As if by some perverse sense of irony, the radio is playing..."I only want to be with you..."

I sit, staring at her. She does not notice, and if she does, she doesn't show it. I watch her talk, her face animated by some story - just out of earshot. I watch her mouth, her lips moving rapidly through her tale. From smiling, to feigned seriousness, to outright sarcasm. I watch. I allow my gaze to flow through the roundness of her cheeks, know I am playing it dangerously. And I knew, I absolutely knew it would happen. If you were to ask, "will it happen?" I would've responded that it surely will. I will pretend innocence, even shock. But I knew I would let my eyes fall. Fall into hers.

Flashes of green and brown. Like some ancient rain forest, hiding some treasure. One you know is there, but the rain forest will only give you hints and peeks. Now please forgive me for waxing a bit pretentious, but I have no other way to describe the depth and beauty of her eyes. I know some well heeled wordsmith would be able to paint a picture of subtle beauty, but you are stuck with my feeble attempts. I simply can't move past her eyes, I don't want to. I want to be lost in there, I want to know what is like again.

I haven't stopped loving her, and I sometimes hate myself for that. I mean, how long has it been? How long can I pine away? Looking at those eyes, I know. For as long as it takes.

"...waiting for the break of day, 25 or 6 to 4..." The radio plays on...

OK, this taking stock thing is really taking it's toll. But I can't help myself. It is some kind of whirlpool of dysphoria/regret/self aware self pity/bs, and being the rather miserable captain that i am, I cannot for the moment steer my way clear. That being said, let me indulge myself a bit more...

What is the metric of a man? By what do we measure a man? Some would say that wealth or material success is a excellent way to measure success. This does seem to be the most popular method used today in mainstream culture. Other measures I have seen people use include how many women you have had, how many babies you have made, how many fights you have won, and how much bs you can dish out. I disagree with these measures of a man's success. Sure, they measure something (lack of self control maybe (and isn't that a hoot coming from someone who just wrote about how he is going to indulge himself in a bit of uncontrolled selfishness!)).

I prefer to use some older standards. Some of these may seem naive, even stupid to some. But they are what I use, so if you want to disagree, get your own blog and do so (perhaps ad nauseum as I do). I prefer to use the following: Stands up for his beliefs, continues through adversity, willing to make and live by the hard choices in life, protects and cares for his family, willing to give everything - including life - for his family, leads by example and not just by dictate, willing to be the "bad guy" if that means the best choice for the family as a whole is made. Manhood is about sacrifice, being trustworthy, honesty and reverence. The Boy Scout Oath and Law sum it up pretty well, in my opinion. Of course, being a former Boy Scout, I have my biases. But I think they encompass moral absolutes that are needed in today's world. (Sorry all you relativists, but there are absolutes. If you insist that there are no absolutes, then you are simply refuting you own argument. See some discussions by Tim over at Random Observations for more details.)

So, where am I on this list of manly qualities? How do I fare? IMHO, not well. I have two choices here. I could allow myself to wallow in self pity and go nowhere, OR, I could reaffirm my beliefs as stated above and do my best to live by them. I know I am not perfect and I have never pretended to be perfect. But I can strive to live by my own standards, knowing that I will fail from time to time. The tough part, for me anyway, is trying not to feel like a failure when I stumble along the path. God, forgive me.............

Did you ever just sit back and take stock of your life? I mean, did you ever look back and make an honest review of the things you have done, the things you have been involved in, and the basic events of your life? Every now and then I try to do a review of sorts, usually when I am feeling miserable and it is usually a not subtle cry of "pity me!" But let's be honest, how far off am I on these self assessments, even when miserable? And no, I don't want or deserve any pity.
So, for a quick review:

Education - I suppose I have been successful on that front. I do have my regrets, but that is not the same as failing. There are many times I wished that I would have done something different. But, I didn't and I cannot change that fact now. Particularly since I am now and forever more paying off those student loans.

Marriage - I have been a failure. Not sure what else there is to say, other than I could have and should have done better than I did. I keep praying for a miracle though. Maybe one day this failure will turn the corner....

Fidelity - Successful thus far. This one is easy though, for many self esteem related issues. It is like a guy who boasts about not falling in the water while walking in a desert.

Kids - I did and am doing the best I know. The kids will make their own successes and failures. I think their mother and I have done a good job though at teaching the important things.

Work - I feel as if I am a failure. Flitting from one workplace to another, am I really a quality product if I can't seem to stay still? Business is slow and that may force another move. I can't help but feel a failure on this one.

