"Cos I'm broken, and I want to hold you high and steal your pain".
She looked across the table at the boy. No, she corrected herself, not the boy, the man.He looked a lot older than when they had last met. His face was...different..more lined..more wary- if that were even possible.
The thing about him, she thought to herself, is that he is, was, always so ...guarded; like he was forever holding something back. His face, his movements, indeed his very being seemed to speak of something unexpressed. (musingly) A wild animal in a self imposed cage.
"I'd gone for a swim the other day;", he was saying, " So beautiful- you have no idea. I was on my own in an empty pool on the eigth floor- open to the elements on one side. The sun was just setting....so beautiful."
" I did around fifty laps and then rested for a bit(Fifty? She wondered- where is this guy's battery?). And then I went back in and did another fifty."
He was grinning happily now; like a kid. His smile was infectious. And for a moment-she saw the happy little boy. He who loved his own company and yet seemed to give it away at every opportunity...
Puzzling creature.
"You strike me as a man who loves solitude", she ventured."And yet, everything have done seems to contradict this image. You go out, you seem to know everyone, everyone knows you, you interact with people, you get things done, you manipulate people(Frown). And yet you claim to be a loner. Why? Why do you do it?"
Why indeed?
he seemed nonplussed for a second. A look of uncertainity flashed across his face.
"I don't know".
Ha. Got you there.
"There's a first", she remarked drily.
Another thing about him- he always, always seemed to know. He always seemed to have an ace up his sleeve- and he always seemed to be two steps ahead of everyone else.
"How do you do it? How do you always seem to be ahead? How do you always have an idea of exactly where you're headed?Of what the ultimate "purpose" is?"
" I don't",rather plaintively," Most of the time I'm just winging it. I'm just a lot faster than everybody else at winging."
irritating. That can't be it.
Smug, some people would call him.
"Do you come across as a snob?"
"Yeah, i do, probably(Shrugs) Don't really care one way or another. Thos who need explanations from you , don't deserve them."
Aha, a failing.
"What are your failings?"
"I'm insensitive- or so I've been told. I care about very few people.?
"Do you care? About being insensitive?"
"Nope".
Har har.
"Is there anyone who knows you?"
"Welcome to the club"
And with that the conversation meandered away, into calmer pastures.
I think he did it deliberately, I always do.
....
"Happy Birthday man. You are one of the few people I know with potential for true greatness; make sure you realise it."
Earler:
" I believe, and I say this with all honesty- that you are a killer. Not that you would kill me right now, but that if you so wanted it, you would engineer it(or as i suspect do it yourself) and it wouldn't matter to you one ...little...bit."
Later that night in bed:
" I'm a killer." Growl.
She laughed in his ear.
"Sure you are." Serious." You're not as bad as you think you are. Someday you're going to realise that , deep down you areally are a nice person."
A few days later:
"Stop it! You're scaring me."
Huh.
Told you I could convince anyone of anything I wanted to; told you I was evil.
Pause.
"You're not evil." But there was a small tinge of uncertainity.
Man, he was good.
...
" I'll change the world one day, you know that don't you?"
Sure you will, baby.
Hush now.
Pulls him downwards...
Sleep.
....
I'd probably give all the money away though.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
The Man in Black
I came across this story some eight years ago. It formed part of ny English text in school. I have never forgotten it; I doubt I ever will.
There are those who will hold that herein lies a rather accurate analogy of yours truly. I, of course, strongly and most vehemently refute that claim.
Title: The Man In Black
Author: Oliver Goldsmith
Though fond of many acquaintances, I desire an intimacy only with a few. The man in black whom I have often mentioned is one whose friendship I could wish to acquire, because he possesses my esteem. His manners, it is true, are tinctured with some strange inconsistencies; and he may be justly termed an humourist in a nation of humourists. Though he is generous even to profusion, he affects to be thought a prodigy of parsimony and prudence; though his conversation be replete with the most sordid and selfish maxims, his heart is dilated with the most unbounded love. I have known him profess himself a man-hater, while his cheek was glowing with compassion; and while his looks were softened into pity, I have heard him use the language of the most unbounded ill-nature. Some affect humanity and tenderness, others boast of having such dispositions from nature; but he is the only man I ever knew who seemed ashamed of his natural benevolence. He takes as much pains to hide his feelings, as any hypocrite would to conceal his indifference; but on every unguarded moment the mask drops off, and reveals him to the most superficial observer.
In one of our late excursions into the country, happening to discourse upon the provision that was made for the poor in England, he seemed amazed how any of his countrymen could be so foolishly weak as to relieve occasional objects of charity, when the laws had made such ample provision for their support. "In every parish house," says he, "the poor are supplied with food, clothes, fire, and a bed to lie on; they want no more, I desire no more myself; yet still they seem discontented. I am surprised at the inactivity of our magistrates, in not taking up such vagrants, who are only a weight upon the industrious; I am surprised that the people are found to relieve them, when they must be at the same time sensible that it, in some measure, encourages idleness, extravagance, and imposture. Were I to advise any man for whom I had the least regard, I would caution him by all means not to be imposed upon by their false pretences: let me assure you, sir, they are impostors, every one of them, and rather merit a prison than relief."
He was proceeding in this strain earnestly, to dissuade me from an imprudence of which I am seldom guilty, when an old man, who still had about him the remnants of tattered finery, implored our compassion. He assured us, that he was no common beggar, but forced into the shameful profession, to support a dying wife and five hungry children. Being prepossessed against such falsehoods, his story had not the least influence upon me; but it was quite otherwise with the man in black; I could see it visibly operate upon his countenance, and effectually interrupt his harangue. I could easily perceive, that his heart burned to relieve the five starving children, but he seemed ashamed to discover his weakness to me. While he thus hesitated between compassion and pride, I pretended to look another way, and he seized this opportunity of giving the poor petitioner a piece of silver, bidding him at the same time, in order that I should not hear, go work for his bread, and not tease passengers with such impertinent falsehoods for the future.
As he had fancied himself quite unperceived, he continued, as we proceeded, to rail against beggars with as much animosity as before; he threw in some episodes on his own amazing prudence and economy, with his profound skill in discovering impostors; he explained the manner in which he would deal with beggars were he a magistrate, hinted at enlarging some of the prisons for their reception, and told two stories of ladies that were robbed by beggarmen. He was beginning a third to the same purpose, when a sailor with a wooden leg once more crossed our walks, desiring our pity, and blessing our limbs. I was for going on without taking any notice, but my friend looking wistfully upon the poor petitioner, bid me stop, and he would show me with how much ease he could at any time detect an impostor.
