Feel Me Don't You

Vibrations powering its propulsion, Mark’s cell phone skittered across the smooth surface of the Ikea coffee table stretched before him just below his knees. Expressionless, he sat in the dimly lit room and stared ahead on a couch he had come to loathe for its hideous color palette, pattern, and increasingly scratchy surface. This couch, the one his mother had selected for his first bachelor apartment, had travelled with him through the years to many temporary living rooms and now represented the bonds of his imprisonment.

The buzzing phone before him called his memory and, one by one, ghosts of girlfriends past answered. Each one slowly peeled itself from its sinewy cellblock carrying with them remembrances of shared experience. Each one ascended, revolving around him like a Hollywood movie camera capturing an on-screen kiss before arranging themselves above his sightline. The final phantom snapped his reverie and he realized they had aligned to form an enormous spectral scrim. Dumbfounded, he watched as the wraiths lit up individually and the moments of his past played out before him on a multimedia display from the beyond.

His eyes darted from spiritual screen to spiritual screen with ADD-like zeal and he relived his glorious triumphs and tragic failures. He lived in each shining moment where his truth connected him to his mate. In these images he lived up to his ultimate potential, the person he always knew he could be. He was the living embodiment of a self-made, multi-disc Tom Waits greatest hits compilation. He died with each regrettable mistake that paved the road to his demise. In these images he followed the footprints that took him further away from himself with each step. This path always led to the person he thought he needed to be yet knew he could never truly be.

Finally reaching the edge, the cell phone fell to the floor with a soft thump and continued its gentle hum. His reverie broken once more, he focused on the phone at his feet as he bent to retrieve it. He stared at the name spread across the screen as his past and present collided. Indecision arrested him. Should he decline and hide away from the pain of his past? Should he accept and face the future? He returned his attention to the display of the dead once more for guidance.

In an instant he knew his course of action. He pressed the button on the phone, raised it to his ear, and warmly said hello.

One of the great things about having Rob around – prior to his present paramour period – was that he handled all the landscaping as part of his living arrangement. The bulk of his duties came from the mundane task of mowing – which I have come to loathe, but there were other side projects that I handed him like removing the unsightly mulberry tree from in front of the stairs and replacing it with a tiered flowerbed. Actually, that landscaping project was more detailed as the flowerbed extends beyond the tiered levels and contours the front of the house.

Within the tiered area he planted daffodils, roses, and some low-lying plants whose names escape me at the moment. Outside the tiered area reside the red and yellow tulips, more daffodils (which actually are in the back beside the hopefully soon-to-be-ripped-off deck – more on that in a moment), and various-colored hydrangea plants. As you can see, with the gorgeous weather we’ve had lately, things are blooming and the hues and fragrances around the house are providing a veritable sensory smorgasbord.

Rob also cleared out the areas around the trees in the front yard and placed mulch down to give the house some much-needed “curb appeal”. There is still work to be done, though, as I would sincerely like to get my old deck removed and replaced with what should be a much more aesthetically pleasing and more easily maintained stone patio. Once my finances return to normal, this is one of the higher priority projects I have slated for this year. There are other issues to consider as well. When I instigated these projects last year, it was with the idea that someone with a much greener thumb than I would be here to help me tend to these plants. I am just not that person, never have been. I am surprised that I have managed to keep the one plant I have in my living room alive for these past six years. I’m dead serious here.

My recent Gmail status update “At World’s End” has some people concerned over some dark foreboding about suicide or some such adolescent melodrama. Rest assured, neither is accurate in this case. The phrase simply comes from two unrelated sources: Disney’s Pirates of the Caribbean At World’s End and Neil Gaiman’s Sandman series collection World’s End. In that portion of Gaiman’s tale, an odd confluence of events serves to rip strangers out of their normal space-time continuum and brings them all to an inn called, you guessed it, World’s End. It’s a classic fish-out-of-water tale as each character tries to understand the events that had unfolded and lead them to the inn.

In the Disney film, there is a scene where Will and the crew, after rescuing Jack Sparrow, run back and forth across the bow of the ship to tip it upside down in an effort to turn reality and return from World’s End. Of course, when they manage to accomplish the feat everyone becomes water-logged and disoriented until reality “rights itself”. Please pardon the paraphrasing.

