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Posts Tagged ‘writing’

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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Water Pours

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on January 28, 2012| 2 Comments »

I started with an image that sprang to mind, the one in the first line, then took it where it wanted to go. Just fun.

Into The Water’s Gaze

While gazing into the water, reflecting everything it could see, as he leaned forward the nearer he came to the reflection, the reflection beginning to look as those galaxies swirling beyond the atmosphere, until he found himself melting into the pool. He felt a drop of water fall from a leaf into him, and then ripple him from center to outer-most edge. He felt the leaf fall upon his face and begin to be carried toward the vastness toward which he was naturally pulled; as close to the infinite as he could conceive as he was. He felt himself fall through the surface and to the other side.

Looking up he saw the light dancing upon a sky un-anchored above him; he saw the blue of the sky. Surrounding him he saw all possibilities of the life the water provided; he saw all the possibilities of the imagination combined. A fish, whale size, darted past his belly; he was pretty sure it was a rainbow trout. From a blackness, apparently infinite below him, he saw the crashing of particles rise toward the sky; apparently matter forming for the first time as air and water and dust all realized the possibilities of their own existence. Looking up again, he saw that beyond the blue was a pitch black next to infinite galaxies swirling throughout an apparent endlessness. He began to thirst for a grain of rice.

He saw a civilization emerge beside him, a place in which the creatures living their found themselves drawn to a natural inclination, for which the others around them made room so that they could share the ripening fruits of their natural inclination. In this distant land, as everybody naturally produced what it was they cultivated from themself, they shared it freely with all around. No one thirsted, starved, or lacked for anything they wanted. Everybody feeding each other from their selves, no one considering there was any other reason to live but to feed others from one’s own self-fulfillment.

Through the water he flew, barely but thinking of which direction in which he wished to go. As bubbles were made behind him, and he flew around and around in them, he saw the breath of the waves, the possibility of all existence each held, when next to the water they held at bay. He became as a dolphin darting between fishes many times his size. Toward the promise of galaxies beyond the single blue eye of the world in which he lived he pointed himself and flew at the greatest speed he could fathom: one thought faster than the speed of light itself. He melted Into the light.

He melted into the spectrum, stopping himself at the color of the eye of the world late on a lazy afternoon just as a cool breeze called the heat of the sun to a marriage of equality and courted it to the joy of any creation possible. He felt the green of the blade of grass upon his cheek. He opened his eyes toward the Heavens to reclaim his body from all simultaneous particles of light. He looked up into the eye of a tarantula, black, average size. It kissed him on the cheek and then scurried into the woods in the direction he would go to return home. He was grateful for the promise of warmth shared by another heart as at peace as his own.

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Vote Early, Vote Often!

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on January 22, 2012| Leave a Comment »

This post goes up a little late this week due to a trip I was taking this weekend, and a change in plan of story to post. In honor of a friend of mine who has a submission in this odd contest, I felt the inspiration to write something reflective of her art and the art that her art reflects. It is my sincerest wish that everyone reading my story this week casts a vote in her favor, whomever you might be. May you enjoy her art, and may you enjoy mine!

Concentrate

The bullfighter held a cape of pink flecked with gold. Her eyes gleamed as diamonds as the full moon reflected her sight to where the beast lowered its hoof before coming to a stop, staring at her as though with intention. It lowered its head and pushed its hind legs hard against the Earth, it fore-legs leaping forward from the momentum given. She did not flinch as it forced all it had toward where she stood still.

Her diamonds stared the moon into its lowered forehead; it did not look up to the cape that so enraged and confused whatever occupied its skull. Two seconds before reaching her, she stepped to the left, bowing the fullness of her body toward the creature she side-stepped as with her other foot she completed the single step out of the way, and with her right hand brought a dagger of coral straight into its throat. She swung around as its body pushed her arm out of its way; she caught hold of its tail with all her grasp as she completed her turn. As she took a knife of onyx from her belt she found herself slide across the dirt five feet or so before severing her handle from the back-side of the beast.

She claimed her cape from where it had fallen and incited the madness of her adversary’s being to boil to insanity as it turned toward her to exact vengeance. Still she stood as it rampaged toward her, she removed her sword of Ivory from her side and plunged it, without flinching, into the animal’s eye as the point of it’s horn lowered but an inch before her own. As it raised it’s head in anguish and half its vision’s defeat she grabbed hold of where the dagger of coral hung in its neck and pulled it against its turning head with all her might; as it kicked against the air and choked on its blood she shoved the onyx blade between its horns; it lifted her a little off the ground as he helped her find the blade’s way into his brain. Her feet a foot off the ground, she let the handle go; rolling out of the way of its hooves as she hit the dust below.

