Stormy Heart Serenade – Damages

My dream –  25 January 2015

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Bunker

The day was one of those humid but unremarkable days with the exception of a forecast that included inclement weather.

I was standing outside a warehouse with three friends and we were discussing the forecast with the sunny blue skies and a light wind.  I gave my take on the situation being a Meteorologist.   In effect saying,  You cannot tell by the clear skies what’s going to happen during the afternoon and early evening”.

Sure to form by late morning the first little towers of cotton seemed to gather as the heat poured energy from below.  Like a pot of boiling water the change became more noticeable as the air liquefied into mad rivulets of upward vertical motion.

Marci told me that she needed to get out of the bamy skies as the humidity hung like a soggy blanket,  making the hot more miserable.

We found our way into an empty warehouse,  where we found a fairly sturdy set of walls and a heavy steel door.   Apparently,  we weren’t the only ones with that idea.   The fact it was ventilated made it a prime place to hide.

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The room was not really that spacious so one got the feeling of being like an animal caught in a snare.  Claustrophobia seemed to seize us both at the same time and we left the relative safety for the open air and a less confined place.

The wind began to swirl with a passion as the heat climbed up towards the fast growing clouds.  In the distance were lines of Cumulonimbus Clouds.   Like a gathering army of angry and mischievous Gremlins. By late afternoon,  the ominous looking clouds fattened with sharp spikes of light shooting out in all directions with the accompanying claps of thunder and their reverberations.  The party was getting into full swing.

From an office you could see lines of storms systems.  These Mesoscale systems snarled and marched onward with high winds and low pressure that popped your ears and engendered a primal fear.  Soon sirens blared as the culmination of physics manifested in an eerie calm.     Bluish black clouds ragged with pent up rage acquiesced to nothing.

Buildings shook as they do when heavy ordnance releases it’s fury.   With the rise in air currents came the chattering of old roof tops that graced structures with uncertainty,  threatened to be peeled back or just collapsing with fatigue.  We saw a woman on a phone as the curtain of night started to drape itself about and the luminous light and sound show intensified bringing an increased sense of dread.

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We wandered about and around the phone lady and soon she feel self aware and struck out to find another place. Marci and I,  decided to hole up in this semi-private space,  waiting for the current round of chaos to abate.         The last round of storms left us shaking.   To the left of us was a window which was heavily armored and I assured my consort that we were safe.   Suddenly like a bomb exploding,  a wash of red covered the window,  a human stain with no doubt,  all was not well.

As we found another spot that seemed safe,  a room that looked like a classroom and filled with people, I had some bad feelings here,  even more than any that I had spent time in and my suspicions were born out.   With another lull in this never-ending parade of severe weather and the threatening sounds of crashing glass and gales of wind unseating rooftops we found an office across the street.

 

This one office struck my fancy as I saw a bay window front to a store and office warehouse.   Me and my friend sat in two of the chairs practically inert and watch debris flash by in an instant.   Only slightly more safe was this place and keeping that in mind,  I went into the warehouse with Marci in toe.  There were a lot of beautiful furnishings all handmade with the middle of the room sporting a table with chesire-acting cat sitting quietly in a chair next to that table.   She knowingly acknowledged me in this strange sanctuary conspicuously absent of people.

Walking back outside the carnage was obvious.   The scenery changes were not limited to buildings as dumpsters of debris,  seemingly human powdered the landscape and the aftermath of solitary suffering.

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Forbidden Victim.

I was so in lust that purity and licentiousness intermingled.   A strange concoction of guilt and a road never traveled.   All the sweat but none of the auroras that surge inside of me.    Her look was electric.   It pulled my willing self nearer to the spot where I belonged.

Yet innocence challenged the moment,   the soft refrain echoed like a chemical chimera waiting to devour it’s young prey.     As she pulled me in she got me to a new place.   I was the hunted man-child,  every cougar’s tender morsel.    I was like veal in a cage of happenstance hurling trinkets into the abyss.