Provider - Despite my salary, I feel a failure here too. It never seems enough. It never seems like I bring home enough to satisfy the bill collectors and the family. And don't even bring up the government - taxes are a bane to any rational person, but one we tolerated at appropriate levels for the good of the community. But when the taxes reach a point that they are now, well, It is a disincentive to work any harder, because you won't see any more income. In fact, you might lose more if you work harder, because the government takes more and more and more and more and more....

Leader - Of what? Fail.

Spiritually - I don't know. I feel good at times, like I have the faith to survive the storms, but I am the first one to cry out to God to calm the storms whenever a slight breeze kicks up. So how much faith do I actually have? I cry and mope and moan and complain when things don't go my way - what does that tell you about how much trust I have in God? Thing is, I am afraid to ask for more faith - knowing that God would be more than able to provide me with opportunities to exercise my faith. Faith, like muscle, must be strained to be strengthened. Character too. Problem is, I feel like a 98 pound weakling in a Mr Universe gym.

Emotionally - I am too dysphoric to really be considered an emotional success. I am way too easily rocked by setbacks to garner many positive points in this category. I guess I could say I am emotionally stable, just on the low end of the spectrum.

Physically - Not to be overly dramatic, but there is now way I could pass muster here. Over weight and so far removed from the demi-gods of the physical beauty world, this fight was over before it began.

Materialistically - Sure, we have some toys. Computer, xbox, wii, tv, tivo, etc. Yes we have some stuff others do not have. Yes, we have been blessed in some ways. Yes, we have a nice house. And yet, I am not so sure of my own success in this area. The house is nice - nicer now that the termite damage is fixed. But I think, in the end, these things are not as important as the things I have failed - like marriage. I look at our stuff and I see things that may be nice to look at or play with, but could never replace the feeling I get from holding my wife's hand. (I wish I had done that more when I had the opportunity)

I really only had the stomach to write about these few areas, but I am sure there are more I could mention. In review, it seems as if I have failed most areas of my life with the notable exception of the kids. And I want to stress that I am not saying this to gather pity points to myself. Please, save the pity for someone who deserves it.

I wonder what the endpoint will be. At what point will the scales of life be tipped, so that I could begin to see some of the positives that I may have tucked away somewhere. I don't know the answer to that one, pretty much like I don't know the answer to most questions I pose to myself. And, for the last time, don't have any pity or bad feelings about me. Don't even let yourself slip into some form of compassion. I know what responsibility I bear in all this. I know where my may faults are located. I just wanted to write this out as a sort of declaration of where I am at this moment. I have just enough faith to perhaps, maybe, if the sun is shining right, and the flowers have just the right bloom, believe that all this could change for the better. I just want it to happen sooner...

I fell across the doorway. Once again in the relative quiet of the atrium. I am not quite sure why the old man had bothered me so much. A rotting prune of a man pining for a fantasy life, why should that be the essence of fear and loathing (in or out of Las Vegas)? But I was afraid, shaking and dripping with sweat none the less. I wanted no more of this place - I was done with explorations and oddities. I wanted out, but how. I know the bathysphere was back up the passageway, but it seemed to distant - the intervening ground too fraught with danger. But like so much in my life, wishing something to be simply does not make it happen. And right on cue...

THUMP

... the whole place shook. I inwardly groaned. As you must have surmised by now, I was weary of the mysterious and unexpected of this place. It is almost as if this place knew what I was thinking and responded, like some kind of cheap Dharma knock-off. I stood, waiting for what I knew would come, exactly what I would not want.

The water was cool around my feet, swirling and filling the place. One of the windows must've cracked in Anois, letting in the ocean. Fine, the end then, at least it is a way out. Adolescent irony at its best - the fount of life on this planet, bringing with it so much crushing death. Or is it perhaps the weight of all that life is what crushes the unprepared and willfully ignorant? I didn't know then, and you will have to draw your own conclusions.

One more mystery appears, this one a distance of a few steps away. I bright column of light. Sort of like a PRD. As the coming flood gathers, I stare into the light and imagine I hear voices. Whispers of safety and security; tales of conquest and victory; words of comfort and joy. One voice in particular comes through with an almost disturbing clarity...

...my mind and being is invaded by the author of this most compelling of voices. I find myself screaming, again and again as the water fills the atrium. Breathe into me...! Breathe...!