He now, therefore, assumed a look of importance, and in an angry tone began to examine the sailor, demanding in what engagement he was thus disabled and rendered unfit for service. The sailor replied, in a tone as angrily as he, that he had been an officer on board a private ship of war, and that he had lost his leg abroad in defence of those who did nothing at home. At this reply, all my friend's importance vanished in a moment; he had not a single question more to ask; he now only studied what method he should take to relieve him unobserved. He had, however, no easy part to act, as he was obliged to preserve the appearance of ill-nature before me, and yet relieve himself by relieving the sailor. Casting, therefore, a furious look upon some bundles of chips which the fellow carried in a string at his back, my friend demanded how he sold his matches; but not waiting for a reply, desired, in a surly tone, to have a shilling's worth. The sailor seemed at first surprised at his demand, but soon recollected himself, and presenting his whole bundle, "Here, master," says he, "take all my cargo, and a blessing into the bargain."
It is impossible to describe, with what an air of triumph my friend marched off with his new purchase; he assured me, that he was firmly of opinion that those fellows must have stolen their goods, who could thus afford to sell them for half value. He informed me of several different uses to which those chips might be applied; he expatiated largely upon the savings that would result from lighting candles with a match instead of thrusting them into the fire. He averred, that he would as soon have parted with a tooth as his money to those vagabonds, unless for some valuable consideration. I cannot tell how long this panegyric upon frugality and matches might have continued, had not his attention been called off by another object more distressful than either of the former. A woman in rags, with one child in her arms and another on her back, was attempting to sing ballads, but with such a mournful voice, that it was difficult to determine whether she was singing or crying. A wretch who, in the deepest distress, still aimed at good humour, was an object my friend was by no means capable of withstanding; his vivacity and his discourse were instantly interrupted; upon this occasion his very dissimulation had forsaken him. Even in my presence he immediately applied his hands to his pockets, in order to relieve her; but guess his confusion when he found he had already given away all the money he carried about him to former objects. The misery painted in the woman's visage was not half so strongly expressed as the agony in his. He continued to search for some time, but to no purpose, till, at length recollecting himself, with a face of ineffable good-nature, as he had no money, he put into her hands his shilling's worth of matches.
There are those who will hold that herein lies a rather accurate analogy of yours truly. I, of course, strongly and most vehemently refute that claim.
Title: The Man In Black
Author: Oliver Goldsmith
Though fond of many acquaintances, I desire an intimacy only with a few. The man in black whom I have often mentioned is one whose friendship I could wish to acquire, because he possesses my esteem. His manners, it is true, are tinctured with some strange inconsistencies; and he may be justly termed an humourist in a nation of humourists. Though he is generous even to profusion, he affects to be thought a prodigy of parsimony and prudence; though his conversation be replete with the most sordid and selfish maxims, his heart is dilated with the most unbounded love. I have known him profess himself a man-hater, while his cheek was glowing with compassion; and while his looks were softened into pity, I have heard him use the language of the most unbounded ill-nature. Some affect humanity and tenderness, others boast of having such dispositions from nature; but he is the only man I ever knew who seemed ashamed of his natural benevolence. He takes as much pains to hide his feelings, as any hypocrite would to conceal his indifference; but on every unguarded moment the mask drops off, and reveals him to the most superficial observer.
In one of our late excursions into the country, happening to discourse upon the provision that was made for the poor in England, he seemed amazed how any of his countrymen could be so foolishly weak as to relieve occasional objects of charity, when the laws had made such ample provision for their support. "In every parish house," says he, "the poor are supplied with food, clothes, fire, and a bed to lie on; they want no more, I desire no more myself; yet still they seem discontented. I am surprised at the inactivity of our magistrates, in not taking up such vagrants, who are only a weight upon the industrious; I am surprised that the people are found to relieve them, when they must be at the same time sensible that it, in some measure, encourages idleness, extravagance, and imposture. Were I to advise any man for whom I had the least regard, I would caution him by all means not to be imposed upon by their false pretences: let me assure you, sir, they are impostors, every one of them, and rather merit a prison than relief."
He was proceeding in this strain earnestly, to dissuade me from an imprudence of which I am seldom guilty, when an old man, who still had about him the remnants of tattered finery, implored our compassion. He assured us, that he was no common beggar, but forced into the shameful profession, to support a dying wife and five hungry children. Being prepossessed against such falsehoods, his story had not the least influence upon me; but it was quite otherwise with the man in black; I could see it visibly operate upon his countenance, and effectually interrupt his harangue. I could easily perceive, that his heart burned to relieve the five starving children, but he seemed ashamed to discover his weakness to me. While he thus hesitated between compassion and pride, I pretended to look another way, and he seized this opportunity of giving the poor petitioner a piece of silver, bidding him at the same time, in order that I should not hear, go work for his bread, and not tease passengers with such impertinent falsehoods for the future.
As he had fancied himself quite unperceived, he continued, as we proceeded, to rail against beggars with as much animosity as before; he threw in some episodes on his own amazing prudence and economy, with his profound skill in discovering impostors; he explained the manner in which he would deal with beggars were he a magistrate, hinted at enlarging some of the prisons for their reception, and told two stories of ladies that were robbed by beggarmen. He was beginning a third to the same purpose, when a sailor with a wooden leg once more crossed our walks, desiring our pity, and blessing our limbs. I was for going on without taking any notice, but my friend looking wistfully upon the poor petitioner, bid me stop, and he would show me with how much ease he could at any time detect an impostor.
He now, therefore, assumed a look of importance, and in an angry tone began to examine the sailor, demanding in what engagement he was thus disabled and rendered unfit for service. The sailor replied, in a tone as angrily as he, that he had been an officer on board a private ship of war, and that he had lost his leg abroad in defence of those who did nothing at home. At this reply, all my friend's importance vanished in a moment; he had not a single question more to ask; he now only studied what method he should take to relieve him unobserved. He had, however, no easy part to act, as he was obliged to preserve the appearance of ill-nature before me, and yet relieve himself by relieving the sailor. Casting, therefore, a furious look upon some bundles of chips which the fellow carried in a string at his back, my friend demanded how he sold his matches; but not waiting for a reply, desired, in a surly tone, to have a shilling's worth. The sailor seemed at first surprised at his demand, but soon recollected himself, and presenting his whole bundle, "Here, master," says he, "take all my cargo, and a blessing into the bargain."
It is impossible to describe, with what an air of triumph my friend marched off with his new purchase; he assured me, that he was firmly of opinion that those fellows must have stolen their goods, who could thus afford to sell them for half value. He informed me of several different uses to which those chips might be applied; he expatiated largely upon the savings that would result from lighting candles with a match instead of thrusting them into the fire. He averred, that he would as soon have parted with a tooth as his money to those vagabonds, unless for some valuable consideration. I cannot tell how long this panegyric upon frugality and matches might have continued, had not his attention been called off by another object more distressful than either of the former. A woman in rags, with one child in her arms and another on her back, was attempting to sing ballads, but with such a mournful voice, that it was difficult to determine whether she was singing or crying. A wretch who, in the deepest distress, still aimed at good humour, was an object my friend was by no means capable of withstanding; his vivacity and his discourse were instantly interrupted; upon this occasion his very dissimulation had forsaken him. Even in my presence he immediately applied his hands to his pockets, in order to relieve her; but guess his confusion when he found he had already given away all the money he carried about him to former objects. The misery painted in the woman's visage was not half so strongly expressed as the agony in his. He continued to search for some time, but to no purpose, till, at length recollecting himself, with a face of ineffable good-nature, as he had no money, he put into her hands his shilling's worth of matches.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Whose morals?