The tide was high and the rush of the wind compounded the fury of that soft parade.  Pushing past the lapping waves of crescendo,   I was lost.  Emotions tighter than a manic  harp,  playing it’s own mischievous chord like the grunts of an obese oboe in a band playing it’s own tunes.

Harmony and biology and the conquest of same,  a boy victim without a name.   Lost near a buoy my eyes glassed over and now I searched for a ship to pull me in.   Proudly vanquished,  I smiled.   My story would change as I increased my wile.   She is a battered gown,  with icing reminders of a sweetness turned sour.

No,  this is not a requiem but a mooring to few or many docks.   The bright young adventurer did not want a curtain call for the young man had given his all.

Past Midnight. It’s a Beautiful Morning!!!

The prince of darkness and a highlighter pen.   Marking his victims one through ten.  Studying his quarry he chuckles and chortles,  oh how he loves the mere mortals.   The sun on hiatus in a full moon dark,  which gave us our peculiar spark and gave our paths original names,  in honor of men called errr.  Peter and James.

His quarry are gathered,  some of the best and the brightest, or so they think,  he’s getting ready to show them and throw at them,  even the proverbial sink.   Pretty soon the ten became thousands… finally much more.

Pretty soon the gavel smashed and the room quivered in fear,  why did our friend call us here?    Why does this place has tall fiery gates and pictures of all their victims?  Wait?

A sonorous laughter filled the great room,  as the chandeliers began  to shake and fill them with doom.    Pretty soon it was all for themselves,  as their allies wore signs and epitaphs from many wars.

The choir was assembled,  not hastily though,  it was time for the revenge of the primate doe.    Fear coursed through body and their much troubled brains,  is this what happens just before the holidays.

Now the penniless pauper with his nubile daughter look directly into the eyes of of.. new found doubt.    The King’s crown looked a bit withered and dithered and the jewels now gone replaced with inscriptions.     The writings now were in many languages but still just one,  there was going to be no room for interpretation, no not one nor drinks of ale or the fattest of quails.    This was their requiem for filling the jails.

The horny magistrate with his pointed tail,   was giving them remorse with the whip of his tail.     Suddenly they wanted to cry but none of that,  they were going to eat envy with silent wails.     All the former slaves laughed with glee and the sting of the whip could never cut so deep as the sting of a trapped conscience.

So bullies beware,  an election or coop lasts for a few years only and then my fearful one,  all is done and made right.

A stick of gum and a wad of paper.

I often dreamed of moments like these,  the innocent refrain of hearing my name called out affectionately and the peace that I knew that would be waiting home for me.   The hearth was warm,  the gentle flicker of flames danced hypnotically and assuringly.   What was there to mourn?  Right?

But life has a cunning way about it.    It marches to it’s own cadence, summarily deciding on a whim whether a fall or fortune would be good or bad.   In that case the seeming tranquility was cloaked in an aether of steadiness.   Nothing to worry about or so it seemed.

However the pernicious dark clouds were soon gathering and my foothold upon a fissure.   The subtle security in that moment vaporized and I fell like a rock feeling the passing of time into a new setting.   It was like heaven without any of the soft nurturing clouds.

Settings once familiar had a certain oldness to them with mostly the same structure but without any soul.    I looked upon the doorway to my mystery and the door was tightly locked.  I reached into my pocket and pulled out my key,  surely things were okay.  But now even that didn’t fit.   Why?   Were the people that I saw across the street look-a-likes?  Replicas with stone hearts?   Did they conspire?  Was I a stranger?

The windows outside were frosted over and the place looked abandoned,  the leaves unraked and the smell of disuse permeated the surroundings.    Even the birds looked like holograms in a 3-D movie.

Walking away from my moorings,  I drifted like a lovelorn log out to sea.

What Matters Most!

