Monday, October 09, 2006

It was clouds illusions...

Remember the song Send In The Clowns? Classic. This evening I sat on my balcony watching the clouds float by, serenaded by Miles Davis. Different shapes, evoking memory or inspiration. I thought of how Mada and I loved to watch the clouds and name shapes out of them; sometimes silly things. On the journey back from her funeral I watched the clouds. On our kayaking day Terri told me that we had a Simpson's Sky, as the clouds dotted the sky as in the cartoon. I can't help but look up every day and every night to watch the stories written there.
The line from the song came into my brain, almost like an epiphamy as it made me think of how througout my life I didn't really know love at all. To explain it further only reeks of ego as there were and are different stages that gave different facets of love.

Nature is a mutable cloud which is always and never the same.” Emerson

The call of the wilde

Was it just that? I celebrate and embrace the lack of dysfunctional emotional strings. Do I want something more? Yes, but not at least from this venue.
I excitedly told a couple of friends and one said "I hope this works out for you". The question being, what is the perception of "work's out"? A marriage? A good time? A committment? A one night stand?
I know it "worked out" to what it was/is supposed to least for me.

Friday, October 06, 2006


It takes a tragedy to reflect divine forgiveness. In the news regarding the families of the Amish girls killed by a milk truck driver, it was noted how the Amish leaders have set up a fund for the killer's widow and three children.

The Amish were not the only victims.

I cannot, nor do I ever want, to imagine the phases of grief those parents face. My grief is a creature of a different nature.
My forgiveness is to no one by myself. For others it is a path upon which angels and I fear to tread. Eventually thought it comes down to it. It being forgiveness. If one doesn't forgive eventually the anger, depression, and darkness eats the soul like an acid. Getting to that point is a journey all on its own.

Dive into one's soul
Where the still waters fun deep
Past the broken dreams
Where soul and stars meet
Where time is but a shadow
An you your self meet (seek)
Through the promises
Even those we didn't keep
Past the rich landscape
That made us today
Deeper into the unknown
Where the soul still weeps
Through out life and death
Our tapestry we weave
Till we chance upon the place
To where all souls meet

Thursday, October 05, 2006

Soul Mates

Well what an eye opening reality. Just like patience when one prays for it they get the lesson. No different then those who have come into our lives. I can look back and wow those 2X4's were at it again!
So when you look back at those who have loved, left, and loved again, what was the lesson they taught? Do you realize they were a 'soul mate'? There to teach you that lesson? What did they reflect that YOU needed to know? Did they treat you as badly as the person in your head did? Do you or I for that matter expect someone else to treat you or me any better then you or I treat ourselves? Words, actions, deeds, thoughts all of those are included. What a concept.

Monday, October 02, 2006

The Vortex

forward note; this is a story I've created.