Through the night she watched the bull dance; watched its life dance from its body in the places causing it’s will to bend to the feel of the gaps in its being alone. After three hours of bucking and baying, it collapsed its weight upon its legs as it wailed in its own way. Hating to see the creature in pain, she walked forward, holding what she had been for several hours. Handle of emerald, blade lined with sapphire, the image of an eye engraved into the steel that held its blade, she brought the axe down hard on the back of the demons neck, severing it’s brain from its spine.

She prepared a fire for the rest of the night ahead, expecting to see the sun rise as her breakfast was about prepared before finally finding the time to rest herself fully after this mighty dance. Before her breakfast there would be hide to separate from meat; bones, brain and fat to sacrifice to the creator of her life and life’s sustenance; meat to spit and season. She looked forward to the single candle some of its fat would make. She was grateful for the meal and slumber she was about to earn.

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Lazarus Speaks

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on January 14, 2012| Leave a Comment »

This story was inspired by– Well, never mind what it was inspired by. Enjoy!

Bring Out Your Dead!

“Let us raise the dead!”

“He’s only pining for the fjords. . .”

“PINING for the–. Never mind that! Find a corpse, command it to rise, and we’ll be on our way!”

“You want me to do the commanding do you? And what right have I to do that? Just because he owed you 20 bucks . . .”

“It’s not just the twenty bucks, if we don’t raise him he can’t be saved!”

“Saved from what?”

“Well, Satan of course . . .”

“He’s dead, what does he have to worry about Satan for?”

“Well, if we don’t resurrect him, Satan gets him for the rest of eternity.”

“No, no, you’re thinking of maggots, and really they only get him for a couple weeks tops.”

“Hello, Lord of the Flies . . .”

“Yeah Lords of flies, not maggots. Let Satan eat corpses! If there was anything to him but meat, that’s beyond arch-evil’s grasp. Angels will be feeding on that one if there was anything to him!”

“But we need to save him.”

“What, so angels can eat him instead of bugs? He’s being eatin’ one way or the other, it’s beyond our grasp now. Hell, what would I want to raise him for if I could, so that I could tell him what to be eaten by? He’s being consumed in the best way possible, let him enjoy it already, he’s suffered enough for it either way! Lord knows he was bombarded by his options as we all are. He chose already what will consume him, just because he owed you twenty bucks that doesn’t mean he was destined for–”

“IT’S NOT THE TWENTY BUCKS!”

“Yeah sure it wasn’t, it was just the principle of the thing. Look, here’s a twenty spot so that you can rest in peace tonight. I didn’t really need it anyway, now will you please let sleeping corpses lie.”

“I guess I don’t really have a choice in the matter if you won’t help me . . .”

“He gets his twenty, and all the sudden he’s not so adamant about animating the clay of the future, tut tut. Anyway, you show me something breathing to assist I’m all for it. Would you please put that shovel away now!”

“You know, he owed you fifty.”

“Seriously, it’s not about the money . . .”

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Another Time, Another Place

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on January 8, 2012| Leave a Comment »

Felt the need to write something neither initially romantic nor dialogue. For longer pieces I take the time to learn what my story is in advance, and then let the nuance fill itself in on the way to the main events and happenings of that story. For this story an opening sentence occurred to me, then, without thinking about it, I start writing the story as it comes. Tis an exercise in discovery. Fun!

Just as an aside: it did turn out a bit romantic in tone after all toward the end. So, with a glimpse of images of things that might be, even if only in imagination-tense, with this first post of the new year I wish All that this may be a Happy One!

Water Walk

There they stood looking at each other. Step by step they walked toward each other. Their carpet, the sea below.

Of the years since the creation of modern superstition, over 4379 had passed. It was in 3247 that something would have to be done to protect the ocean; sea life had become so scare and frail that if even a sail boat were to clip a single fish, an entire species might go extinct. If a child were to toss a stone into the ocean, the last sea turtle might be its victim. And the technology was available, so a glass barrier was erected over the ocean 150 miles from the edge of every piece of land inhabited by humans, which by 3247 was almost every piece.