A man lay dying on the road.
Two yards away from him stood a man pointing a gun at the doctor.
By the dying man's side a priest knelt and prayed.
...
The man died; the one holding the gun dropped it, and walked away.
The crowd stood, silent and parted.
...
"I was furious, of course. I'd received a call and had rushed out. I daresay I reached there in time too. The poor chap was still breathing, at any rate. Something could have been done!But, no! Like some self-appointed God, he held me away with his gun. 'He needs God', he told me. Bah! like God could have saved him. Fool! A life was lost today because one young trigger-happy ruffian had his own personal code of morals."
"He was a Hindu; that was the only thing that held me. I must admit to you sir, that for a while all I could do was stand there in shock, It all happened so quickly. There was a man walking, and then he was lying on the road and there was blood all over him. I began to pray.
The doctor appeared so fast! It was almost like He had sent him there. I crossed myself and thanked Him.
And then the young man was there. He pointed his gun at the doctor and, turning to me he said, "He needs God'. My feet moved of their own accord. I knelt by the poor dying soul and said the Last Prayers to the Lord. He died a moment after I said...
Amen".
"I've seen a lot of bodies, I have. they come in all shapes and sizes, all classes. He's a fair man, is Death...
I've always been interested in expressions, yes. There's a lot you can tell about a man by the expression he has on him when he dies.
Him?
Oh, he was smiling;
quite peacefully too,
when he died.
...
Could they have saved him?
They could have, maybe.
Maybe they did.
Judge, thyself.
Two yards away from him stood a man pointing a gun at the doctor.
By the dying man's side a priest knelt and prayed.
...
The man died; the one holding the gun dropped it, and walked away.
The crowd stood, silent and parted.
...
"I was furious, of course. I'd received a call and had rushed out. I daresay I reached there in time too. The poor chap was still breathing, at any rate. Something could have been done!But, no! Like some self-appointed God, he held me away with his gun. 'He needs God', he told me. Bah! like God could have saved him. Fool! A life was lost today because one young trigger-happy ruffian had his own personal code of morals."
"He was a Hindu; that was the only thing that held me. I must admit to you sir, that for a while all I could do was stand there in shock, It all happened so quickly. There was a man walking, and then he was lying on the road and there was blood all over him. I began to pray.
The doctor appeared so fast! It was almost like He had sent him there. I crossed myself and thanked Him.
And then the young man was there. He pointed his gun at the doctor and, turning to me he said, "He needs God'. My feet moved of their own accord. I knelt by the poor dying soul and said the Last Prayers to the Lord. He died a moment after I said...
Amen".
"I've seen a lot of bodies, I have. they come in all shapes and sizes, all classes. He's a fair man, is Death...
I've always been interested in expressions, yes. There's a lot you can tell about a man by the expression he has on him when he dies.
Him?
Oh, he was smiling;
quite peacefully too,
when he died.
...
Could they have saved him?
They could have, maybe.
Maybe they did.
Judge, thyself.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
The Two
Author's Note: The usage of stereotypes helps a writer convey messages easier than without. This, however does not mean that the author subscribes to the stereotypes used.
There were two babies in a bottle.
The first was white. It looked like the baby that one would find in a photograph of a baby. Fair, with a small tuft of curly brown hair, chubby, Cute. But it was the expression on the baby's face that really drew your eye. It looked so angelic. It had a simple , happy smile on its face- like all the world was its own personal playground. You could almost imagine this baby growing up into the man - a big , courteous, successful man. The perfect man; or the idea of a perfect man.
The second was black. Not the blackness of mere colour but the blackness that you would associate with the purest of...evil. Blood-shot red and slitted eyes stared balefully out of a face that lacked all expression. When the baby smiled, pieces of food hung from its pointy bloodied little fangs.
Stillness.
The bottle contracted; once.
The white child opened its mouth, devoid of all teeth (Bless the little babe) and blew a bubble. Inside the bubble was joy, peace, hope, charity, chivalry, love...all expressed with the simple clarity of a child.
Goo, said the white child.
The black one opened its eyes. It raised its hand and ran its sharp, curved, black nails down the side of the bottle. Imagine the sound of nails on a blackboard; coming from inside of you.
Hate, the sound seemed to say, Murder, jealousy, prejudice, pleasure, lust....rape.
Mercifully, the sound stopped.
There was stillness again.
The bottle contracted.
There are rwo babies in a bottle.
....
There is one baby in a bottle.
....
We all have them - a good side and a bad side.
Prince Charming and the Beast; only, which is which, really?
"Sometimes, we fight; sometimes we win; but most of the time- we survive,
barely"
There were two babies in a bottle.
The first was white. It looked like the baby that one would find in a photograph of a baby. Fair, with a small tuft of curly brown hair, chubby, Cute. But it was the expression on the baby's face that really drew your eye. It looked so angelic. It had a simple , happy smile on its face- like all the world was its own personal playground. You could almost imagine this baby growing up into the man - a big , courteous, successful man. The perfect man; or the idea of a perfect man.
The second was black. Not the blackness of mere colour but the blackness that you would associate with the purest of...evil. Blood-shot red and slitted eyes stared balefully out of a face that lacked all expression. When the baby smiled, pieces of food hung from its pointy bloodied little fangs.
Stillness.
The bottle contracted; once.
The white child opened its mouth, devoid of all teeth (Bless the little babe) and blew a bubble. Inside the bubble was joy, peace, hope, charity, chivalry, love...all expressed with the simple clarity of a child.
Goo, said the white child.
The black one opened its eyes. It raised its hand and ran its sharp, curved, black nails down the side of the bottle. Imagine the sound of nails on a blackboard; coming from inside of you.
Hate, the sound seemed to say, Murder, jealousy, prejudice, pleasure, lust....rape.
Mercifully, the sound stopped.
There was stillness again.
The bottle contracted.
There are rwo babies in a bottle.
....
There is one baby in a bottle.
....
We all have them - a good side and a bad side.
Prince Charming and the Beast; only, which is which, really?
"Sometimes, we fight; sometimes we win; but most of the time- we survive,
barely"
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Bow Bow
The Den was a quiet little pub off Treacle Mine Road. Its visitors were respectable middle class,middle-aged men stopped by to have a drink on their way elsewhere;
for the most part.
The pub itself was tidy, neat, orderly. Soft yellow light illuminated comfortable cushioned chairs arranged loosely at small tables across the room.
Everyone knew the barman. And more importantly the barman knew everyone. He was probably called Tom.
Bradley H. Higgins was a regular to The Den. Now, there was a man who had been born to drink quietly at a pub like that. He came in at two everyday, on his break from work; drank his drink, and left, He spoke, albeit courteously, to very few people. He paid his tab regularly.