This is just how I’ve felt over the past few weeks – a confluence of events pulling me out of space-time (not literally, of course), world turned upside down, fish-out-of-water, disoriented, etc. It’s one of the main reasons I have been posting flash fiction rather than daily/personal stuff as it has been easier to write that than try to force some semblance of sense from all factors.

For those of you who’ve posted comments or sent emails saying how much you’ve enjoyed the reads, thank you. I appreciate knowing that it’s affected you so. In fact, that means more to me than if I’d won the round of the poetry competition I entered. Thank you again!

Forces are in motion and things are changing – stay tuned!

Just some things rattling around my head lately…

Not – How did he die? But – How did he live?
Not – What did he gain? But – What did he give?

These are the things that measure the worth
Of a man as a man, regardless of birth.

Not – What was his station? But – had he a heart?
And – How did he play his God-given part?

Was he ever ready with a word of good cheer?
To bring back a smile, to banish a tear?

Not – What was his church? Not – What was his creed?
But – Had he befriended those really in need?

Not – What did the sketch in the newspaper say?
But – How many were sorry when he passed away?

These are the things that measure the worth
Of a man as a man, regardless of birth.

– Anonymous

The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.

– Martin Luther King Jr.

“A man’s strength is measured by his heart”

It takes much to be a true man…
It’s not just simply the gender;
Some think it’s about the looks
But I know the truth…

It’s all about loving;
That spellbinding, radiation of pure, unconditional love…

You know a real man by the way he acts;
Every unselfish thing he does…
Knowing he will always be there to help
Inside, a real man is filled with love

A real man cries…
And he does;
His heart has known pain
He’s also known love which has left molded impressions deep within

A real man opens himself up to life experiences
Opening your heart is never wrong
And he has taught that not only to myself, but to others as well…

Within his rippled embrace; his strong, caring embrace
Solitude can be found
If only you take the time to know his depth and breadth

Very few know the true measure of a man;
Very few know the true measure of THIS man…
Every day,I feel it and his love makes me strong

May God grant him peace and serenity as he journeys on the sacred travels of his life
May he know only love; feel love…always
Until the stars fall from the skies
Until Mercury crumbles
Until the end of his days…

– Tammy Knott

I don’t measure a man’s success by how high he climbs but how high he bounces when he hits bottom.

– General George S. Patton

Free To Loving Home: Single, Untapped Muse

Her gaze drifted across the Canadian night horizon and slipped into soft focus as she leaned back against her companion who seated himself before the stout Western White Pine tree. The stillness of the surroundings, the fluidity of the emerald and indigo hues against the darkening star-filled canvas, and the purest pine scent ignited her senses. The temperate breath of spring caressed her like a mother with newborn. The onslaught of elements beseiged her senses and she shuddered violently.

Tilting her head back, she placed a hint of a kiss on the corner of his mouth. He pulled her closer to him, silently sharing his smile and the warmth of his embrace. She sighed. The union between the Roman dawn goddess and Greek north wind she saw reflected in his far off stare. She sighed again, contentedly, as she recounted the snapshots in time from the months preceding this night. Moments of pleasure, there they were diving off a rock into another moment.

Her recently estranged lifestyle had her reeling in a tide of certainty then doubt and that’s when she met him. He made her smile, he made her laugh, and she loved him for helping her regain her balance. He gave her comfort, he offered her intimacy, and she loved him for reminding her that she was worthy. He was no Douglas Fairbanks, but he was there for her when she believed she had no one else. With the Cree’s Dance of the Spirits choreographed across his irises, she realized he was the sum of her present.

She sighed, squeezed him tighter, and sunk into him as sadness seeped into her soul. As much as he represented her present, he did not represent her future. Echoes of past greatness whispered to a future once forgotten, extinguished by time and tide – a future she now knew she had to rekindle. The northern lights – once viewed as simple, natural beauty – now represented a giant, cosmic “but”.

Amazing photography courtesy of diglloyd.com.

I cannot get Slow Club‘s Christmas TV out of my head.