Though it was illegal to journey further than 100 miles out to sea without being a licensed scientist, they took the chance. They started from different places, packed their bags for the journey, and began out on foot. They knew the laws for driving an unlicensed science vehicle upon the glass were harsher, and more regularly enforced, than walking too far toward the ocean. The fact was, the law did not worry about those making journeys of over a hundred miles by foot.

The silence above the glass did not seem eery in the least as they made their way toward each other from different towns. Their journey was not just one to the water, but as the crow flies, likewise to each other. It was not common to see birds this far out to sea, and likewise this far to the sea. The birds stayed for the most part on one side of the zone of glass, or another. They walked toward each other. Their bags light with nutrient-rich foods that could stay edible for a hundred years. Each pack upon their back stocked with enough food to last a year in addition to tents and other traveling amenities.  With each passing footfall, they grew closer. They dared not communicate with mobile devices due to the listening sensors. They planned their routes thoroughly and precisely before they set out. Small distance measuring devices were sufficient to make sure they were on route precisely and timely. They wanted to make sure they met for the first time after the work they had put into planning.

A promise made with each passing footfall. Adventure begun between strangers seeking similarities in another who’d never met before. True adventure in a world in which everything was known, and little wasn’t. To walk to where the water was; pioneering as closely as a terrestrial being could. They grew to know each other’s minds from a distance; see glimpses even of each other’s forms. They liked each other enough to make a journey of so many miles, and they both believed that Love required something more than a knowledge of another at a distance. They both believed love to be creation of reality itself, not merely passive perception of it. If they never met, then they could know admiration in some way for what each other was created as. To walk step by step made both their realities to be something else altogether, something common and unique, something uniquely uncommon. Each step a promise being fulfilled, each step a question of promises to come.

They saw fishes underfoot. Dolphins coming up to the layer of air just beneath the surface of the glass. The further they went, the more they saw life flourish. In their own time they contemplated a time when glass would no longer separate life from life; sea to land. At night the stars reflected on the face of the ocean, two universes overlapping and reflecting, the moon showing almost all there was to see. Step by step they grew closer as days passed.

From a distance one day they saw a figure in the distance seeming to move toward the other; a speck that might be moving. And the passage of time was short before they knew they saw what they thought they would see at this time, at this place, on this day. They would run, but the sun was hot, the journey was long, and they knew that in a moment they would know a friendly handshake, and whether or not that first touch was more. Step by step, a promise fulfilled.

Mere minutes passed, and there they stood looking at each other. Step by step they walked toward each other. Their carpet, the sea below. A breeze brought moist salt to their faces as they saw a smile on each other’s lips. They knew before touching they gazed at beauty unlike any they’d ever seen. They looked forward to sharing the experience of touching the water below over which they walked.

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Some kinda Love

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on December 25, 2011| Leave a Comment »

A deeply personal meditation for me as I enter the New Year. May the New Year bring joy to my readership and also all in this world.
How Long?
“I feel trapped between a rock and a hard place!”
“How cliché.” She smiled a little as she watched him writhe in his own mental anguish.
“But it’s as accurate a way to say it as any I know.” He frowned. “Everything I’ve lived over the last three decades tells me I’m an idiot if I look at anyone but her. But how long am I supposed to wait for her to speak to me? It’s been more than twenty percent of my life I’ve waited with her in mind; struggled, grown, worked; become something more than a lazy shit-head dominated by fear. How long am I supposed to wait?”
“You’ve already described to me the ways you feel inadequate in your life. Is that really what you wish to offer her? Sex is easy to come, like the much touted quad-hourly bus, if that’s all you want out of your life. But, as I understand it, unexpected children aren’t cheap and you’re already pretty ashamed of your debt . . . caused by necessity though it may be.
“You ask me how long you’re supposed to wait? I think the answer to that question is another question. How much do you really love her?”

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Fa La La

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on December 18, 2011| 1 Comment »

Since I’ve been hearing this song just about everyday during the yearly ritual of the preparation for the annual celebration of the culmination of greed of capitalism praying on the insecurity of consumers, a question has consistently arisen to my mind every time I hear the song play, “This must have had long term consequences to the psyche of this child. What must the consequences to this child’s mind have been?”

20 Years Ago Last Night . . .

I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus, underneath the mistletoe, 20 years ago from last night.