In appearance, he was unremarkable. Short, slightly built, he had thick, black hair which was engaged in a rapid recession from his broad forehead.His form, imdeed his very being, seemed to exude the words, "Mild mannered".
This story is about what happened at The Den one evening; involving the afore described Mr. Higgins.
It was two on a friday in December,and Mr. Higgins had just entered the pub. He made his was up to the barman and ordered his drink. He sat himself neatly and quietly down on his stool.
His drink was ready in minutes; Tom knew his job and his customers.
"You Bastard!".
At first, the only reaction to the sound was of quite puzzlement. It sounded alien and foreign. Surely such and animal scream could not have emanated from any of the pub's quiet drinkers.
As one, they all turned to look at the doorway, in which stood framed....a thing. He looked like a man, certainly the basic elements were there- face,body,legs; but there was something...animal about him. His hair was wild and matted, his face was dark and scarred. He was frothing at the mouth. His convict's attire hung off him in shreds.
"You Bastard!".
And as he screamed it the second time, he raised his hand and pointed- pointed directly..... at Mr. Higgins.
"You lying, cheating, manipulating WEASEL!".
There were sounds of alarm as the man advanced into thepub. Tom reached under the table for his club. No one did anything, mind you. They were all staring, transfixed.
"You ruined it all, you TURD! We were like BROTHERS! I looked up to you, I envied you , I TRUSTED you!". He spat on the floor and drew a breath; his face, hitherto contorted in a mask of fury , took on a rather strange quality. Was it my imagination, or was there something very...human...and wounded in that visage?
"I was HAPPY, you sonofabitch. I was with her and I was HAPPY! But you....YOU FUCKED it all up. You with your WORDS and your PRETENDING and you PROMISES and your DREAMS!"
He seemed to be working himself up to something. Tom pulled out his club, several of the guests rose. Mr. Higgins had still not moved a muscle.
"This is so FUCKING funny!", the madman laughed, deranged. "You're the Bastard and yet these people think I'm crazy!HA HA! They think that I'm evil! Look at you! Sitting there....sitting there where I should be Sitting! Drinking your little drink...Ha ha....SIPPING your little drink; and no one...NO ONE really knows....ha ha..NO ONE really knows what a sick, twisted little..HA HA..ha ha...ha."The laughter died with alarming suddenness.
His eyes narrowed. "Why don't you SAY something? Why in the name of all that is holy are you SMILING you demented freak?!"
Mr. Higgins is smiling.
"You-! You BLOODY-! You...!"
Mr. Higgins finishes his drink.
"Now, LOOK here, you-!"
Mr. Higgins gets up.
"But..! But I-!"
Mr. Higgins walks over to the madman and stops.
The world stands still.
"Bow Bow", says Mr. Higgins.
And out he walks.
The End.
What else can you say to a dog? 'xcept "Bow Bow" and hope it pisses off onto some other unlucky sod the next time.
for the most part.
The pub itself was tidy, neat, orderly. Soft yellow light illuminated comfortable cushioned chairs arranged loosely at small tables across the room.
Everyone knew the barman. And more importantly the barman knew everyone. He was probably called Tom.
Bradley H. Higgins was a regular to The Den. Now, there was a man who had been born to drink quietly at a pub like that. He came in at two everyday, on his break from work; drank his drink, and left, He spoke, albeit courteously, to very few people. He paid his tab regularly.
In appearance, he was unremarkable. Short, slightly built, he had thick, black hair which was engaged in a rapid recession from his broad forehead.His form, imdeed his very being, seemed to exude the words, "Mild mannered".
This story is about what happened at The Den one evening; involving the afore described Mr. Higgins.
It was two on a friday in December,and Mr. Higgins had just entered the pub. He made his was up to the barman and ordered his drink. He sat himself neatly and quietly down on his stool.
His drink was ready in minutes; Tom knew his job and his customers.
"You Bastard!".
At first, the only reaction to the sound was of quite puzzlement. It sounded alien and foreign. Surely such and animal scream could not have emanated from any of the pub's quiet drinkers.
As one, they all turned to look at the doorway, in which stood framed....a thing. He looked like a man, certainly the basic elements were there- face,body,legs; but there was something...animal about him. His hair was wild and matted, his face was dark and scarred. He was frothing at the mouth. His convict's attire hung off him in shreds.
"You Bastard!".
And as he screamed it the second time, he raised his hand and pointed- pointed directly..... at Mr. Higgins.
"You lying, cheating, manipulating WEASEL!".
There were sounds of alarm as the man advanced into thepub. Tom reached under the table for his club. No one did anything, mind you. They were all staring, transfixed.
"You ruined it all, you TURD! We were like BROTHERS! I looked up to you, I envied you , I TRUSTED you!". He spat on the floor and drew a breath; his face, hitherto contorted in a mask of fury , took on a rather strange quality. Was it my imagination, or was there something very...human...and wounded in that visage?
"I was HAPPY, you sonofabitch. I was with her and I was HAPPY! But you....YOU FUCKED it all up. You with your WORDS and your PRETENDING and you PROMISES and your DREAMS!"
He seemed to be working himself up to something. Tom pulled out his club, several of the guests rose. Mr. Higgins had still not moved a muscle.
"This is so FUCKING funny!", the madman laughed, deranged. "You're the Bastard and yet these people think I'm crazy!HA HA! They think that I'm evil! Look at you! Sitting there....sitting there where I should be Sitting! Drinking your little drink...Ha ha....SIPPING your little drink; and no one...NO ONE really knows....ha ha..NO ONE really knows what a sick, twisted little..HA HA..ha ha...ha."The laughter died with alarming suddenness.
His eyes narrowed. "Why don't you SAY something? Why in the name of all that is holy are you SMILING you demented freak?!"
Mr. Higgins is smiling.
"You-! You BLOODY-! You...!"
Mr. Higgins finishes his drink.
"Now, LOOK here, you-!"
Mr. Higgins gets up.
"But..! But I-!"
Mr. Higgins walks over to the madman and stops.
The world stands still.
"Bow Bow", says Mr. Higgins.
And out he walks.
The End.
What else can you say to a dog? 'xcept "Bow Bow" and hope it pisses off onto some other unlucky sod the next time.
Monday, June 14, 2010
A Spiderman
By day, I am surrounded,
By night, alone.
"Dusty trophies, empty hallways."
Talking to myself,
On the phone.
"Who am I ?
I am a Spiderman."
Alone in a crowd,
A twisted, seething mass,
"Mr. De ville, Remember me?"
Is this but,
A well played out
Farce?
Floundering,wary,
out of place;
"Ha Ha."
Should I laugh or should I cry?
Should I run or stand and face?
LIstless, fascinating,
bored to death;
"La Di Da, La di darling."
Music, my love,
A stranger well meth.
Waiting for
the door to open,
"Alcohol, Alcohol, alcohol."
Cocaine, best friend-
a mind broken.
Hail! the new day,
She dawns.
"F%^k this, hangover."
Just like the last one,
She fawns.
Yeah, yeah;
coming.