When life is crashing in and you are in danger of drowning within yourself, the Saviour is always there, ready to answer your call, ready to breathe His life into you, ready to take your burdens, and ready to be exactly what we have called Him...Saviour.

I saw you at the stoplight. You were staring straight ahead, yawning. I looked at you, unaware, forgetting how human you are.

I saw you at the stoplight. You were staring straight ahead, your husband beside you. The detritus of your life filled the car. And looking at you, I remembered how human we are.





Papers, like pine straw around a flower bed, were strewn across the desk.





What is it that draws us in when we see someone pass by? What is it that forms an instant connection? Why do we suddenly wonder where this stranger has been, where they are going, and what it is they are facing? What is it, that it fades too fast and is lost?





Sensitive...I am overly sensitive. Given any value of x quantity of derision, I will immediately multiply it by a factor of ten, raised to a square of itself. Thus, my sensitivity can be expressed as equalling 10 to the x squared. My question is, why square it at all?





Everything was neatly penned on small scraps of paper that were indeed strewn across the desk like so much pine straw. And I was an intruder, not only for reading them, but for even being in here. Perhaps I should back up a bit...





...Back in the central atrium, I could still hear the singing woman, though it was faint. Avoiding the potted plants and my friend behind the not so well sealed door, I headed for the source of the singing, Sioctha le heagla. Moving toward the entrance, her voice took on the quality of a siren, beckoning me forward. I was powerless to stop, and stepped across the threshold.



And onto a gravel road. The sky is grey and suggests, with some temerity, rain. A light breeze, not unpleasant, makes the trees sway in anticipation. There is a house at the end of the road, set with no small appreciation for the picturesque, upon a small, well groomed piece of land jutting into the river. The leaves, in muted orange and red, fled from the trees and made their way up the road to the house. I followed closely behind, but with some greater reluctance.



At first glance, the house is perfect. A beautifully done, two story Cape Cod style home. It is warm and inviting. It is a shelter from the storms. It is rich with history, and humbling in its simple beauty. At first glance.



As I walk up to and onto the porch, the boards creaking, I notice that the paint is peeling. I realize that the hanging flower pots are empty. The rocking chairs are missing a slat or two. The screens have the beginnings of rust in the corners. And the windows are murky. The house is showing its age, something a few hours and a couple cans of paint could render invisible again. The house is not so much neglected as in need of some minor work. But the warmth is gone. Maybe from the approaching weather, maybe the wind has picked up more than I realized. I tried knocking, but no one answers, so I step inside. It was then that I noticed the small writing table in one of the front rooms and decided I was a bit nosier than I give myself credit for.



After reading the slips of paper, I looked around a bit. The house is tastefully decorated. Simple, but clean designs. There is a fine layer of dust everywhere; not the dust of abandonment, but of needing some minor attention. I can see no one; I hear no one. The place is silent, and is, dare I say it, like a tomb. A tomb recently brought to its full purpose of holding the dead. A glance here and there about the first floor confirmed my solitude. Or so I thought.

Wandering into the kitchen, I notice that greater care has been taken here to preserve the freshness this home once held. The surfaces are clear from dust, the cupboards are stocked with bland and uninviting canned goods. Several dishes are stacked, clean, next to the sink, in a drying rack. The view from the back window is breathtaking. An autumn scene in New England, complete with a wide river and foliage exploding on the hillsides. The air smells sweet, coming in through an open window. That fresh smell, of rain promised, clears the mind.

I step outside to enjoy the view and am met by an old man, strangely familiar, in a rocking chair. He does not seem to notice me standing beside him, and I make no attempt to make myself known. I don't know why, perhaps I am afraid of what he might say, or what he might be. He stares ahead, lost in the flow of the river. He looks the part of an old man. By which I mean that he is shriveled in on himself. Liver spots mark his face. His hands, resting on the arms of the chair, are knotted and bent. He is slightly hunched in his shoulders and gives the impression of carrying a large weight. His eyes are watery and look, pained. His voice, when he finally speaks, is a coarse whisper, barely audible.

"Why have you come?"

And he begins to cry. He is talking to the river, giving no indication that he knows, even now, that I am here. He reaches up with one of his twisted hands, an achingly slow movement, and caresses the face of a young woman suddenly before him. In some twist of common sense, I immediately come to believe she has been there for some time; that it has taken this old wreck of a man eons to ask his question. At the same time, I know that it is a question he has asked countless times of this woman, you can hear it in his voice, in the distress it causes him.

"I've missed you so..."

