MOve

I'm moving my page to wolfincage.com

For anyone who wants to know.

Detached

It's funny the way it is, if you think about it. My blog is called Detached. I Started the blog in 2007. In 2012, I suffered from a retinal detachment.

August

 

The Benzini Brothers was the best circus in town. Everybody knew that. Their acts were unmatched; their reputation, renowned.And never were they more renowned, than when August was their ringmaster.

 

Oh, to watch August in his ring. How the crowds loved him. How they cheered. He would come trooping in when the music reached its crescendo, resplendent in his red coat, top hat and boots…magnificent was an understatement.

 

Every minute that August held the ring, he held the crowd. When he raised his hand, he raised the collective consciousness of the people. His hands flowed, his eyes danced, and his voice…

Many pages may be devoted to August’s voice. It was said that he could make the clowns weep and send the lions scurrying for their mothers merely with the sound of his voice.

 

I was enthralled by August. Every night that they were in town I would pester father to take me and I would always sit, eager,  in the first row, gazing at the man; taking the show in. I saw no lions, no elephants, no dancing girls, no fools; I saw August and I was thrilled every time I did.

 

August had a ritual. Every show he followed it, with religious fervour. Every show, he would stride in, and wait for a few seconds of absolute silence. He knew exactly how long to wait.

 

To Art, he would say. And the show would begin.

 

In silence, again:

 

To Beauty, he would say. And the show would end.

 

 

….

 

Of course, I grew older. And yet, over the years, I kept coming back for the show. August, too grew old. But his showmanship never left him. His majesty did not wane. He continued to enthrall and awe our children and our grandchildren just as he had enthralled us. And he never once forgot his ritual.

 

I am old now. And yet, I still think of August. I wonder about him. We meet many people in our lives. How many do we wonder about?

 

   August could have gone anywhere, been anything. He could have run for President, become a banker, and yet, he did not. And I know, that even amongst August’s own show there were those that were just as talented as he was. The Acrobats performed death defying stunts every day. The clowns had every audience in splits. And still, they were not August. I had many heated conversations about him. Many times would I argue, as to why August was…well…August. Many of these arguments were in my own head.

 

In the end, I think mother put it best;

 

 He is Beauty’s son. And he follows her and serves her with a devotion few on this world can match. He is Beauty’s son, and Beauty herself raised him. Proud? He is proud. He is proud, veering on arrogant, that he alone can see Beauty and that he alone knows how to present her. He is humble, in that he knows that he is not Beauty.

 

Behold, I send one before me so that he may prepare the way for the one to come.

 

August is the voice in the wilderness that cries out, so that the people may be drawn, and that they may see Beauty. That departing they may make their lives sublime, knowing that others have made footprints in the sands of time.

 

August, my dear child, is as in awe of Beauty as Beauty is in awe of him.

 

And why then does he start with Art?

 

Because August is also human.

 

 

 

AN: Is he the stage-builder or the star attraction? Depends on where you’re standing.

Kataklysmic

I write this to record what was. I wish this to be a testimonial of what happened when I interacted with pure, innocent, randomness.


I am attracted to randomness. It appeals to the order in me, and it reveals the anarchy I keep controlled.

AN: I've always believed that every moment validates itself. Nothing that happens after can ever take away from it.

....

We were in his car. And he honestly had no idea where we were.

I could see the beach ahead. it was beautiful. And I could hear the waves, and feel the breeze; a lazy sunday afternoon. Sigh.

He looked relaxed, as always. Everything is always taken in his stride, and there is nothing that he cannot do. It is the source of his confidence. If you've seen him perturbed, you must see him a lot.

This is beautiful.

Yeah, I know.

This is...real beautiful.

Uh huh, you've said that.

It looks like a movie, like a dream. Are you sure you'll still be here when I open my eyes?

Grin. A real charmer, when he wanted to be.

I'm worried. I'm worried about , and I'm worried about...this...and....that and...

His finger was on my lips in an instant.

Shhhh.

No one worries when I'm around.

I remember thinking that this was so cliche.

When one of us nearly hit the horn, we pulled apart;

for an instant, he laughed softly.

....


Thank you.

So courteous, every kiss was thanked. Like I'd done him a favour.

Come, it's time to leave.

He started the car, we moved forward. And as the full beauty of the beach came up over the slope, he stopped.

Hey you.

Hey, whats up.

I need a favour.

Yeah?

Like a big favour.

Ok.

I want you to do something for me. Can you do that?

Er...sure.

Can you look where I'm pointing.

Huh?
Where?

There.

He was quick, I'll give him that.