As a memory, each room is numbered 13. Though the rooms are different, they’ve been numbered so there wouldn’t be a descending or offending order. Clothed in their thin veils, spiders touch up the silk threaded duvets; woven tightly to cocoon the occupant when reserved. Black, white and red candles blaze with blue flames casting a thousand year old glimpse off timeliness throughout the quiet halls.
The fountain in the stone foyer slips the memories of exotic nights; tell tale within the rhythm of the cascading water to those sequestered on the couch; listening. The stories told in a monotone lullaby; weaving a mist through the eyes of those waiting; and they thought they were taking a break from the heat outside. Waiting.
Quietness moves as a shadow; a breath moving as would an echo. A ripple. Left behind in it’s continuing wake is Noise. As Quiet goes through the hotel, lingering every now and again in certain places replenishing it’s energies; Noise insinuates the rush of air that closes a door, the dance of the paper floating in the wind captured in graceful swirls and arches. Nerveless, there are hours; Oh! That feels like days, where Quiet has gone out on the back of a carriage for a tour of the town. Sometimes to remind itself or converse with the others of that Time. Leaving Noise to knock around dust motes, as it’s momentous wake fades to but a restless whisper.
That Time, what should be contrived to be but a stale wind; Time. Then and again, but now. Within its breath, whispered a hush capturing attention of few; only those that know or believe. After all this is the New World’s oldest city. Where things past exist in the back of peoples minds are welcome to be; what some call ghosts, ectoplasms, witches and anything belonging to the mysteries of the metaphysical.
Occasionally laughing with the rustle of the leaves as it sees a play. As surreal as the multitude of ghosts that walk, lay, laugh, cry and play in the crowded streets. Except mid day when the sun bets it’s fury unwittingly in the sands or black top. Burning. Summer. In essence a winter of it’s own where when one steps outside the calidity is so biting it sends chills crawling up the arms as the sweat pores expand. Even the heat is forgiven as the ghosts play during the nights when the moon is full; three days before and three days after.
There once was a moment that Time stood still and Quiet screamed. Her hollow voice shrilled so loud even the living shivered and quickly moved to what was an attempt to safety. Noise hitched on the echoing vibrations of Quiet’s scream swept through on what could only be described as a preliminary cold-front; the kind that poses as a natural warning to those of an impending storm. No one living or dead could imagine the storm-front that came in. In that brief moment a gaping hole appeared. One that lies between planes of time. An open door for Shadow to creep forth its darkness; bringing on his tale the unwanted cousins, uncles, aunts, nephews from the Other side. The dregs. Lost souls and unknown entities that buoy hate, harm and anger. The vortex has been opened!
“Order!” the ancient judge roared from his misty dais. “Order in the court” his gavel struck the mist clanging across time. So there, they gathered as a fog. The ghosts in the once used courthouse; they layered. Some standing on the beds, some through them. The old room slowly taking upon itself its ghostly appearances of what was between Times folds.
“Wouldn’t the ball room have been better?” one was heard muttering.
“It’s an emergency meeting” the bailiff spoke. A hole through his forehead reflecting what was beyond; “and it’s currently in use for the temporary vestigages of today’s youths”. As he spoke the crescendo of music seeped through the walls and doors like oozing blood.
“It appears” the dusty judge quieted the room before him shaking the cobwebs from his pale face, “that the vortex has been opened. I want an investigation as to how it was done and how to close it. Most importantly the latter, at least for the moment. Any former psychics present?” His piercing eyes scanned the crowded room. A cold mist was forming from the presence of so many ghosts.
“Here”, spoke a quiet woman veiled from head to foot in white, the wooden stake rotting from her chest as the blacked blood stained the front of her Victorian lace gown. “It’s only because I know the dangers Shadow presents that I’ll help you, my former torturers” her blue eyes blazed a fire long remembered from a time that slipped past as she spotted her rivals amongst the crowd. “In order for the vortex to have been opened”, she rose above the crowded room capturing everyone’s attention, “someone of some supernatural abilities must have moved the seals, the Lions, the globe and, God help us, the doorway” The ghostly apparitions stood still; only the scurrying of the minute spiders that had crawled into their caskets and died with them scattered amongst the rustles of their period clothing.
“We know what it means if we cannot send them back into their own time and space.” The judge knowingly looked around the room.
“Yes,” the psychic began, “they will break the rules of our polite dead society we have created. First with possession of those that walk topside with malevolence:” slowly she proceeded to float towards the dais to stand below the judge, “then they will start to manipulate the weak with a vengeance; dead or alive. As I see it,” she then turned to the judge, “we have two choices to start with; to close the gate so there would be no more entries and to gather those that are here and attempt to get them sequestered in a spot to hold them till we can send them back to the other-side. Keep in mind the longer the gate stays open the more there will be on this plane; and herding the Shadow and Others will be a continuous battle. I propose”, the Lady turned back to fan the growing crowd of misty apparitions, “that we close the gate, then meet again to determine what can be down with the existing problems as they occur.”
“Humph”, the judge nodded in reluctant acquiescence, his dislike for her clearly written on his face; “unless there are other ideas presented?” he turned to the crowded room “anyone? Then so be it!” his gavel sounded on the misty dais, “Lets get the Stone back in place, meet back here two o’clock am sharp! The hours are precious so please entities lets not dawdle!”
The chill on the third floor hallway slowly ebbed from the rooms as the ghosts fled to the position of the stone; the chill still palpable to any person within their path. Out side, they followed the trail of darkness, before them, a void of all light swirled and flapped about in the air. Maniacal laughter echoed from the void as though it echoed through a stone chamber entreating those in front of the open doorway a wavering ripple in their own ghostly apparitions.
The modern day building itself stood in quiet desolation. The tools of the local tradesmen left to lie; as though waiting to be picked up and start working again as though nothing had happened. But it did. And the workers were gone. To where no one knew. The old stonewall; which had been covered throughout the generations with succeedant walls, was possibly to ensure that no one breach the gate. That would never be known; for now it was an attempt to create a wine cellar for a local restaurateur. In the name of money, he ignored the carved warning:
When the marker set at the North end rolls
The Lyons leave their post
Te wall torn down
Opens the gates as the darkness calls
And demons swarm
Written with sagacity; perhaps from the Lady’s ancestor who priorly entreated to this new land before she, for they couldn’t have known the large round mile marker set at the North end of town was to have been rolled to safety for construction as had the stone lions which sat at the base of the bridge. All tucked safely inside a warehouse the roars of the lions were silenced by the stone edifice surrounding them: echoing beneath the silence where they sat as they heard the wall fall and Darkness escape.
For now the building took on misty appearance as the apparitions floated as close to the opening as they dared all wanting to watch as though it was a modern day automobile accident. The Lady in White fearlessly moved into the building to inspect what appeared to be candles in a circle; the sage added to the atmosphere with it’s white smoke as a young man diligently worked with herbs and verbal chants completing his circle’s cast.