The only other words I thought I would ever hear him say. He just keeps repeating them, slowly, painfully. And she just gazes down at him, pity filling her eyes. I study her, looking closely, for she too is familiar.

Her attire was reminiscent of the sheer clothing worn by the beauty in The Storm. Every detail of her figure was visible, and yet seemed to be cleverly hidden so that no one detail could be distinguished. The effect was powerful. Revealing, without being pornographic. Sensual, but in a classical sense, rather than in the modern gauche depictions of women. Her hair was raven black in the shadows of the porch, but a dappling of sun revealed hints of a deep auburn. Her hair flowed out and around her face, caught in the wind, heightening her mystery and allure. I am coming to realize that I am falling for her. I want to possess her, and keep her as my own. I want her to smile at me, to make her laugh, to feed her passions and to catch her should she fall. As if sensing my thoughts, she glances over at me and smiles, sadly, and disappears. And the old man cries out in anguish at her leaving, ripping my heart in two. My desire for her is quickly replaced by my guilt for having made her leave, or so it seemed to me.

"Bring her back, please mister, bring her back..."

I have no answer for him. I am impotent before his emptiness, his desires, his needs. As I turn to leave, I see the photos, crudely pinned to the wall behind him. Photos of the woman, and this old man in his youth, laughing, frolicking, living. There are kids and dogs, family and friends. And they are all faded.

There can comes times in life in which you can have perfect clarity. It all seems to come together in an instant and you suddenly feel aware of everything - the past, present and future meld together to form a perfect whole. This must be, I think, what it would be like to be God. The moment, at least in my experience, lasts but a millisecond and no more. The awareness is gone and you are left with only your limited human sight. You can, however, get a hint of the frustration that would come with being able to see the whole picture and know that you are not in control and that you are powerless in the face of such magnificence. This frustration, then, can lead to either a pursuit of that glimpse of clarity you saw, or it can lead to an tantrum of anger, angst and rebellion. This last, I think, must be what it is like to be Satan.



On an unrelated note. What if what you want is highly improbable. What if the rational side of you know that it is best to focus on the probable instead of worrying about all that is possible. What if the improbable odds far out weigh the probable odds; that every fiber of you being tells you one thing, but you keep wanting the other. Does that make you a lunar? Or are you living by faith? I know, it really depends upon what the issues at hand are, but I am just curious as to whether I am truly having faith in an untenable situation, or if I am a lunar living in an out of touch reality. And this is, I think, what it feels like to be Human. I guess this is, after all, a quasi-related note.



As the door closes on Anois, these thoughts flood my head. The passages are still dingy, whether from some Hollywood sense of mood setting or simple neglect, I haven't a clue. Making my way back up to the central hub of the place, determined to explore some of the other passages, I notice a change has taken place.



There are small scribblings on the walls. The description of a scribble is not entirely accurate, though. In some spaces, the wall has been scrubbed clean and someone or something has printed in an amazingly clear and fluent print, by hand no less, the phrases, sentences and words that I see. Perhaps I could read some of them to you...*



"A deadly mistake I believe our cultures make in the pursuit of meaning is this illusion that love devoid of the sacred, a naked love, is all we need to carry us through life's tests and passions."

"Now, here is my secret: I tell you with an openness of heart that I doubt I shall ever achieve again, so pray that you are in a quiet room as you hear these words. My secret is that I need God, that I am sick and can no longer make it alone. I need God to help me give, because I no longer seem capable of giving; to help me be kind, as I no longer seem capable of kindness; to help me love, as I seem beyond being able to love."

"Worship provides the posture of the heart and harness the inclination of the will."

"...God conquers not in spite of the dark mystery of evil, but through it."

"Truth is true even if no one believes it, and falsehood is false even if everyone believes it."

"...meaninglessness does not come from being weary of pain but from being weary of pleasure."

"We all recognize a sacred love when we see it, and we long for it. We all recognize arrogance and selfishness when we see it too. Sacred love is not without boundaries. There are lines that commitment will not cross because when they are crossed, it ceases to be love."

I don't know where these came from**, but I do sense that they are true statements. I do not know who put them here or why***, but I sense there was a purpose. I will try to copy some of these down and carry them with me, so that I can ponder them and store them in my heart. For some odd reason, I get a sense of hope with these words and phrases.

I hear a woman singing in the distance. I think I will investigate...

*All Quotes are from HERE, unless otherwise linked.