If I were born with cataracts in both my eyes and all I could see were my dreams,  would life be worth living?  And I were deaf and I never heard Mozart or Beethoven would my life be in vain?  Who among us would trade painless breaths of fresh air for the illusion of power and contentment when that peace is laced with acrimony?

’Tis the perception of the beautiful, A fine extension of the faculties, Platonic, universal, wonderful, Drawn from the stars, and filtered through the skies, Without which life would be extremely dull.   Lord Byron

So what is life all about?  A collection of cars, rings or shoes?  What is beauty and who is allowed to possess it?   Can the simplest childhood memories be more profound than a hostile takeover of someone else’s business?   Can a breathtakingly beautiful woman be more beautiful than majestic snow-capped mountain?

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Well for me one of the most memorable moments was a huge letdown.   As a young boy coupons from box tops was a source of fond anticipation.  It was a toy model of a Studebaker.  But that disappointment was one of the more gorgeous moments in my life.   It gave me the knowledge that heartbreaks are going to happen as that toy never arrived.   I lived for the moment and did that a lot.

Studebaker

Sometimes our joys are more transitory but none-the-less equally profound.   In sixth grade,  we used to get milk breaks in the afternoon.   The milk was cold and sweet and the chocolate milk was Vitamin-D (Whole Milk).   Seemingly a trivial moment or moments could be so valuable but to a young kid in love with sixth grade,  those moments give me hope.

Our teacher was simply remarkable. Mr Earl Ader made school so much fun.   He was tall youngish man with a love for his students and nothing that smacked of anything controversial.  Kids fought to do classroom chores.   The Socratic Principle was amazingly on display and when it failed we remedied our issues with decorum and class.    We learned about adult life in a way that simulated the adult world.

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We raised chicks from eggs and actually saw the chicks hatch.  It was a hands on approach and I loved the SRA reading programs and progressed through so fast that I was reading in the top percentile.    I loved the reading and grammar exercises, a task that most kids hated.  The spelling tests were fun and I had a string of 100s that went from west to east.

During an autumn play and dance,   I was a pumpkin that me and my parents constructed from paper machete and metal hangers as a frame.   I was often called ‘Carrot Top’  though Carrots tops are green,  right?   But that night was awesome and a bit unsettling as every parent was wanting me to pose with their daughters as they took pictures.   I remember having a unilateral love affair with what turned out to be my first girlfriend., Cheryl.

One of the best things was when Mr. Ader decided to skip a lesson and play dodge ball in the gym,  the place of that same play and dance.   I had so much fun at that sport and doing this was one of my favorite times in my life.   I also got to be a hall monitor.   I was ruthless and sick with power.  Okay that part is not true but I did love the safety belt which I wore proudly.

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In Junior High I was harassed in my first day of school and by the grace of God and Providence,  some big boy fired back at my tormentor and most young teens would not mess with him or me.    As a wrestler I stunned my coach,  teammates and other wrestlers by beating a state champion in my first match.    That night was magic for this shy boy when the coach made me the wrestler of the tournament.

I also made an unassisted triple play which was announced over the PA system and I had a mixture of pride and embarrassment and with the hope that the pretty girls would take note.  Sadly it was until my senior year when I got one of the beautiful girls and we went to the Senior Prom.  Long flowing black hair, a rather innocent beauty and my first hands-on girl and that was so cool.

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From losing my one baby David who weighed sixteen ounces and the kidnapping of my daughter by her mom,  I have had more good moments than those bad ones.  There was a time when I felt that I was unduly burdened but time rectified my apprehensions and salted them with a bit of that thing called reality.

Now I spend my time trying to help as many people as I can and the fruit of that labor is a loving regard for the intrinsic matter of self worth and the recognition that everyone is imbued with talents and love.

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The Monsters Among us.

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The sudden storm blew in.   The tumbleweeds rushed by and the howl of the wind pushed them like unwanted stepchildren.    I was one of those unfortunate souls,  who prayed for darkness and heavy rain.  The gloom seemed to cheer me up,  the low clouds compacted the world and the heavy snows further reduced the shrapnel of ugly words and harsher correction.