Two weeks later, when I went back to school, little Cindy Sandra Morgan was telling her friends that her parents were getting a divorce. I was only five then, I’d never heard the word “divorce.” And then she went on to tell them that her father had been sleeping around on her mother. Apparently Cindy’s mom had been something of an alcoholic, and as she fled to stay with her mom, Cindy’s Grandmother, she had been drinking a lot. Apparently Cindy had spent much of her Winter break listening to her mom tell her all about adultery and divorces through whiskey-soaked breath while Grandma was asleep late at night. She said something about waking up late to get a drink of water, and she was going to check on the cookies she had left for Santa when her mother, sitting in a rocking chair in a dark corner of the room, told her to come over and sit down by the foot of the chair. Cindy told her friends that her mom smelled like bad, strong pickles, and that her mom told her all about what she called “sleeping around” and “divorces.”

I mean, in retrospect, my father role playing with my mom was really quite healthy. But I didn’t learn about sexual role playing until I was a junior in high-school, and I didn’t really understand it in-depth in terms of relationships until I was well into my second year of college taking an introductory course to psychology. Can you imagine? At five years old I was still quite convinced of Santa’s existence. I thought my Mommy was sleeping around on my Daddy until I was about twelve. I didn’t dare say anything to Dad, I didn’t want my parents divorcing. When Santa came to visit Christmas Eve the next year, it was all I could do to keep from breaking down in tears at once. And it strained my relationship with my mom. I kept thinking that she was going to break Daddy’s heart because she couldn’t “keep it in her pants.”

And when I was seven, instead of Santa coming over on Christmas Eve, we went to see him at the mall. It was horrible. I spent weeks avoiding the mall. And then when we started walking by the Christmas display, there I was on the other side of Mommy trying not to look at “Santa’s workshop.” But then Mommy took me by the hand and started pulling me that way, and I couldn’t say no without her finding out that I knew about her and Santa. So there I was waiting in line to meet Santa, and wanting to escape, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. And by the time I was seven I’d heard the term “Can’t keep her legs together,” and was  wondering why Mommy couldn’t. And then there I was on Santa’s lap, and he asked me what I wanted, and I told him. I motioned that I wanted to whisper in his ear, and I told him. “Please stop trying to make my parents divorce. Please.” And no wonder he gave me a strange look. And then he started laughing a typical Santa “Ho, ho, ho.” And in retrospect he was just nervous because he didn’t know how to respond to that and was trying to buy himself time to answer in a helpful way. And he was about to say something, but before he could, I hopped right down from his lap and kicked him as hard as I could in the shin! Mommy looked so embarrassed as she took my hand, apologizing as we went. And then when we got to the car she asked me what I was thinking, but I just sat and didn’t say anything, trying to avoid her gaze. I didn’t want her to know I knew about her and Santa.

That was the last time I ever sat on Santa’s lap, or that Santa ever visited our house. But I didn’t care. I spent the next five years in dread of Christmas, but every time I didn’t see Santa I smiled quietly to myself that I had saved my parents’ marriage.

When I was almost twelve I finally understood that Santa wasn’t real; that Dad had been Santa. And that was weird thinking about my parent’s kissing at all, let alone my Dad dressed as Santa. But then the guilt started to seep in. Guilt, and the realization, that would take the next several years to unfold, that I’d deprived myself of one of my favorite parts of childhood. Every year I go broke around Christmas time. Not because of the gifts I give to others, but because every time I pass a Good-Will Santa I put five bucks in his bucket thinking that maybe this Santa is the one I kicked in the shin all those years ago, and that maybe my donations will make up for hurting someone just trying to make little kids happy, and make up for how I messed up my own childhood.

Most people have neurosis that were passed to them from their parents. Mine was completely self-afflicted. So, my kids will never think that Santa is real, and they’ll always get good presents, whatever they want. And if their Mommy ever cheats on me, I’ll just make sure I make her death look like it was caused naturally so that they don’t have to suffer the prospect of divorce like I had to. When I have kids, they will always enjoy Christmas!

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Me to Us

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on December 11, 2011| Leave a Comment »

It occurs to me that the appeal of writing in dialogue is that it gives me the opportunity to converse with myself. I make a statement, then I respond. The story that arises is almost secondary to the exercise of meeting my own mind. The story told, then, is often the story of myself. I suppose then the hope is that as I reflect myself to the world, the world sees something about itself, though not quite itself, useful in what I find in me.

