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Archive for February, 2012

When All Else Fails . . .

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on February 25, 2012| Leave a Comment »

And now for something completely different . . .

To Health!

He sipped his beer slowly, methodically. He blew what little foam remained floating ever so lightly, just so as to make it feel the breeze of his breath without actually moving it closer to the side of the mug. He raised the edge of the cup to his lips and took in a sip, letting the bitter sweet rest and pool briefly on his tongue before swallowing it down, replacing the mug to the coaster where it had sat before. He stared into what foam remained as though trying to gaze into the deepest recesses of the universe.

“A women is it?” Pete tried to draw his attention away from a distant galaxy.

Instead Pete was given a reply by subspace from some distant region, his gaze remained fixed and unflinching as he responded without altering his facial expression or appearance of concentration, “Naw, haven’t had one of those to think about in longer than I care to think about. Fact is I really aint got anything to do, and I haven’t had a drink in a bar in a long time. How bored’s a fella gotta be to wonder into a bar to savor his favorite beer in a glass poured to him by another man because he just can’t think of anything else to do with his life? House is clean, TV is the same old shit since Shakespeare told by a fresh pair of tits, fiction books are about the same without the tits, and there’s nothing I feel like learning to crochet or diet; don’t feel like learning to be the Buddha this week. Christ, I’ve even listened to my 557 CDs enough times to choke a moose. This was the most creative idea I could come up with, and I aint here but to sip slowly on the same type of beer I’ve been drinking for over 20 years. I know what I like, I stick to it!”

“And you say you don’t have a creative bone in your body?”

“Actually, when I’m not pushin’ paper at the office, I’m painting. I’ve been through school to learn different ways to go about it. My style changes with wind and mood alike. I know myself well enough to know I’ll probably be painting a mug of beer in about 27 different ways shortly after I get home. Life as I know it just don’t seem fulfilling right now. Creativity or not, here is the beer to give me a perspective out of the ordinary.”

“How long did you say it’s been since you’ve . . . uh . . . thought of a women?” Pete asked hopefully.

He took a moment, looked up from the couple of suds left at the top of the liquid, and smiled. His gaze returned to the Crab Nebula. Despite this, his voice couldn’t conceal the hope of hope as he responded, “Petey, I may have something more to paint when I get home than merely beer.”

Without hesitation or method, he raised the cup to his lips and took in a long swig. Putting it down, his throat felt satisfied as he saw the outline of his own solar system begin to emerge in what he saw remaining in his cup.

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Outside The Wall

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on February 19, 2012| 3 Comments »

This week I wanted to write something with a moral, and this is what entered my head.

Smiling Wall

Snareoth sat down to write upon the wall. Surrounding him, men of the faith praying to the last remaining vestige of the ancient form of their religion; a religion they pray often their Deity resurrect by raising the other walls of the temple to make the vessel of their faith whole. Many a tear they shed that only this single wall remained of times glorious since past. Many a garment rend when initially the other three walls were brought down, and millennia later, still tears shed that what was once has not again been made whole.

In the center of the convergence of faiths that had brought much blood to brothers of species, Snareoth sat with his bag and prayed silently as all around him others in the sacred garb bent there knees, chanted and recited, and stuffed messages to God into the cracks in the wall. Raising his head from his reverent request for guidance and assurance of his faith, he raised his head to the wall erected as the home of his people’s God, and opened his bag. From it he removed mallet and chisel.

He unrolled a small piece of paper inscribed with his most ardent of prayers. He looked it over and placed it on his lap; he wished to see the words to God he wished to express from the wholeness of his being. Those around him, over him, took no notice of the peculiarity until his hammer struck the first faithful blow. Before the second fell he felt a kick in the head.

The paper upon which was written the prayer he wished to inscribe upon the wall fell from his lap as he was dragged from the wall; 50 screaming at him, a couple being held back from further striking out at his head. The women praying toward the wall at the other end of the courtyard stood on there toes to watch the commotion breaking out amongst the men.

One very old holy man turned his head when he had heard the hammer’s blow and surveyed the scene from a distance as it unfolded. He saw the small piece of paper fall from the man being carried away who had held the chisel and mallet that now lay upon the bag from which they had been taken before etching a single mark into the wall’s face. He picked up that paper wondering what word would dare be inscribed into this most holy of all his people’s shrines. His eyebrows raised.