** Obviously a lie. I told you just above where they came from. And the one quote that didn't come from the same place as all the others is linked to the Amazon site of the book from which it was take. Although I got the quote from the same place as all the other quotes. I just linked the original author's book on Amazon for the sake of completeness and to avoid any potential legal things. I am fairly ignorant of copyright law, but this seems to be fair use and the reader (all one of you - maybe) is directed back to the original author. Whew. I mean I could probably go on like this for hours. I would probably end up putting a link to Llamas in here somewhere - oops, guess it is already there - AND LINKED TOO! Fun with links! Here is another link! This is fun...at least I didn't mention the moose...dang.

*** Another blatant lie in what seems to be a long string of lies. I obviously know who put them here. I even know why...

One final observation before I leave. There is an odd fountain in the farthest corner of the room, situated with a view to the window and surrounded by soft accent lighting. I say it is odd, because of the water itself. The water is beaded. Not upon the frame work of the fountain itself, but within the fountain and flowing into the fountain. The water beads are a lovely silver-gold and feel cool to the touch. I say that the water flow into the fountain, as this is all I can see. The water drops down from the ceiling and across and into the fountain itself. I can see no source for the beads; they just appear midair and fall down.

On a whim I take one of the beads and pop it into my mouth. I have been thirsty since my hallway encounter dried my mouth. The bead instantly dissolves in my mouth and washes down my throat. To say that it was refreshing would be do it a disservice. The water feels as if it is filling me, touching every part of my being and making me well. A peace comes over me. I feel settled and whole.

Behind the fountain is a small doorway, leading to a previously hidden alcove. Above the alcove is a small sign, in some ancient tongue that I am unable to decipher, but seems to indicate great treasure. How I arrive at this conclusion is beyond me, perhaps it is the effect of the water. Inside the alcove are three statues, carved in the ancient Greek fashion. Three young men, standing proud. No names, no plaques, no indication of who they are. But they are hidden here, and obviously revered.

Before leaving, I take as many of the beads as I can carry and pack away. They seem remarkably stable for having melted so rapidly in my mouth. It is while taking them that I notice an inscription around the edge of the basin: To You It Shall Be Provided, You've Merely To Ask. To All You Shall Give As Much As You Are Asked; To All You Shall Give As Much As You Have Need.

OUT! Get out of here! You've no place here!

White flash of light, retinas burning, then cool grey. A sepia effect has crept over the room. I can see a woman of middling age, bent forward in anger, brandishing a steely finger. Her face is set with disgust and pain. Her eyes flashing red, the only true color left in the room.

I've given you chance after chance and you still can't do it. Leave me, NOW!

I cower at the force of her words and emotion, afraid she will see me and turn her attention on me. I am lucky enough not to see upon who she is focused. That is a face I would not envy, such is her force.

A low groan and the room returns.

The lighting in the room is soft, presumably to allow better viewing at the window. It looks like the walls are divided by raised, golden or brass ridges. This gives the entire face of each wall a distinctive panelled look. If I squint a bit, and emphasize the ridges, it takes on an altogether different appearance. On some panels can be seen pictures, on others sayings and quotes. On still others, old time flipping letter message boards upon which ever changing words are flashed. It gives the overall appearance of an unsettled whir of activity. At one moment it may seem disparate and without cohesion. At another, all the elements come together and seem to make sense. The various topics displayed are dizzying in their number and complexity in one moment, and the next are simplistic and singular.



I have no way of reproducing here the pictures that I see. I am no artist, either in inclination or talent. The pictures change with the same fluidity as the writing and at times give the effect of an old time movie. I will do my humble best to describe some of what I see; to preserve it here for some forgotten posterity.

The first, and most striking picture is of a woman. The frame itself is a wonder of minute detail and craftsmanship. There are thousands of scenes carved into jade and ivory set into a frame of some exotic wood. The wood itself is deep, and rich. You can almost become lost in the lines and luster of the grain. The woman is, as I said, striking in her beauty and obvious intelligence. Her figure is enchanting, alluring and yet retaining an innocence that her eyes belie. Her face pulls you in, at once asking to be caressed and warning you not to touch unless asked. He lips and eyes are equalling inviting, but it is her eyes that ultimately win out. They are a perfect mixture of green and brown, sincerity and laughter, motherhood and sensuality, wisdom and frivolity; they are a perfect symbol of a great woman, one capable of embodying what it truly means to be a woman. I am in awe, and wonder if this vision ever really existed. The picture itself is almost calming. Almost. You see the eyes never quite look at the viewer. No matter the angle, I cannot get her to look at me. Sort of the opposite effect of all those paintings that disturbed me in my youth. And somehow a bit more disturbing.

