging my fears into the waking world.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
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