By night, alone.
"Dusty trophies, empty hallways."
Talking to myself,
On the phone.
"Who am I ?
I am a Spiderman."
Alone in a crowd,
A twisted, seething mass,
"Mr. De ville, Remember me?"
Is this but,
A well played out
Farce?
Floundering,wary,
out of place;
"Ha Ha."
Should I laugh or should I cry?
Should I run or stand and face?
LIstless, fascinating,
bored to death;
"La Di Da, La di darling."
Music, my love,
A stranger well meth.
Waiting for
the door to open,
"Alcohol, Alcohol, alcohol."
Cocaine, best friend-
a mind broken.
Hail! the new day,
She dawns.
"F%^k this, hangover."
Just like the last one,
She fawns.
Yeah, yeah;
coming.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Unconditional
Author's Note: I believe in God, despite it all; such is faith.
I, ___ take you, ___ for my wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish till death do us part.
The question is-
If I go crazy then would you still call me Superman?
Kryptonite.
I'd like to take a look at this abstract called "Unconditional Love".
Who among you will step forward to love this man unconditionally?
What if ...he becomes poor?
What if he loses his mind?
What if he becomes ill?
What if he is maimed in an accident?
What if he lies?
What if he commits murder?
What if he commits....adultery?
I can't see in one eye.. What if, someday, I lose vision in both?
"Even if you were blind, it would not matter, I will still hold your hand and walk you home"-My Art of living.
Should you find someone better, don't stop to think. Leave me and begone with you. I shall not hate you. I shall live in acceptance- in the line "As long as she is happy..."
Show me the person who shalt profess unconditional love and I will show you their Condition.
Is a mother's love unconditional? I have no answer to this one. In all honesty, probably it isn't.
There are certain things that I cannot allow myself to believe.
Note that I have always been far more interested in the angels on Earth than in Heaven.
There was a son who went home from school one day. Mum, he said, I'm sorry.I seem to have failed in my Maths exam.
There was a flicker in the mother's eyes.
That's alright Son.I'm sure you'll do it the next time, she said.
And she hugged him.
All was well.
However there is a part of me that stops at that point....the flicker.
Was that merely being human?
So, humans cannot love unconditionally, yes?
And so they brought about the concept of a higher being who could love unconditionally.
Why?
Because it felt better.
Is God's love unconditional, Father Jacob? Tell me then, why do we have confessions? Why is there Sin/Hamartia? Why is there a Hell?
So that you can be put through the whole rigmarole and at the end of it all He woll still love you?
Everyone deserves to have someone. For those that don't- there is God.
The floor is now open.
I, ___ take you, ___ for my wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish till death do us part.
The question is-
If I go crazy then would you still call me Superman?
Kryptonite.
I'd like to take a look at this abstract called "Unconditional Love".
Who among you will step forward to love this man unconditionally?
What if ...he becomes poor?
What if he loses his mind?
What if he becomes ill?
What if he is maimed in an accident?
What if he lies?
What if he commits murder?
What if he commits....adultery?
I can't see in one eye.. What if, someday, I lose vision in both?
"Even if you were blind, it would not matter, I will still hold your hand and walk you home"-My Art of living.
Should you find someone better, don't stop to think. Leave me and begone with you. I shall not hate you. I shall live in acceptance- in the line "As long as she is happy..."
Show me the person who shalt profess unconditional love and I will show you their Condition.
Is a mother's love unconditional? I have no answer to this one. In all honesty, probably it isn't.
There are certain things that I cannot allow myself to believe.
Note that I have always been far more interested in the angels on Earth than in Heaven.
There was a son who went home from school one day. Mum, he said, I'm sorry.I seem to have failed in my Maths exam.
There was a flicker in the mother's eyes.
That's alright Son.I'm sure you'll do it the next time, she said.
And she hugged him.
All was well.
However there is a part of me that stops at that point....the flicker.
Was that merely being human?
So, humans cannot love unconditionally, yes?
And so they brought about the concept of a higher being who could love unconditionally.
Why?
Because it felt better.
Is God's love unconditional, Father Jacob? Tell me then, why do we have confessions? Why is there Sin/Hamartia? Why is there a Hell?
So that you can be put through the whole rigmarole and at the end of it all He woll still love you?
Everyone deserves to have someone. For those that don't- there is God.
The floor is now open.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Nora
Never have her:
This one's for Nora
Kayla Silverfox: Do you know why the moon is so lonely, Logan?
Logan: Why?
Kayla Silverfox: Because she used to have a lover.
Logan: You tell this to the kids?
Kayla Silverfox: No.
[Logan laughs]
Kayla Silverfox: His name was Kuekuatsu and they lived in the spirit world together.
Logan: Oh, this is a true story.
Kayla Silverfox: Mmm. And every night, they would wander the skies together. But, one of the other spirits was jealous. The Trickster wanted the Moon for himself. So he told Kuekuatsu that the Moon had asked for flowers; he told him to come to our world and pick her some wild roses. But Kuekuatsu didn't know that once you leave the spirit world, you can never go back. And every night, he looks up in the sky and sees the Moon and howls her name. But...
he can never touch her again.
.....
Never have her: Part- 2:
Curse of the Wicked Witch:
I loathe Fate. I loathe her with all my heart, and with all my soul and with all my mind. Centuries have I stood here; the years have not been kind- what was once the handsome form of a Lord of men is now the wasted form of an old fool. Centuries, I said.
Death, that sly Bastard, has tried to creep up on me several times.
He has tried; and he has tired.
I am...immortal; an immortal in pain.
I am the Man Who Loved Her.
There she stands-Niyati.
She is just a hands breath away.
But if I stretch out my hand, and cross the line of Fate, she will die.
Shatter,
Disappear,
Begone forever.
Pity me, mortal.
.....
Blood on my hands:
What do I care if a thousand nameless people die in some corner of the world, as long as in the here and now, you are safe?
Heck, I may even have killed them myself;
so thay can't harm you.
.....
If I could:
God, no.
NO.
She's dying God, look at her she's dying.
LOOK AT HER.
An almost feral scream.
Do you know what it is like to be young and in love?
Do you, old man?
DO YOU?
The feral scream again.
My wife has cancer.
(Aside)
And how I wish I could reach in and pull it out.
(To Cancer)
Leave her.
Please.
I beg you. I'll do anything. I'll give you whatever you want, (Breakdown), ANYONE you want.
Take me, Take me instead. (Sob)
TAKE ME.
Ward number 353 at St. Ursulas was cold, so cold.
At midnight on the 27th of May 1969 there were only two people in the ward- Jonathan and Sarah. One was dying on the outside, the other....on the inside. She had cancer.
On the morning of 28th May,1969, the ward was still, so still There were only two in the ward- one was breathing softly and the other was breathing...not at all.
He was dead.
........
Nora:
Cryogenecist Dr. Victor Fries saved his dying wife, Nora by freezing her in a cryogenic chamber, till facilities to perform an organ transplant became available. The chance never came. The corporation pulled the funding on his project...
