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).

Like so many things in life, we know how we got to be in the position we are in, but don't want to admit it. Me, I was walking quite merrily down a road that I thought was well travelled. It seemed everyone was going the way I was going. Sure, I saw the forks and turn offs, the other paths, but I kept going the way I thought I was to go. For myself - yes, for others - yes, out of habit - probably, out of some sense of (misguided or not) duty - yes. And now, here I am. Stuck in a swamp, up to my waist in muck and stagnation. The smells around me are putrid, decaying life. And yes, swamps look wonderfully cool and beautiful from a boat, canoe, airplane, or some other means to keep you out of the mud. But once you are stuck, that is a different story...

I had bought this watch on a whim. The man on the TV said it would last forever and it would, in the words of a competitor, "take a lickin." I should have known that any off brand, particularly one named "Promise, " would break as soon as I hit the swamp. I looked in vain at the watch. 3:16. Same thing it said two hours ago; same thing it said this morning at dawn and last night at dusk. 3:16. I guess I am lucky even to have a broken watch. It takes my mind off of my real problems, even for just a second (I guess it is a second, the second hand no longer moves with "a determined sweep around the brushed metal face" of my watch).

I have been wandering aimlessly around this primordial paradise of mosquitoes, gators, rats, snakes, maggots, flies, leeches and various and sundry other pests for weeks now. I find what little food I can, but I am starving. My legs are weak, but probably no weaker than my determination. It has gotten increasingly hard to pull one foot up from the water and mud and put it down in front of me. I never know what I am going to step on or in. I never know if I will loose mu footing or my foot. The suspense is maddening. Stepping blindly here is like, if I can be so trite, playing twister with Death, and Death cheats. (My apologies to Twister, its manufacturer, Twister fans and anyone else offended by the analogy.) I have been standing in this spot now for quite awhile, contemplating my next move. Wondering if I should just lay down in the water and let nature take its course. Wondering if I deserve to go on, if anyone really notices me out here, or misses me out there. That was when I saw the flashing and decided to investigate.

A piece of metal - maybe from a cola can or something. I couldn't tell by the small bit I held or the washed out colors. In fact, the only thing I could read were some code numbers - you know, the ones some computer prints on the side of a can for reasons unknown to the average drinker. The code is faded and tough to read, but not impossible. 139-17-18. I have no idea what the makers of this bit of metal meant by the number. Curious. I walked over to this spot without much trouble and my hunger pains have been displaced for a time by my curiosity. But the reality of being lost in a swamp is still there, and I quickly return to my morbid ruminations.

And another distraction. I am not sure how I spotted it, but it seems as plain as day to me now. A tired old saying, really - plain as day, but I have no others. This distraction looks like a bit of cardboard. It too has only numbers upon it. Again the coding of some unknown manufacturer has provided me with some brief respite and goal. This code is just as mysterious to me as the last. 31-24. Why are these numbers put on things, and what can they be used for. I haven't a clue. This time the morbid thought don't return as quickly, as i look about for my next mystery, my next treasure.

43.5. Found on a piece of Styrofoam floating in a nameless swamp. 12/12. Found on a bit of glass. The glass rounded and dull, safe to the touch. Looking back at the day, I have come further than I would have ever dreamed. I have travelled through this swamp without getting eaten, falling, or losing my way. These numbers are providing a path, a way through the swamp. They are giving me a distraction from the dangers and the hunger. They are hopefully leading me out of the swamp. Magic thinking, maybe, but so far they are the only things giving any sort of results. I guess I will know in time...

Why are good days so full of crap? She didn't understand why that always seemed to happen. Today was here first day of classes and everything seemed to go wrong. The Registrar was painfully ignorant of the basics of common decency, and it went down hill from there. But she'd made it through her first day and felt she was on her way to something so much better than what she'd ever had. She was not kidding herself, it would be difficult, he'd told her as much. But she was ready for difficult, difficult didn't bother her. It was success that she was worried about. She'd never done success well and it terrified her. But he said she could do it, and she believed him.

The rocks were worn smooth by the water. The sound irritated her. Everything irritated her. The birds, the kids and their harpy mothers, the bright blue sky and the crystal clear water. It had been three days now and she was hurting. Physically and spiritually. She didn't even believe she had a spirit, but it hurt like hell. She couldn't stop thinking about the guy at the store. He just stood there, looking at her...why? She couldn't shake the feeling that she was at a crossroad. She could chose to do what her body and mind screamed for her to do and find a fix or she could stop. For good. She was beginning to regret the decision she'd made. She had to find some help.