But for those closest by, the strike of a hammer was barely heard throughout the courtyard. Those few turned from the sight of bitterness to this new scene, as they wondered how it could be that such a sound could ring out again so soon. Turning to those still watching the original man being carried away, they tapped the shoulders of those close at hand that they might hear the third blow against chisel, against rock. Known throughout the land by many as a great teacher of the prophets’ words of the divine, none close by could fathom stopping the old man as he continued chiseling where Snareoth had left off.

By the 10th blow of the hammer, far on the other side of the courtyard, those carrying Snareoth away stopped too and turned toward where they had come when the initial slight had been done to their sacred space; they listened to the sound make music where once they had heard blasphemy, though confused, they knew not how to this music dance. From a place on the ground where he had been released from the mob’s grasp, between legs Snareoth tried to see from where he had come as he heard clearly the chisel’s strike through the dead silence of all who could not conceive what they were witnessing.

But none made a motion to stop the old holy man as they watched him inscribe into their holiest place letters forming words. And because none of them could fathom raising a hand against him, or dissenting to the reverence they held for him, in silence they all watched as something new emerged upon the wall’s face. Snareoth crawled past the mob and slowly rose to his feet; a tear rose and fell to his rising lips as he beheld a miracle enacted.

Many were gathered ’round as the final chippings of the last word were embedded into the wall’s side. They began to murmur amongst themselves as the message was discerned clearly before the last flecks of stone fell to reveal fully the final letter. All those watching from further back were anxious to hear what those in font saw the message to be that could be so important this holy man would deface their most sacred monument.

Snareoth heard the last strike of the hammer as the man beside him asked the man in front of him what they said the message was. Said the man, “It is a prayer!” As he finished his sentence Snareoth beheld the falling of the wall into dust where before the great temple had been. The answering man looked dumbfounded to see the open air before him as a great deal of dust began its decent to finally settling to it’s home of the Earth where it had not rested for a long time, and almost absentmindedly he spoke the prayer that those before him had recited that those closest had seen etched into the wall, “May I not be harmed as I write a prayer to bring all of mankind peace.”

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The Warrior’s Way

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on February 12, 2012| Leave a Comment »

More of the same in terms of process. In this one I found my end point a day or two after writing the first sentence. For me not knowing what I’ll write from beginning to end is a journey. I have fun as a story emerges that is more from a subconscious exercise than a conscious one . . .

Tunnel

A clear tunnel as a wind-swept cloudy-gray swirled all around him. He ran his sword through the wall of vapor as he walked, it tugged lightly against his weapon, calling it to unknown realm, or perhaps oblivion.

He had opened a door he found in a tree as he was patrolling the forests. He felt air rushing past him toward the light he stared at through the open door; he saw nothing but it. He had decided to walk through to find out where it came from, what it was, if it was useful to the others. As he walked through, the door shut quickly behind him, and now he found himself surrounded by the tunnel, staring at a long path, a light somewhere in the distance. He walked.

The ground below his feet was mossy, few dry scattered leaves here and there. No breeze from the tunnel moved the leaves but his own footfalls one after the next. Looking back toward where he came, he saw no place a door could have been, just a shadowy more-of-the-same that extended back apparently a half-mile or so. He took another step forward.

He walked for what felt like hours with his sword in hand. He didn’t know what may be ahead for him, he supposed some sort of magic to have brought him where he was, while he did not feel danger, he would not be caught unprepared. After what felt like several hours walking with his sword in hand, his sword began to feel heavy.  He sheathed it. He took another step forward.

After what felt like more hours he stared into the wall of the tunnel. In the mists he saw shapes and forms as he remembered seeing in clouds one day when he had looked toward the sky from a place by a stream. He saw his fellow warriors in combat against a dragon. He saw a hand wipe away the battle, the outline of a face, a pair of eyes open toward him. He saw a stream and a man beside it staring up at the sky; he saw clouds swirl before the man, speaking to themselves, and beckoning him forward. He shook his head from side to side quickly to break up the wanderings of his mind. Again he saw a wall of swirling mists. He took a step back from the wall, back to the center of the path. He took a step forward.

As he walked he began dragging his sword behind him through the leaves, across the ground. He ran his sword from time to time through the mists to feel the light tugging that reminded him he had some reason not to wander off the path. He sheathed his sword again and noticed that the light did seem brighter if not particularly closer. He was about to sigh when he heard a voice echo in his mind, “Leave sword and sheath behind, or no closer will your footsteps bring you.” He considered it unwise to follow the voice of a magic that might leave him vulnerable. He stepped forward despite that voice and kept walking. His resolve continued for what felt as more hours, and the light did not become brighter.