His face pressed against the glass.
On the other side, his wife lay suspended, an ethereal white mist surrounded her.
She looked peaceful,beautiful; like an angel in heaven.
He raised his hand, made as if to reach through the glass.
His mouth formed the word,
Nora.
When he stepped back, his skin tore.
......
Logan: Wow. Koo-koo-ka-choo got screwed.
This one's for Nora
Kayla Silverfox: Do you know why the moon is so lonely, Logan?
Logan: Why?
Kayla Silverfox: Because she used to have a lover.
Logan: You tell this to the kids?
Kayla Silverfox: No.
[Logan laughs]
Kayla Silverfox: His name was Kuekuatsu and they lived in the spirit world together.
Logan: Oh, this is a true story.
Kayla Silverfox: Mmm. And every night, they would wander the skies together. But, one of the other spirits was jealous. The Trickster wanted the Moon for himself. So he told Kuekuatsu that the Moon had asked for flowers; he told him to come to our world and pick her some wild roses. But Kuekuatsu didn't know that once you leave the spirit world, you can never go back. And every night, he looks up in the sky and sees the Moon and howls her name. But...
he can never touch her again.
.....
Never have her: Part- 2:
Curse of the Wicked Witch:
I loathe Fate. I loathe her with all my heart, and with all my soul and with all my mind. Centuries have I stood here; the years have not been kind- what was once the handsome form of a Lord of men is now the wasted form of an old fool. Centuries, I said.
Death, that sly Bastard, has tried to creep up on me several times.
He has tried; and he has tired.
I am...immortal; an immortal in pain.
I am the Man Who Loved Her.
There she stands-Niyati.
She is just a hands breath away.
But if I stretch out my hand, and cross the line of Fate, she will die.
Shatter,
Disappear,
Begone forever.
Pity me, mortal.
.....
Blood on my hands:
What do I care if a thousand nameless people die in some corner of the world, as long as in the here and now, you are safe?
Heck, I may even have killed them myself;
so thay can't harm you.
.....
If I could:
God, no.
NO.
She's dying God, look at her she's dying.
LOOK AT HER.
An almost feral scream.
Do you know what it is like to be young and in love?
Do you, old man?
DO YOU?
The feral scream again.
My wife has cancer.
(Aside)
And how I wish I could reach in and pull it out.
(To Cancer)
Leave her.
Please.
I beg you. I'll do anything. I'll give you whatever you want, (Breakdown), ANYONE you want.
Take me, Take me instead. (Sob)
TAKE ME.
Ward number 353 at St. Ursulas was cold, so cold.
At midnight on the 27th of May 1969 there were only two people in the ward- Jonathan and Sarah. One was dying on the outside, the other....on the inside. She had cancer.
On the morning of 28th May,1969, the ward was still, so still There were only two in the ward- one was breathing softly and the other was breathing...not at all.
He was dead.
........
Nora:
Cryogenecist Dr. Victor Fries saved his dying wife, Nora by freezing her in a cryogenic chamber, till facilities to perform an organ transplant became available. The chance never came. The corporation pulled the funding on his project...
His face pressed against the glass.
On the other side, his wife lay suspended, an ethereal white mist surrounded her.
She looked peaceful,beautiful; like an angel in heaven.
He raised his hand, made as if to reach through the glass.
His mouth formed the word,
Nora.
When he stepped back, his skin tore.
......
Logan: Wow. Koo-koo-ka-choo got screwed.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Because. I write.
This is a blog about a blog.
Why do I write?
Because.
Because, I.S, I find it therapeutic. It’s my way of letting the world know. It’s my way of showing people my thoughts, who I am, of inspiring the next.
It was a packed room. They said, afterwards, that the speaker was inspired. That when he spoke, they felt as if it all made sense and it was all clear, and that they felt chastised. And they went out and cut the goddamn tree. But one boy stayed back. He went up to where the speaker stood, completely drained.(For you see, everytime he spoke, he gave something of himself.)
“What’s the point”, he asked, rather plaintively.
The point, son, is that....the point is...the point...
Hope can push a dead man on.
Maybe, just maybe, years from now, or tomorrow- they’ll think of me and what I said- and they’ll change.
I write about random stuff. (Courtesy: Nazia)
More, accurately I write based on specific real-life incidents, conversations, ideas. And people walk in right at the end of the movie and go “ Ooh, Random!”.
I write because I’m looking....for the others: Someone.
And from person to person they passed the paper. It had one word written on it” IGHIHIIIGG”. They could see the beauty of the word but did not understand. They passed it on.
I write whenever I’m inspired, I.S.
Blood and sweat. Blood and sweat. He flung the sword into the tree.
Pull it out.
Show me what you’ve got.
Impress me.
And I write however i feel like.
Because.
It’s my blog.
Why do I write?
Because.
Because, I.S, I find it therapeutic. It’s my way of letting the world know. It’s my way of showing people my thoughts, who I am, of inspiring the next.
It was a packed room. They said, afterwards, that the speaker was inspired. That when he spoke, they felt as if it all made sense and it was all clear, and that they felt chastised. And they went out and cut the goddamn tree. But one boy stayed back. He went up to where the speaker stood, completely drained.(For you see, everytime he spoke, he gave something of himself.)
“What’s the point”, he asked, rather plaintively.
The point, son, is that....the point is...the point...
Hope can push a dead man on.
Maybe, just maybe, years from now, or tomorrow- they’ll think of me and what I said- and they’ll change.
I write about random stuff. (Courtesy: Nazia)
More, accurately I write based on specific real-life incidents, conversations, ideas. And people walk in right at the end of the movie and go “ Ooh, Random!”.
I write because I’m looking....for the others: Someone.
And from person to person they passed the paper. It had one word written on it” IGHIHIIIGG”. They could see the beauty of the word but did not understand. They passed it on.
I write whenever I’m inspired, I.S.
Blood and sweat. Blood and sweat. He flung the sword into the tree.
Pull it out.
Show me what you’ve got.
Impress me.
And I write however i feel like.
Because.
It’s my blog.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Blame on me
In silence, he drank three goblets of the potion. Then, halfway through the fourth goblet, he staggered and fell forward against the basin. His eyes were still closed, his breathing heavy.
"Professor?" said the boy, his voice strained. "Can you hear me?"
He did not answer. His face was twitching as though he was deeply asleep, but dreaming a horrible dream. His grip on the goblet was slackening; the potion was about to spill from it. The boy reached forward and grasped the crystal cup, holding it steady.
"Professor can you hear me?" he repeated loudly, his voice echoing around the cavern.
The man panted and then spoke in a voice the boy did not recognize, for he had never heard him frightened like this.
"I don't want... Don't make me..."
The boy stared into the wizened face he knew so well, at the crooked nose and half-moon spectacles, and did not know what to do.
"... don't like... want to stop...
"I don't want...Don't make me..
No...I don't want to ...I don't want to....Let me go...
Make it stop, make it stop
No, no, no, no, I can't, I can't, don't make me, I don't want to....