Soon the classes and school work seemed to melt into one. The gauntlet of the first day had given way to an easy monotony of classes, smiles, stale jokes and homework. She had never met people like these before. Sure, some were like her, trying to rebuild themselves, but others were fresh and unspoiled. In someways she envied them, but was old enough to know that it was useless to want to be them. She was who she was, through experience and choice. And for the first time in a long time she was beginning to enjoy herself, to enjoy who she was. The class work was hard, but not insurmountable. She was glad she could begin using words that were more than four letters long, words with rich almost forgotten histories. In fact, she found a thirst for words she had never known before and was drinking in new ones daily. In an odd way, words were her new fix. She had to learn a new one daily and felt cheated if she didn't. Some words were beautiful, some just felt good to say, some conjured mystery and others felt ordinary but strong. Much like the people in her life.

Rehab is a joke, full of losers and half-wits! At least that was what she'd thought when she'd started. Until it hit her that she was in rehab too. Then she started working for her sobriety. She'd graduated the 28 day program with high hopes and was lucky enough to find some housing that continued her treatment. They had made her get a job, but she was no longer picky abut what she did. After all, nothing could be as bad as what she had done in the past. Nothing. Bagging and delivering groceries wasn't half bad though. She got out, met people and enjoyed her country surroundings. Always the city girl, she had despised country people, but found that they had a wisdom missing from the city. They approached life honestly and with a realism that only seemed naive.

Graduation brought change. Graduation focused the mind on change. But change is not always bad. She had changed and that was a good thing. But more change was coming. The offer of a job, making good money, in a smaller city close to the coast was her dream come true. The offer had come out of nowhere and shocked her. She had been putting out resumes in the big cities, but never got anything back. Then the call had come to work in an established art house with the work requirements fitting her strengths almost perfectly. She wondered briefly if he had had a hand in the offer, but dismissed it as superstition. It had been a long time since she'd thought of him and the Incident.

She stood on the dock, about to make what she thought was a routine delivery. It was eerie though, standing here is in the dusk. The air was cool and whispered of winter to come. The woods looked like they were brooding and she she shivered from the looks of them as much as from the air. She had missed the early signs that might have alerted her to the coming events and so she went in ignorance to the woods.

Remembering now, it seemed strange how much her life has changed.

The woods quickly turned dusk into night. Her thoughts darkened almost as quickly. Why come here, why do this? Why continue the charade of sobriety? The beasts hidden in the woods, she imagined she could see their gleaming red eyes, howled back her thoughts. Their cries of anguish complimented her growing melancholy. And she almost turned back.

It was pointless to wonder what would've become of her if she had turned back, because she already knew. She would've been dead by now.

The woods gave way to what seemed to her a dismal clearing cluttered by a dilapidated shack. Weeds, unpainted shutters, and dim windows didn't help her impression. She'd always hated coming here, the place gave her the creeps. Being here at night didn't help. She'd never met the people who lived here - they were usually out on the lake or something, she wasn't sure. That they trusted her to come in their home and leave the groceries while they were not home creeped her out too. Surely they had to have something wrong with them if they trusted so much, right?

The memories came flooding back...

The house itself was dark, felt empty. Something was missing, but she couldn't put her finger on what. Whatever it was, she didn't want to get blamed. She rushed over to put the groceries down and that was when she saw it. An envelope addressed to her. She opened it without thinking...

The "Incident"

Dear -,
I daresay you will not remember me, but I want to thank you. You gave me hope the day we first met, and saved my life the last time we met. You may think these are the mad musings of a mad man, but they are not. I owe you a debt that I am afraid I can never repay, and I thought you should know. I have come to think of you as an Angel, one of God's divine creatures, sent to me in times of doubt and self destruction;sent to wake me from the stupor of my life.
The first time we met, I was walking without purpose through my life. I was in a dead marriage and a dead end job. I put on a good show though, and I don't think any but the most observant knew what I was hiding. Then you came flying into my life and stirred me from my slumber. It was your first attempt at getting me to see the important things of my life, though you did not know it. I have called you an Angel, but you were a dirty one. You did not know of your own divine nature. You were trapped in the filth of the world, but I could see you ached to be free of it. I could tell you wanted better. And somehow, I knew you deserved better. Then you left me, running into the night. I am sad to say I quickly returned to sleep and went about my life as if you'd never been.
So God sent you again. This time you made sure I would listen. I can vividly recall staring into your eyes as your gun was pressed to my forehead. I could not believe what I saw. They looked dead at first glance, consumed by desire for death. But underneath, where you were barely aware, was beauty. My God! You had the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen! I am not talking of an earthly beauty to be lusted after, I am talking a beauty of divine origin. A bountiful spirit and drive, a capacity to do great things. Yes, your outward appearance was that of a junkie, but inside you were a Godsend. I realized then I had to wake up.
And you let me live. You saved me physically and spiritually. A double gift! It was the next day that I was diagnosed with cancer. You see Ihad not been feeling well and had gotten rather depressed over my condition. I was quite prepared to kill myself that night, until you put the gun to my head and showed me my own cowardice. Such was the power of that encounter, and the beauty of your eyes, that I was able to hear my diagnosis without sinking into despair again. I then set out to free the people around me. As I said, my marriage was bad, so I let my wife out - to pursue her own happiness, a happiness she so richly deserves. I removed my self from the world to die on my own terms, in the place I loved best. Not as an act of despair, but as one of acceptance. I also set about learning about you. I know that sounds very "creepy," but I had to know who my Angel was. And learn I did.
Thank you, Angel. I can never repay my debt to you, but that does not mean I cannot try. I know that you have thrown off the yolk of addiction - but be ever watchful for its call - and that you want more for your life. I have arranged for you to be enrolled in school, if you so choose. I have made arrangements for your tuition, so you need not worry about cost. I know you can succeed, I know you are worth the effort and time. I know because I have seen it, in your eyes. My only hope is that you can now see it as well.
Please, accept my meager efforts and leave this place. Do not look around or pry. Leave and call the authorities, for if you are reading this, I have gone. I have loved you from afar for the gifts that you unknowingly gave. Please, accept that love, and learn to make it your own.