Underneath the painting appears to be some sort of small garden or planting. The flowers grow, flower and fade within minutes; a never ending cycle of growth and renewal. A mesmerizing display of natural beauty.

A sign, tucked in a corner reads: "Banalities covered in sugar are still banalities"
Odd thing for a sign to say.

As I turn away from the window, a low moaning sound edges my awareness. A wail and a keening build and seem to force the air from the room. Choking, gasping for any relief, I looking around and find nothing. My eyes dim and...

Red. The room is awash in red. Dripping, coagulating red. Pooling underneath the corpses. Some impaled on rough hewn posts, others hanging by threads of skin from the ceiling. Their eyes turn as one to me, their mouths open and they begin to...

STOP

The briefest of blacks. a flash and there is a man standing before the window. He reaches one finger out to touch and the window cracks and splinters. He stands back and spreads his arms wide, welcoming his rushing...

ENOUGH

The black is content to surround me. The floor writhes and squirms its way up my legs. Pushing and burrowing into my skin. My arms are pulled back and up. I can feel my shoulders ripping apart and my skin being peeled off my legs. I try to scream but my mouth is filled with...

DONE

The room is quiet. I am intact. The window is unchanged. The horror is past. And feel sick.

Anois

Stepping through the archway, the passage gives way to a large room. The dominate feature of the room is a window. This is not some simple, every day, please-roll-it-up, hurry-close-it-before- it-storms window. This is a window in the same way that Australia is simply an island. This is a window that is about five feet in thickness, at least that is what the little sign next to the window indicates. It is window designed in strength, but blessed with portions of perfect clarity. There are some admitted distortions - some caused by the window itself, others caused by water seeping in, still others by an overgrowth of mildew and various similar things.



Trying to look out one of the less distorted areas, I can see that I am indeed under the water. I suppose the bathysphere ride should have been my first clue. The depth here, given the thickness of the window anyway, must be great. Flood lights stare out into the dark beyond the window and provide a few feet of illumination. The revealed sea-bed looks like a mixture of sand, stone and muck (I have no better word for it). At the edge of the light looks to be some lava cones and vents.



One of the first things that strikes me, looking out, is the footprints in the sea-bed. Footprints?! I cannot image anyone surviving to walk around outside this window - no matter what kind of deep sea suit they were wearing. As if that is not enough, there are at least two variety of footprints. One appears to be a barefoot print and the other looks to be more animal, in that it has obvious pads and claws. Curious. The prints seems to be wandering back and forth around the glass. The animal prints more distant, but making occasional rushes on the window. The barefoot prints seem to be warding the animal prints away. Intercepting and deflecting whatever it is that is making the prints. I also see, with something of a shiver, that the barefoot prints (rarely) seem to move out of the way and allow the animal prints in to touch the glass. And yet I see no fatal flaw or life threatening damage to the glass.

At the edge of the light, a little distance from the vents, appear to be half finished structures and designs. The appear vaguely familiar, tickling the edge of my memory without actually waking something. Some of the structures appear to be bending and and some appear to be destroyed by the pressure of the sea. Others are standing firm, with little sign of wear or damage. I can see that other structures provide shelter for small polymorphic creatures. They seem to lurk there on the edge of the night, winking and signaling to each other. I may be going crazy, but they also seem to have an awareness of my presence.

A dull thud shifts my attention toward the top of the window. Some sort of small pointed stick or primitive spear has struck the window. Coming in and out of clarity is the culprit. An oddly shaped thing that looks like the unfortunate offspring between a harpie and a puffer fish. Small arms hold it's primitive weapon, while it demonstrates some expertise with that weapon. (But it is still a very primitive tool and unlikely to do much lasting damage. I was initially scared that it would crack the window and end my investigations, but I soon realized the impotency of the thing and actually feel sorry for it.) It has the head of an eagle, but the face of a distraught and angry woman. It's body is all puffed out with it's own self importance, as if to say "look at me, see how big I am, see how much power I have, see what I can do!" It is ultimately a small thing fighting something it does not have the capacity to understand. It is ultimately a thing of pity.

The 'puffer-harpie' has me thinking about damage to the window, though. I stare out into the black looking for any danger, almost obsessively looking to be hurt. Some larger fish swim by and knock against the window, causing a shudder. But nothing that damages. These larger fish are almost unaware of the effect they have on the window and the man behind it. They are blind things, swimming in the dark, going about their own survival without malice or beneficence.