It's all my fault, all my fault.Please make it stop, I know I did wrong, oh please make it stop and I'll never, never again..
..Don't hurt them, don't hurt them, please, please, it's my fault, hurt me instead..
Please, please, please, no...not that, not that, I'll do anything...
..No more, please, no more...
I want to die! I want to die! Make it stop, make it stop, I want to die!
On his knees
KILL ME
.....
Oh we few, we merry few..band of brothers- look at us now.
Look me in the eye and tell me that what I did was wrong. Go ahead; tell me. I can’t pretend that I did not know that this would happen. You wouldn’t believe me if I did.
But, then again, neither can you.
Story time.
There was once a little boy, gentlemen. And this little boy, Oh, he was so smart. My, my, what a smart little fellow he was. I’d wager that you wouldn’t have found a smarter lad even if you’d looked mighty hard; why, even if you had looked a million miles, you wouldn’t have found smarter. No. No.
And like all smart people – this little fellow needed a channel for his smartness. So he found a little wee pipe. And he began to play it. What a lovely sound that was, gentlemen!
And as he began to play it, the people began to follow him. Not because he was forcing them to, but because they were in awe of the sheer beauty of his playing.
How the people flocked to him.
The little boy was overjoyed. Look at that! They liked his music. How his cheeks glowed!
With a little skip and a little hop and a little jump, he ran down the mountainside, playing his pipe.
And all the people, gentlemen? They followed him, of course.
They crossed plains and valleys, mountains and hills and great mighty rivers.
A few of the people had difficulty crossing some of the harder obstacles.
The boy would help them when he saw that they couldn’t.
And they ran, and they ran.
And as time wore on, some of the people became tired. They wanted to stop.
But the little boy knew that they had only a little while to run, and so he ran on, relentlessly..
And they ran, and they ran.
And finally it was over, not with a bang or a shout or a clap of mighty thunder or anything like that but with a poof of apology- the little fellow had run out of breath.
And now the people started to realise how tired they were. They saw their wounds and their scars. They became angry, disgruntled, vengeful and also little ashamed of themselves.
They blamed the little boy.
They threw stones at him. They broke his pipe. They called him names.
They chased him away.
The little boy stood there and took it all.
Not a single tear, not a drop.
Then, he turned and walked away.
Analysis time, children.
Who did the following?
Were they forced to?
Was the little boy different at the end from how he was at the beginning?
Was it right, what they did to him in the end?
At every god-damned moment in your life you have a choice-the choice to say yes or to say fuck off. So, why don’t you exercise it?
Why?
I'm tired of being called names.
Sorry, blame it on me.
I am the man who used you.
I am the man who hurt you.
I am the man who started it.
The spark that burnt the forest.
The gene that mutated the species.
Sorry, blame it on me.
Because it’s easier that way.
It is so much easier to blame someone else for t=all the unhappiness that you perceive in your life.
You had the choice to walk away.
Bullshit- responsibility.
Bullshit- you’d already given your word.
Bullshit- there was nobody else.
You had the choice.
You still have the choice- to take the best from your choice or bleed with it.
I’d like every person who reads this article to take a moment and think about what’s wrong with his or her life today. Do you feel unhappy? Used? Abused? Neglected?
It’s your fault
You are the architect of your own happiness.
Choose wisely, live happy..
Adios.
"Professor?" said the boy, his voice strained. "Can you hear me?"
He did not answer. His face was twitching as though he was deeply asleep, but dreaming a horrible dream. His grip on the goblet was slackening; the potion was about to spill from it. The boy reached forward and grasped the crystal cup, holding it steady.
"Professor can you hear me?" he repeated loudly, his voice echoing around the cavern.
The man panted and then spoke in a voice the boy did not recognize, for he had never heard him frightened like this.
"I don't want... Don't make me..."
The boy stared into the wizened face he knew so well, at the crooked nose and half-moon spectacles, and did not know what to do.
"... don't like... want to stop...
"I don't want...Don't make me..
No...I don't want to ...I don't want to....Let me go...
Make it stop, make it stop
No, no, no, no, I can't, I can't, don't make me, I don't want to....
It's all my fault, all my fault.Please make it stop, I know I did wrong, oh please make it stop and I'll never, never again..
..Don't hurt them, don't hurt them, please, please, it's my fault, hurt me instead..
Please, please, please, no...not that, not that, I'll do anything...
..No more, please, no more...
I want to die! I want to die! Make it stop, make it stop, I want to die!
On his knees
KILL ME
.....
Oh we few, we merry few..band of brothers- look at us now.
Look me in the eye and tell me that what I did was wrong. Go ahead; tell me. I can’t pretend that I did not know that this would happen. You wouldn’t believe me if I did.
But, then again, neither can you.
Story time.
There was once a little boy, gentlemen. And this little boy, Oh, he was so smart. My, my, what a smart little fellow he was. I’d wager that you wouldn’t have found a smarter lad even if you’d looked mighty hard; why, even if you had looked a million miles, you wouldn’t have found smarter. No. No.
And like all smart people – this little fellow needed a channel for his smartness. So he found a little wee pipe. And he began to play it. What a lovely sound that was, gentlemen!
And as he began to play it, the people began to follow him. Not because he was forcing them to, but because they were in awe of the sheer beauty of his playing.
How the people flocked to him.
The little boy was overjoyed. Look at that! They liked his music. How his cheeks glowed!
With a little skip and a little hop and a little jump, he ran down the mountainside, playing his pipe.
And all the people, gentlemen? They followed him, of course.
They crossed plains and valleys, mountains and hills and great mighty rivers.
A few of the people had difficulty crossing some of the harder obstacles.
The boy would help them when he saw that they couldn’t.
And they ran, and they ran.
And as time wore on, some of the people became tired. They wanted to stop.
But the little boy knew that they had only a little while to run, and so he ran on, relentlessly..
And they ran, and they ran.
And finally it was over, not with a bang or a shout or a clap of mighty thunder or anything like that but with a poof of apology- the little fellow had run out of breath.
And now the people started to realise how tired they were. They saw their wounds and their scars. They became angry, disgruntled, vengeful and also little ashamed of themselves.
They blamed the little boy.
They threw stones at him. They broke his pipe. They called him names.
They chased him away.
The little boy stood there and took it all.
Not a single tear, not a drop.
Then, he turned and walked away.
Analysis time, children.
Who did the following?
Were they forced to?
Was the little boy different at the end from how he was at the beginning?
Was it right, what they did to him in the end?
At every god-damned moment in your life you have a choice-the choice to say yes or to say fuck off. So, why don’t you exercise it?
Why?
I'm tired of being called names.
Sorry, blame it on me.
I am the man who used you.
I am the man who hurt you.
I am the man who started it.
The spark that burnt the forest.
The gene that mutated the species.
Sorry, blame it on me.
Because it’s easier that way.
It is so much easier to blame someone else for t=all the unhappiness that you perceive in your life.
You had the choice to walk away.
Bullshit- responsibility.