This time we pulled away because the car went back down the slope in reverse; quite fast.

Luckily, he pulled the handbrake in time.

....

There were other incidents. Small acts of...being cliche, of being him;

of being me.


....


Was what I did wrong?

Who do you think you are?

Am I fake?

Am I terrible?

Collecting your jar of hearts?

Am I fake?


I never walk in the middle of the road. It's not in my nature.

Beauty

The problem with me, is that everything is directed at you, and also not at you.


We'd first heard of him over a year back.

Wolf was a terrible creature.

Mad, crazed with fear and hunger, he preyed on anything he found. The remains he left were not pretty. The villagers were terrified...and in awe of him. He scared their children and he inspired them.

K brought him in. I have no idea how she managed it, it cost her dearly, but she still did. Many stronger men than her had tried and failed. Foolishly, we put him in a cage meant for the other animals.

He broke the bars and then, almost casually, picked the lock.

We put him in a stronger cage after that, and we studied him.

He seemed to need no food. that's what we realized first. He ate little, if at all. and yet the stories of his carcasses he'd left in the jungle still haunted the villagers.

There also seemed to be no reasonable limit we could put on his strength.

A foolish shrink from the south had the brilliant idea of sending in some deer to "see him in action".
we're still trying to get the blood off the bars.

....

And so time passed. We could neither understand Wolf nor get him to understand us.
Music seemed to help him. Play Bach and he would sit and listen to it like he was dying. Nothing else helped, nothing.


....

I gave up on Wolf after a while. We all did. All my theses about him had come to nought.

Which is why we could scarce believe our eyes when it happened.

He'd managed to pick the lock again. And someone had walked right in. How she'd got here, I don't know. But there she knelt right beside him. The room seemed to glow.

Beauty.

Beauty.

She was watching him. And he was watching her. His eyes were guarded, and his hands clenched.

Nothing moved.

Why didn't I shoot then? I'll never know.

After what seemed like forever, he broke her gaze and turned away. She still stood there, watching him.

There was an eternity of silence.

Suddenly, he turned back around and howled. He bared his teeth and raised his hands to strike.

The dart whose path I'd diverted stood lodged in the wall behind him; quivering.

There was silence.

God help me. I closed the door and walked away.

They would speak; sometimes they would talk not at all, and sometimes, they would talk for hours on end. Sometimes, they would just sit and stare at each other.

Polite, soft spoken , courteous. Everyone thought well of him. A real charmer.


I was uneasy.

....

When he killed the deer it nearly broke Beauty. I have never seen a woman so desperate to....want to believe.There was lot of shattered innocence, and a lot of spattered blood.

And yet, she stayed.

Why? She would not say.

.....

Beauty was perfection. In every breath she took she echoed the perfection of her Creator. The world waited on her. And when she walked, the world closed its eyes, for to look on her, as she was, was impossible.

And so there was shadow. And in there shadow was Beast.

Beauty found beast. The part of her that cared for the world could sense him.

She doesn't see me the as I am- a hideous relic of a horrendous accident. She looks at me, and there is such a sense uf... pride. Rhere is no other word for it. she's proud of me; despite it all, despite all I've done.

And every day, i breathe that image into my head, of Beauty smiling at me, and pray for the strength to stand.

Maybe, I helped her as well.

.....


K was in front of me. Crouched against the sun, she drew a line on the ground.

I want you to vouch for yourself. I don't care who you are, Wolf. I don't care what people say about you.
I want you, to promise me.

YOU WILL NOT HURT HER.

And i placed my hand.
And left my mark.

.....

The Moonlight Sonata

Two beings on either side of a glass wall.
He-half mad with desire, pain and loss. She- serene, beautiful,pure...
dead.

He reaches for the wall.

His fingers touch the glass.

They keep pushing.
...

My beautiful wife, Athena, died exactly a year ago...today.
To say that i went mad with grief would be putting it lightly.

For hours he would sit there, staring at the wall-without moving, without eating. I would leave him for days and would return to find him exactly as he was. When he slept, he dreamt of her. When he was awake, he still dreamt.

The neighbours all said what a tragedy it was.

Such a brilliant mind, they said.

So young, they said.

He was barely twenty seven.

...

I would see her standing before me, dancing; and when I stretched out my hand...nothing.I touched only air.I hated life, and all that it had robbed me off. I wished to reach into my still-beating heart, tear it out and give it to her.

Take it.
Take it, and bring her back.


...

The glass shatters against him.

His bloodied hand reaches in, for his wife.

She is confused for a second. She reaches for him.

His face...his face...a visage of pure longing.