He unfastened his sheath and laid it down with sword. He stepped forward. One step later he turned around to where his sword lay. It twitched, and he lunged for it. It moved toward the tunnel and immediately was lost from sight. He heard a voice echo in his mind, “Step forward now away from where that thing lay, or meet a fate same as it, a place where ever will you have need of it, the place opposite of where your steps will lead should you continue forward now . . .” He looked up toward where he had been walking and saw that the light was brighter. He was unsure, did not trust, and was unaccustomed to being without his weapon, but the light felt better than the gray, and so he stepped forward toward what gave him choice to move rather than the swirling mists which seemed in essence to tug and pull. He took another step forward.

As he stepped closer to the light, the light grew. The further he walked the more the tunnel blended in with the light. The swirling mists began to transition, slowly, from grey into lighter and lighter shades. He could swear he heard the sweet soft sound of humming as he stepped ever onward toward the light. Until, truly it became bright . . . He stepped forward.

And as he stepped forward, slowly now, the mists began to dissolve into the light and a brightness shined before him, in the distance, spectacularly bright where before the light was merely white compared to the gray the tunnel had been. It dazzled before him and grew as he stepped closer. Where before he walked toward light that at times did not at all grow, now every footfall brought him closer to a destination; something that he would come to physically before long, the shadows surrounding him now all but gone. Another step forward.

And surrounding him only white; no swirling, no mists, no gray, no tunnel to speak of, only white. And the brightness was maybe ten steps before him. He felt a light breeze of warmth caress his face coolly. As he took another step forward he heard a voice echo within his mind, “You may walk anywhere but forward and be returned to what you know, and not know what you don’t. Though, in this moment, you may be assured that what you don’t know will bring you no pain.” As this statement had finished within his mind he had already stepped four steps closer. And over the course of the next four steps, as something felt very right, he contemplated that he was bound forward by his own volition even if the voice had not caressed his mind with its assurance. He trusted his steps and wished only to know what only his steps could teach. “Extend your arms outward,” he heard in his head before beginning another step forward. Raising his arms outward, he took another step forward.

As his foot fell a final time he felt a deep softness upon his mouth followed shortly by a cool calmness of light within his mouth.  He dissolved into the light and released himself of care for his body in entirety. He was relieved to carry no longer the burden of gravity; his body inconsequential as he was as what he reached; without care of substance, he was grateful to share with what was also as he.

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My Friend

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on February 5, 2012| Leave a Comment »

A friend of mine transitioned a week from last  Monday. I called her Jamie, which roughly translated in French means “I Friend.” She just liked the name and would have preferred to be called that, whether or not she knew the French I couldn’t tell ya. Her given name was Jane. That I am capable of creating with my hands, I owe to her. The last decade or so of her life she awaited death as one who wished to see home after many years in jail, and was severely irritated that it hadn’t come yet whenever I saw her. I figured I should attempt to write something in the spirit of her this week since I regard her as one of my greatest teachers in this life, and will miss her accordingly.

I Friend

“God bless it! You made me laugh! How dare you!”

“Well, look, if you’re looking forward to your imminent decay, I’d like to have at least some happy recollection of you before you go off to feed the worms. And no, I’m not the least bit sorry for it!”

“I’ll haunt you for that you know!”

“I would be so lucky! You’ll probably haunt the maggots for longer. Or with a little luck they’ll regard you as a trilobite in a few million years, but this don’t look like volcano weather to me . . .”

Interlude

That’s about where I have to end this story, it’s odd having a dialogue with a dead person, even if it’s really more indicative of my mind than anything, and  I really don’t have anywhere else to take it, so, I think I’ll try my hand toward a little bad poetry and call it a week. I thank my readership for humoring me, it is what it is . . .

In The Image Of

You take a rabbit,

hippity hop,

chop off its head and feed some flowers,

don’t dare ask what kind,

cut it down the middle to remove its entrails,

and skin it nice and slow;

dinner time before the creative process begins.

When that skin is dry, stretch it amidst a frame,

awl some holes for leather cord,

around the ring hold that pelt in place!

Next pick the flowers that have grown

from the life of your food;

grind them with mortar and pestle,

add just a few drops of water,

let the colors come out,

their natural juice.

Bring whiskers together for a brush,

and point yourself in the direction of sunrise;

the colors will be perfect,

we create in the image of the divine.

I love you my friend. May you be irritated by this life no longer!

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