Finding One’s Self

“Who are you?”

“This is a trick question, right? Do you not see the name-tag on my chest. Isn’t that why I’m wearing one of these things, so that you don’t need to ask exactly that question?”

“I mean aside from the name. Who are you?”

“Well, the name is a designation assigned to the circumstances of my creation and the history that followed up until this point in time. I would answer with the name you see on my chest, but it is merely representative of what my singular point of consciousness has perceived up until now. I would describe myself as that history designated by the name upon my chest, but, in my humble opinion, that would take too long, and so again I indicate to you once more reading the tag for the sake of saving time.”

“So for starters, you’re easily irritable, verbose, and take your time about dwelling in sarcasm?”

“I’m also fond of concision. Have I more or less answered your question?”

“So you believe yourself to be your history, not your present?”

“I believe my present is a representation of the entirety of my history. I am also that history combined with its interaction with whatever stimuli exists at present; in this case your question and the pressure of our audience.”

“So you are your cumulative experience combined with the experience of the moment. You are your uniqueness as an identity individuated, combined with the circumstance created by all other individualities?”

“Sounds about right. Who should I be?”

“Who do you want to be?”

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That Made of This

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on December 3, 2011| 2 Comments »

This story is actually derived from a dark chapter in my life. There was a very brief moment in the true story that was a gratitude unlike any I’d ever known. Unfortunately, my fears and self-hatreds were too severe to make the good last, and quickly I was made to see myself as someone I’d never want to be again. From this darkest of times for me, however, was given me the motivation to work to become someone I could like.

Sweet Dreams

He saw her lying there and knew not what to do. For all intents and purposes she was an angel, seeing her asleep didn’t add to his inclination to regard her as directly created from the divine. Likewise, he couldn’t help but feel as a dog who hadn’t been fed in a month and a half, staring at a 120 pound piece of fillet Mignon, wrapped in bacon, and just about ready to be broiled.

He wiped a drop of saliva away from his lower lip before kneeling down before her. “Cindy. Cindy.” He very gently, with as little force as he could muster, put pressure on her shoulder, almost as though shaking it while whispering her name as though hoping to watch her sleep several more hours before gaining her attention.

“Cindy.” He raised his voice to almost audible, grateful for the feel of divinity wrapped in blanket, sweatshirt, and T-shirt under his hand. After a ritual of raising his voice by quarter-decibels, and firming his grasp a few inches from where her wing must have been tucked behind her for the night, her eyes slowly met with his as a smile began to form across her mouth.

“Jim, good morning. What time is it?” Her whisper broke through her struggle to remain warm asleep.

“It’s about five, Cindy. I hate being awake so early, let alone waking you, but I needed to ask you, I just couldn’t wait.”

“What is it Jim?” He saw that she was resigning herself back to her mind unconscious in warmth from where he had pulled her forth, he tightened his hold on her shoulder ever-so slightly so as to keep her with him just a few moments longer.

“Cindy, my life has become worth living since the day I met you. Existence swirled inside my head and created the universe habitable by my person when first I shook your hand; so loudly did all creation seem to find purpose within me, that it took some time for me to believe myself anything but insane; the pathetic wretch I’d become accustom to existing as taking exception to having to vacate its terribly-too-familiar home. Years have I had to grow accustomed to my life having meaning in the face of infinite reality, years have I longed to express my gratitude that I can be happy to exist as a part integrated and useful in all that is. For years have I strove to make of myself someone you could be proud to know once I knew that I could not before, so fully had I taken my life for granted, my existence almost automatic without me. And whether my work has made of me a being that could reflect even a spark of the light that your beauty has brought to how I see myself and this world, I do not know. But what I do know is that so completely does the desire to express the joy in my heart you have brought to me wish to vacate my skin, that I thought it best to waken you and speak any of what I have become, for I do not believe that I can bear my own silence for much longer.”

Her eyes opened very slightly and she smiled at him. From under the covers one of her hands found his and squeezed it very gently for just a moment. “When I awaken,” her words spoken with the clarity of crystal dipped in honey from the back of her throat, “you will hear the echo of your voice envelop the whole of your reality such that you’ll never have the need to speak the joy in your heart again, for why would you attempt to describe the sound of silence when you find yourself enjoying its speech; why throw a piece of wood into a raging forest’s fire?” And with that, her eyes shut and his heart began to float forward, wondering how much longer he would watch her rest.

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