The ghostly galleon left Sky Harbor with its manifest of doomed souls. Trapped within the mystical cargo holds awaiting judgment by the Eidolon Tribunal were thousands of alleged rogues, scoundrels, and ne’er-do-wells. While some had indeed succumbed to villainy and carried it forward from their former existence, more often than not, these spirits in the material world wandered about aimlessly and innocently. They were merely oblivious to or confused by their condition, unwilling or unable to move on, and no more malevolent than a gentle spring breeze.

Of particular note was one spirit amongst the throng of many wailing out in anguish that sat silently and, as if it was physically possible, shivered uncontrollably. It shivered not because it felt cold – it could no longer feel nor be felt in the tactile sense, but because sense memory mandated that’s what happens in situations of fear. Oddly, it didn’t fear its ultimate fate because the future would be whatever it would be. It feared never seeing Tia. Seeing Tia, seeing everything and everyone around her, was the only desire in its final days as a mortal male. Tia was the natural progression in his mortal life and he wanted to experience her at least once. Through his mortal eyes, Tia made sense. Now, nothing made sense and confusion kept this essence clinging to the illusions of humanity.

The dead carry over their earthly desires like spectral Samsonite because, in times of trauma, familiarity is their only friend. Only when they receive The Purity can they loose the shackles of the corporeal. The Purity, the ultimate understanding of one’s self and place, adheres to no timetable or pre-defined condition. It occurs when and how it occurs, if it occurs at all, and the more actively it is sought, the more elusive it is. Rare is the recently deceased who receives The Purity.

As the phantom ship skimmed through the white-cap clouds whirling about the cerulean ocean of sky, a memory echoed throughout the spirit.

“Is tomorrow just a day like all the rest?
How could you know just what you did?
Like all the rest.. How could you know just what you did?
So full of faith yet full of doubt I ask
Again
I shall ask you this once again.
He said:
‘I am but one small instrument.’
Do you remember that?
Time and time again you say don’t be afraid.
Don’t be afraid, the only voice I want to hear is yours.
Again
I shall ask you this once again.
He said:
‘I am but one small instrument.’
Do you remember that?
So here I am above palm trees so straight and tall
You are smaller getting smaller, but I still see you.”

It takes a brave person to dress in costume when it’s not Halloween or when you’re not getting paid. True, it’s easier when you’re covered head to toe, but often the heat of a costume will become unbearable – unless you’re on an ice planet in the Hoth system – and it’s necessary to remove your headpiece to cool off. That’s when your geekdom is finally exposed and you must embrace it fervently or die of embarrassment. Thankfully, Tantrum & Spite-girl Trish Berrong, falls into the former and not the latter category.

In case you were unaware, the Spite-girls are following the rule of “firsts” this year as they try to engage in many events for the first time – they’re really pushing themselves to try new things. Pictured here, Ms. Berrong is unleashing her inner geek as her favorite Star Wars character at Planet ComiCon 2010 this past weekend in Overland Park. While this isn’t technically the first time she’s appeared in costume – according to several ex-boyfriends – it is her first public appearance as a Tusken Raider. Kudos to you, Trish! I wonder if the high-pitched “SQUEEEE!” she emitted when meeting Lou Ferrigno was loud enough that he could hear it.

Please bear with me grammar police.

It’s self-referential. It indicates a concept which is an abstraction from another concept, used to complete or add to the latter. It’s also the way I think much of the time – metaphors, that is. This song came up randomly while traversing the daily sites and it sparked a memory of something that I wrote last year. In that piece I detailed tall glass buildings with smudged reflective surfaces mirroring a darkened, hollow shell of a human being. Today that vision altered slightly as a new idea staked it’s claim in the territory of my mind. I won’t be divulging any details as I’ve decided to script it for filming and building the subsequent portfolio. There’s danger that way, though.

Thinking metaphorically has had its drawbacks in the past. I’ve received feedback from people who, upon reading or viewing what I’ve done, merely reply with, “Huh?” Perhaps it’s just that the metaphor isn’t that obvious to them or perhaps I’m just doing a poor job of communicating it. I suppose it’s possible people just don’t want to have to dive into a deeper meaning. Ah, my old friend risk/reward, we meet again.