It was a little over two years ago that she'd first decided that her decent into Hell had gone far enough. The memories crashed in on her tonight; she was not sure why. Maybe it was the sound of the man's voice in alley, maybe it was the weather, maybe it was just fate or fate's cruel cousin, spite.

Barely able to stay awake, it had been a day or two since she lasted used. Who could tell how long it had been? Going from one cesspool to another, giving everything she had, including herself, to some sleaze for a few moments of peace. She stumbled along the alley and heard bits and pieces of an approaching argument.

"Forgiveness is the main theme, at least the way I look at it, but I see your point about redemption," said Voice One.

"Redemption is vital, without it we cannot approach the throne!" was Voice Two's response.

"But we can't afford redemption. We've tried and failed. That's why redemption had to bought for us. It was a gift in the form of forgiveness and sacrifice..."

And she was upon them. Middle aged suburban scum who should've stayed home tonight. She needed whatever they had - money, watched, cards - so she could get what she really needed. She jumped the second voice and he immediately fell. The first grabbed he and pried her off. Surprisingly strong for his looks. He looked at her and it was his eyes that stopped her.

She didn't remember if it was the drug, if it was withdrawal or just his eyes, but she stopped cold. There was something different about those eyes, but indescribable. She wanted to stare at them all night and at the same time rip them from their sockets. She hated what they represented - family, peace, love, self worth and joy. All the things that she needed.

Home, she loved thinking about that word, was a one bedroom sublet. The money she made as a delivery "boy" was just enough to pay the bills. For now. The "Incident" (It had now become capitalized in her mind, perhaps to emphasize the change it had brought) was changing that. She would be starting school next week, something she thought she would never do, much less look forward to doing. Graphic Arts. It had been her dream as a kid and had been destroyed by the choices she'd made. She could hardly believe that she was enrolled and her tuition paid in full. But it came at a price, like all things of value.

She saw those eyes one last time before going clean. They were alone at Mom & Pop store she was about to clean out. The gun made her feel in control, at least when she wasn't shaking form withdrawal and fear. He just stood there, by the chips and looked at her. Even when she pressed the gun to his forehead, he didn't say a word and just looked. It wasn't a stare, really, but a look. And all those things were still there, leaping out at her, begging her to go after her real dreams and hopes. Commanding her to give up the chemical chase and instead accept hope. A thousand things flew out from those eyes that she could barley comprehend, but she was secretly thankful for each and every one. She left without taking a thing and within a week was struggling with her new sobriety.

The price was only as high as she allowed it to be, though. No one was around to ensure its payment, except her. But she knew she was more than capable of paying this debt. The only price she had to pay was to be successful, to work hard, and to become the artist she knew she could be. The artist he knew she could be.

The incident almost certainly changed her life. If you could call it that. Incident, it sounded so clinical and not at all like what it had actually been. But she couldn't think of a better word; words were not her thing anymore. She was an ex junkie making a real run at recovery. It had been two years since she'd last used and she was thankful for every one of those days, she'd earned them.

Come on, try it. She knew it was the stupidest line she'd ever heard and yet it made, in this briefest of seconds, an irrefutable argument.

If only she'd been able to come up with a suitable argument, she'd never have had to go to rehab, she'd never have had to live at the halfway house and she would never have gotten the delivery job. Maybe there really was a reason for everything. If she'd never gone along with the argument to just try it, she would have never experienced the "incident" in all its horror and glory. (She'd begun to think of the "incident" with quotes, since it seemed to better describe some essence of it without having to go to the trouble of actually using the best word, which she wouldn't have known anyway.)

We are alone. Physically, I mean. I do not know why it took me 40 some years to realize this, but it is true. We are truly alone. People may wander in and out of our lives, but we are alone. I don't think that was how things were meant to be, but it is still true.

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.

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.