Their hands meet.

The scene fades away.

...

My beautiful wife, Athena, died exactly a year ago...today.
I brought her back.

Can you imagine how happy I was? Can you even begin to imagine?
Like a child,like a mad fool, I danced around the house. I laughed with random strangers on the road. I had brought the only woman ever to have lived, the only woman I had ever loved, back to life.

You think I'm mad, don't you?

I AM NOT MAD.

Look at her. Look at her I say! She's standing in front of us.

Joy returned to my house that day. I was ecstatic.

...

A month passed.
...

I'd made...a mistake.

Even as i write this, I know that the end is near. I know that i have ...done wrong.I have ...done wrong..in going after the only thing that ever mattered to me.
I leave this world with a message.
Whoever you are, wherever you may be-listen to me.

We all do love. I have loved more than any man I know.

"...In sickness and in death..."

I crossed death in the pursuit of love. I brought my wife back to life.

And it was Athena, again with me!

But as the days passed, I realized what i had done. It was Athena, but at the same time it was not her.

She would sit on my lap, just as beautiful as she ever was, and yet she was not there. Her eyes, would cloud over. Her hands would tremble. She would sit silently for hours.

When I spoke to her, she would respond. But at other times...nothing.

Nothing.

I could not stand it. Having a dream come to life, and life..becoming a nightmare.

Touching everything, feeling nothing.
Comprehending nothing.

I who had lost my mind at gut-wrenching loss, now began to lose my mind at unrequited gain.

Do not force love, it is akin to crushing a rose.
It is like expecting a dove to fly after it has been bled dry;
living a lie.

As I take this dagger for myself, I must tell you, dearly beloved, not to grieve for me.
Those that work against God often find that He has been working inexorably against them...drawing them home.

...

He said he'd brought that which was dead, to life.
Funny man.
The dead are not meant to live.
...

In a glass orb on my desk, the couple dances. And the sonata plays on.

...

A shoulder to cry on

Everybody needs a shoulder to cry on.

You know how it goes; it's been a crap day. Nothing seems to be going your way. You want to just crawl under your bed and cry.

Yes, I've been there.
Everyone has, actually.

...
Rhodes was a tough cop; one of the best they said. What struck me as remarkable about the man was his sheer....level-headedness. In the six months I've been on the force, I've stood and watched him shoot seven men. His hand never wavered. I've seen him look on crime scenes, on what's left of people after crime scenes; corpses so badly off you can't tell if they're man or woman, old or young...he never said a word.


September 16, 1989:

It had been one rough week. Three people were dead already. Scratch that, they weren't dead,they were worse than dead. Charlie "the artist" Sheen was in town. He didn't just kill his victims; he made paintings on the walls with them.
It was around midnight when I got a call; another victim. My hand shook as I called Rhodes;

Charlie...another one. 54, Second street.

That's all I needed to say.

He was there before me. As I pushed the door open, I saw the man standing there. Tall, angling, a man in his late forties, already greying around the temples.

He was standing very still, looking at the far side of the room, at the north wall.

I followed his gaze.


...

This part of the narrative is left out.

Grace Kimberly, aged ten, died on September 16th 1989. It took a Med team eighteen hours before the parents were even allowed in to see her body.

,,,,


I will always remember Rhodes' expression that night. His eyes were looking at the wall, but they didn't seem to be seeing it. I was standing next to him, but he didn't seem to be aware of me, either.

It is a terrible feeling...arriving too late.

He raised his gun and fired a shot straight into the ceiling.

Then he went home.

....

Of course, he caught Charlie.
And Charlie was hanged.
But I swear to God, I do not know how Rhodes made it through that night.
It took me several hours to clean the vomit from my walls.

...

When Irene heard her husband come home that morning; she went to him at once. They had been married long enough; she knew when something was wrong.

They stood there for a moment, in the hallway, looking at each other.

He, the tall, powerful city cop.

She, his wife- so small and frail against him.

And suddenly, John Rhodes seemed to fold. His mighty frame crumpled, and he slumped against his wife.

So young...so young...So bloody young, Irene..


Hush, baby....it's alright. It's alright. It's going to be alright.I'm here now.
It's okay.
I'm here.

Great, powerful sobs racked through thr grown man's body.

It's okay.
Honey, you hear me. It's okay. I'm here.
It's okay.

He let out a cry of pure,desperate unhappiness then, of inhuman pain; of the lion that had arrived too late, of a heart torn apart by grief.

The cry went on.

She held him tighter.

Baby, I'm here.


They held each other for hours.

....



In my time of need, I will call you. Be there for me.