Even better was the icy and snowy weather that kept the devil at bay.    The whiteness like a signet made it official and angry ice cycles crashed from atop the roof of our house.   At night I would sleep walk,  perhaps to walk into the road or fall upon the broken glass.  One night in my dream state I decided the camper window should be a punching bag.   The echoes of anger that permeated my realm.

In my heart I cheered the removal of my anxiety.   The sound of the engine and in it’s wake a measure of relief.    On one occasion we had two cats.   For some reason that one day would harbor a death penalty for one of our cats.   With seventeen acres of land,  my father determined that one should die.

My brother took at him and with a thud,  my heart filled with pity,  anger and disillusionment.  Unbearable voices led me to the scene and the grave of soft ash an ethereal tomb.   Suddenly the Raven appeared and that poor cat with blood on it’s side to my astonishment that poor gray cat seemed to be begging,  hoping for some kind of reprieve and a tear or many fell.    My brother finished the task and that thought and an attempted or threatened murder of my mom at five,  congealed into an unholy miasma of doubt and uncertainty.

Like the gales of a winter,   this inclement weather was a well-timed respite.  Revenge against the Tsunami that always lain in wait.   A patient wraith with a two-edged bite and like a small warrior I tried to turn away that wrath,  especially for a mother whose esteem in our eyes was stunted.

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Maybe the rain was a song of sadness reaching out for love,  surely such wrath would pass but never did.  As I grew up the mixed messages closed in around me.    I made my peace with that person I called dad and seeing his own tragedy I gained perspective about him.   Unable to justify he reached out.  Forgiveness?  Without a doubt and an unlocked toolshed seemed so unimportant now.

I did not glory in his sickness but I did look back and realized the good that was hidden from plain sight.   No one can justify abuse but a humble heart finds a way.  Gasping for breath all I could do is hold his hand.   This warrior who too late for himself never really enjoyed the fruits of his ambition until the very end.

He and my sister found a common ground and her fear was not being able to be loved by him.   In all that,  that is my special moment with Dad.   The cold aloofness and rage was dulled by the medication and softness of a pillow.     As he drew his last breath,   I felt release in him,  the devils vanished in a bright light and the shadows cowered.

The lesson is never give up.   As  bad as life can be,  we can survive.  I survived a certain hell which has led to my OCDs and fear of random violence.   I have several panic attacks every day but I am learning to get well and move on.   One rung at a time.

Wooden Monuments.

 

 

 

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I am building a tower and it will be built upon by the hands of time.    It will be finessed and  the etchings carved into marbleized histories,  remnants left for consideration.   A bored scholar will scribe his articulations on paper and artists upon the heart  sometimes with words and other times shades of different colors.

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Our passions darken as our own freedom gives us license.   To establish who we are and why we should matter.

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The dimming lights provide sanctuary  for secrets held within,  while the new trees bear the same old fruit.   Replacing antiquity with green limbs envious.    Accounts will be altered,  values distorted like a warped window or a cracked mirror.    Only tiny shards indiscernible will collect dust.   The hammering thoughts of preservation are to no avail.  The ebb and flow of matter reconstitutes itself.    Aware of nothing but it’s new place,  neither the checkered foster homes of neglected souls or the random insects in their constabularies.    New kings and queens arise,  like heaving opportunists secure in that moment only.

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Willingness gives way to wood,  brick and dust and from these new houses are made.   New conflicts arise and the sentient drama of conflicting self wills lay about and scattered by Zephyrs and Foehn.    Tears drip from random placements like lost toys of our youth,  neither material or a ether  just an unnoticed stroke of a pen and a purchase.

The final revolution spins to a stop and the cul-de-sac of expectancy gives way to a somber recollection.   Momentary gratitude and an appointment looming,  breaks the shadow of what once was and will never be again.

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