The inside of the window room is large and comes filled with things to see and investigate...

The lights flicker and go out. The ambient light is just enough to make out shadows and vague shapes. It is disturbing to be here in the dark. The unnatural sounds, the flashes of unfamiliar shadows and strange shapes. I can hear pumps and machinery. I can hear sighing and moaning coming from parts unexplored. And perhaps most frightening, I can hear metal scraping on metal and the rush of air from a long sealed door being opened.

"Mengele" is loose. I can do nothing but stand still and hope he doesn't notice me. I don't know his plans, intents or motivations. I only know that I don't want his attention. I listen with all of me for signs of his approach. Maybe he didn't see which way I went. Maybe I am safe from him. Maybe, but not likely. I see the sparks of a knife being dragged across metal first. Then I hear his footsteps. They have to be his, for I have encountered no others here.

I can feel his breath as he smiles at me. His hand caresses my face. His voice is softer than I'd imagined. His tone is reassuring and almost beguiling. Yet his eyes remain cold.

"It's OK. I am here to do want needs to be done. I can give you the solace you are missing. I will give you rest. All you have to do is ask."

And he is gone, back to his room. Sealed again, for now.

Wait. It has passed. Deja Vu* can be very disturbing.

Muted Chaos. It sounds a bit funny to say, but that is the best description I can give for what I hear. It is difficult to judge the origin. My first guess, Sioctha le heagla, proves to wrong. The sound fades as I move toward that passage. So too does the sound fade as I move close to Brionglóid a bheith agat ar rud and Anois. Perhaps from behind the potted trees and shrubbery.

Behind the trees and potted greenery, is, much to no one's surprise, a door. Oddly enough, it is a massive door - odd in that I should've noticed it before now. There are no apparent means to open the door, and it is in fact quite heavily barred. One small and very thick window provides a glimpse inside. Plans and diagram, unreadable through the glass, line the walls. And there is a solitary figure.

What picture do you get in your mind's eye when I mention Mengele? I see a gaunt man, thin and tall. I see a man of keen intellect. One who uses his sharp mind to further evil. And mostly I see a man with cold eyes. Not the eyes of the dead, but one whose eyes are always looking at the dead (though some of those may not yet know they are dead). That is the type of man I see behind the glass. He is what would be considered multitasking. He is sharpening knives, polishing guns, brewing noxious potions, and even forging pointy/blade-filled/hooked implements of torture and death. I turn away, but not before he turns to catch a glimpse of me. His expression doesn't change, but his eyes reveal a longing to do unspeakable things. I think this door is shut tight for very good reasons.



When journeying through the mind, even a semi-fictional one, sometimes real life brain things happen. Like DejaVu. Like Jamais Vu. Like accidentally erasing an entire post and having to re-write the silly thing.

As I stepped out of the bathysphere, I immediately sensed a familiarity. This was, after all, my head, and I should be familiar with at least parts of what I see. I won't bore you with adjective laden descriptions of what I see, but I will from time to time point out interesting (at least to me) signposts, landmarks and other clever little places. For now, let me just point out that I will be exploring and you are invited along. Stay as long as you want; leave as soon as you can - you know where the exit is located.

The first random door leads to a rather nondescript room. In it are two men, who appear to be having a rather heated discussion. I don't really want to bother them, but they insist upon interacting with me. The first, Cotard, is convinced that he is dead. Poor fellow, he seems quite sincere. His roommate, as it where, does not seem particularly perturbed. He, Capgras, lets me in on the secret. His (our?) friend is an impostor. So, while he feels sorry for the man and his obvious illness, he is not grieved. His friend has been replaced by a this impostor; the reason for such is unknown however. And thus the heated discussion, with each insisting he is correct in interpreting the situation.

Closing the door, I look ahead to several passages. "Sioctha le heagla" reads one passage. It looks too dark an foreboding for now. Perhaps later. "Brionglóid a bheith agat ar rud" looks promising. But I am most interested in "Anois." And it that is where I will start.

There is a song I heard that begs us to believe in heroes. When I first heard the song, that line always bothered me. I would think to myself that there are no heroes and I would laugh at the stupidity of believing in them. I was obviously not "in a good place," and I was very wrong. There are heroes and we should believe in them.

