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.
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