Bullshit- you’d already given your word.
Bullshit- there was nobody else.
You had the choice.
You still have the choice- to take the best from your choice or bleed with it.
I’d like every person who reads this article to take a moment and think about what’s wrong with his or her life today. Do you feel unhappy? Used? Abused? Neglected?
It’s your fault
You are the architect of your own happiness.
Choose wisely, live happy..
Adios.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Angels
And through it all she offers me protection
a lot of love and affection
whether I'm right or wrong
and down the waterfall
wherever it may take me
I know that life wont break me
when I come to call she wont forsake me
I'm loving angels instead.
Women are the angels we don't deserve.
You can be the worst sinner on the planet, a worthless fart kicked out of the dodgiest pub in thy city, a failure every step of the way; but, if at the end of it all, you've managed to get a woman to love you, then rejoice,
There is salvation in her eyes, even for the worst of us.
At the day's end, she won't forsake me.
Those eyes.
They call me onward and inward. Drawing out the very soul; like standing on the edge of a cliff and suddenly finding that you've run out of ground, like walking off a water fall, there's no breath left in these poor lungs of mine.
You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains.
Have you heard of the phrase "raison d'etre"?It's french. It means " Reason for being".
There's a reason for walking that extra mile, there's a reason for striving that little bit harder, there's a reason for a reason: her.
John 19: 26
When Jesus therefore saw his mother, and the disciple standing by, whom he loved, he saith unto his mother, Woman, behold thy son.
And she saw her only son, stripped,humiliated and nailed to a cross; a sword of sadness pierced her heart.
To what does one compare you, O daughter? That you bear him a child, clenching through all the pains of birth, that you raise his child, sacrificing everything for it, and then finally, as it walks away from your arms you stand and watch it, knowing full well that it will fall? The ultimate sacrifice.
In the quiet dimly lit hospital ward, a man slowly regains consciousness, he opens his eyes. He can see nothing. The heart rate monitor begins to beep faster, his breathing becomes frantic. Where was he? What had happened to him? There had been an accident- flames, a lot of heat.
Why the f*&K could he not see?
And then,
"Woah boy"
A gentle voice, a hand is placed lightly on his shoulder.
" You ain't going nowhere yet."
"Who's there?"
"Easy there big fellow. I'm Mary. You're in ward 16A at St. Ann's.You've had an accident. The plane you were test flying crashed."
" But how-? Who - ? When- ?"
" Shhhh, take it easy now. You're alright," a soothing hand placed on his arm." "You're alright.
Don't you worry big man, I've seen a lot worse in my time. I'm here now, nothing will happen to you , i promise. Now, breathe ...."
And despite himself, Wing Commander Briggs felt his fear leave him, a tear roll down his eye. It would be alright. He was in good hands.
Angels' hands.
a lot of love and affection
whether I'm right or wrong
and down the waterfall
wherever it may take me
I know that life wont break me
when I come to call she wont forsake me
I'm loving angels instead.
Women are the angels we don't deserve.
You can be the worst sinner on the planet, a worthless fart kicked out of the dodgiest pub in thy city, a failure every step of the way; but, if at the end of it all, you've managed to get a woman to love you, then rejoice,
There is salvation in her eyes, even for the worst of us.
At the day's end, she won't forsake me.
Those eyes.
They call me onward and inward. Drawing out the very soul; like standing on the edge of a cliff and suddenly finding that you've run out of ground, like walking off a water fall, there's no breath left in these poor lungs of mine.
You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains.
Have you heard of the phrase "raison d'etre"?It's french. It means " Reason for being".
There's a reason for walking that extra mile, there's a reason for striving that little bit harder, there's a reason for a reason: her.
John 19: 26
When Jesus therefore saw his mother, and the disciple standing by, whom he loved, he saith unto his mother, Woman, behold thy son.
And she saw her only son, stripped,humiliated and nailed to a cross; a sword of sadness pierced her heart.
To what does one compare you, O daughter? That you bear him a child, clenching through all the pains of birth, that you raise his child, sacrificing everything for it, and then finally, as it walks away from your arms you stand and watch it, knowing full well that it will fall? The ultimate sacrifice.
In the quiet dimly lit hospital ward, a man slowly regains consciousness, he opens his eyes. He can see nothing. The heart rate monitor begins to beep faster, his breathing becomes frantic. Where was he? What had happened to him? There had been an accident- flames, a lot of heat.
Why the f*&K could he not see?
And then,
"Woah boy"
A gentle voice, a hand is placed lightly on his shoulder.
" You ain't going nowhere yet."
"Who's there?"
"Easy there big fellow. I'm Mary. You're in ward 16A at St. Ann's.You've had an accident. The plane you were test flying crashed."
" But how-? Who - ? When- ?"
" Shhhh, take it easy now. You're alright," a soothing hand placed on his arm." "You're alright.
Don't you worry big man, I've seen a lot worse in my time. I'm here now, nothing will happen to you , i promise. Now, breathe ...."
And despite himself, Wing Commander Briggs felt his fear leave him, a tear roll down his eye. It would be alright. He was in good hands.
Angels' hands.
Play with me
The rooftop of the most expensive hotel in the world, a single spotlight illuminates the only table. There are two chairs; one is empty. There's a half played chess board on the table.
He sits easy, a man used to his company. Thin; a black suit hangs off a spare frame. He hasn't shaved, hasn't slept in days. He holds a flute of clear liquid in his right hand.
Alone, he gazes out into the starless black night.
There's soft music in the background.
.....
The music changes first. It stops, abruptly.
The light goes out next. The man does not move.
Shadows within shadows, a whisper in his ear, " Too dramatic, my darling. Still," musingly, " you always knew how to set a scene". A lithe form folds itself into the chair opposite. The man still does not move.
She raises a candle, unlit; he lights it.
It is placed on the table.
"Much better"
"Your turn", his first words.
They play for two hours forty three minutes and seven seconds, in silence.
"Check mate".
The light comes on, so does the music.
There is no sign of the woman.
He has a half-smile on his face.
The flute of clear liquid stands drained.
It is on the side opposite to the man.
The moon shines on, brightly.
He sits easy, a man used to his company. Thin; a black suit hangs off a spare frame. He hasn't shaved, hasn't slept in days. He holds a flute of clear liquid in his right hand.
Alone, he gazes out into the starless black night.
There's soft music in the background.
.....
The music changes first. It stops, abruptly.
The light goes out next. The man does not move.
Shadows within shadows, a whisper in his ear, " Too dramatic, my darling. Still," musingly, " you always knew how to set a scene". A lithe form folds itself into the chair opposite. The man still does not move.
She raises a candle, unlit; he lights it.
It is placed on the table.
"Much better"
"Your turn", his first words.
They play for two hours forty three minutes and seven seconds, in silence.
"Check mate".
The light comes on, so does the music.
There is no sign of the woman.
He has a half-smile on his face.
The flute of clear liquid stands drained.
It is on the side opposite to the man.
The moon shines on, brightly.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)