Our heroes do not have to larger than life supermen or women. They do not have to be widely known; they do not have to have done great and public works. In fact, I think the best of heroes are those ordinary men and women around us that appear extra-ordinary in our eyes. Heroes can be anyone around us, men or women, young or old that have some characteristic or some thing about them that inspires us to go beyond the ordinary ourselves. These people may seem flawed and broken to others - and indeed may very well be, but to us and through our eyes they are true heroes. We see in them the noble, the self sacrifice, the goodness, the mercy, the thoughtfulness and intellect; the great qualities of mankind stuffed into someone we can touch and hold, someone who smiles at us and loves us, someone who is human and not just a character on the page or screen*. We need these heroes in order to see our own potential and in order to pull our lives up and out of the mire of the everyday world. And it really doesn't matter what others say about them, what matters is what we have seen, felt, experienced from them. What matters is what we have been witness to in their lives and how it inspired a desire in us to be better than we are or have been.

What got me thinking about this subject was my oldest son. His life is not what I would want it to be and it seems to be going nowhere. Not through inability, but through choice. I have faith that he can and will accomplish much good in his life, but right now, at this time, he seems to be a some sort of holding pattern. He has a hero, and it is my desire that he begin to emulate his hero's positive qualities. I know he has sports figures he looks up to, musicians he looks to ( that perhaps he shouldn't emulate), but it is his grandfather who is his real hero. And that is a good thing.

As an aside, I do think it is important that males have male heroes as much as it is important that females have female heroes. I do not think that men cannot or should not have female heroes, but there is an important gender specific role model aspect of a male hero that is important for the male. And visa versa for females. In this way it is especially good that my son has his grandfather as a hero. This does not exclude the females in his life, but rather enhances him overall.

Am I jealous that it is his grandfather that is his hero and not me? I wouldn't be human if I didn't think about that a little. But then again, having his grandfather as a hero does not exclude me as a hero, and as I said above, it rather enhances his life overall. It is the seeds of love and family that his grandfather planted ( I know because I was there), the love he gave to my son, that I hope will one day awaken my son to fulfill his own purpose. It is the lessons that I saw my father-in-law silently give my son that I hope will inform him as he matures. I hope that whatever lessons my son took from me will likewise be positive, but I have no hope that my son will ever just say so. In fact he never directly says his grandfather is his hero, I have just seen it in his eyes and heard it in the way he speaks.


*Granted, this is a human oriented thought. I don't mean to exclude or minimize the importance of Christ of other Biblical heroes. Heroes of all kinds are important, I just wanted to highlight the importance of male role models to younger males and the role that heroes know on a person level can be very powerful in an individuals life. I know that the heroes I have have played that important role in my life. I can say that my heroes range from my Dad to my father-in-law and in that regard I have experienced the power that an older man's life can have in helping me choose the right thing to do. Do I always choose it? No, but that doesn't take away from the person I hold as a personal hero, it reflects on my character. Do I know that the heroes I have chosen are flawed? Certainly. I don't have to work hard to pull up some very bad memories of my Dad, but the point is not what they did that was or was perceived to be wrong; the point is the positive lessons I learned from the greater portions of their lives. Yes, I willfully choose to ignore or forget the "bad" things they did, because in the larger context of their lives I have come to realize that those things were unimportant and certainly not worthy of me spending my time on. I would rather remember and idolize the good deeds, habits, character traits, etc that I saw and experienced to help guide me in everyday situations. If someone were to ever point out those flaws and to try to trivialize my hero because of their flaws, I would think that it would reflect rather poorly on the person denigrating my hero. Not because I live in a fantasy and don't realize that my heroes were indeed human, but because I think it would be petty of a person so try to soil a precious memory of a person I hold so dear to my heart.

Anyone have any thoughts about this subject??

One wonderfully tired and over used way to start the new year is to look over the past and project what the future may bring. And any who know me - the few and not so proud - will realize that I can project the gloomy and dreariest of futures. Maudlin seems to capture it. Well then, where do I see myself, say five years, in the future?

If I am still alive, and barring any divine intervention, then this is my projection. Living alone in an apartment or a double-wide (Double-wide Mobile home for all those fortunate enough not to know what I meant). Driving a "beater." Sparsely furnished abode, but with a computer and one or more gaming systems. Maybe taking some adult ed classes at the local tech school just to fill out my nights. Fatter.

At this time I am comfortable with this prediction. Honestly, I will just have to see what time brings, but it will be interesting to see how much I got wrong or right in this brief scenario. And, I believe in Divine intervention, which leaves me plenty of room for hope (even if I don't feel it at any particular time).