Three Ringed

Three Ringed

I Stand alone in
The center ring.

Alone?
Alone?
Alone?
No, I am not
Standing alone.

I have company.

In a cage are three demons.
Worse, they call me their master.

I feel the rough, callous being of a whip
In my hand
“MASTER”
But I cannot tell
Verb or Noun

I think, I worry, the circus grows darker,
But the lights are still on.

Master is their song,
But I am still lost in translation

I think, I worry, the circus grows darker
But the lights are still on.
The grip of strong firm hands
Stuns me, as the hands grasp at me
Master is their song,
But I am lost in translation still
The circus is solemn, and dark, and grave
But the lights are still on.

But then, things with feathers fly about
The circus lights go out, but the darkness is lifting.

White feathered things fly about
Crushing the circus lights with their powerful wings
The graveness recedes.

I feel my handAll is light.
The demons are gone.
MASTER I cry

I know what I mean.

Veteran's Day

The warm texas sun glistened off the beautiful statue. I had never seen anything like it. It was mammoth, made out of bronze I believe and fitting in its simplicity. The soldiers raising the flag at Iwo Jima is a powerful sight in itself, but to see it so huge was a truly fitting tribute to those marines who gave everything they had so that we could have everything. Sound trite? These statements get bandied about a good deal, but they carry extreme importance. It's close to impossible to justly capture what these people gave in service of their country.

We were in South Texas on that warm March day. Our vacation was coming to a close, and we could definetely call this trip a sucsess. The birding had been good, the people friendly and the scenery gorgeous.

But we had some time to kill before our plane took off, so my Dad pulled this destination of the thin blue air. I have no idea how he found this place in a state we had never been in before, but find it we did. It was a memorial to the Marines who served in the Pacific, with a special emphasis on Iwo Jima.

The special emphasis came in the form of a huge gold statue in the middle of a field. It is awe inspiring, and I wish I could remember more. I have photos, but they don't seem to do justice to this triumph of sculpture. There was a lot of information about the sculpter, but I can't recall any of it.

But I do recall the gift shop. There were mugs, DVDs, mouse-pads, T-Shirts, you name it, it was probably in there. It also doubled as a museum, where currently a large number of school-children were taking a tour. The noise grated on my nerves, so I moved to a corner where a large number of sweatshirts and hats would muffle the cacophany of giggles and screams.

In the corner of this room was a standard fold up chair. It was empty, but I turned around and heard the soft shuffle of wise feet heading toward it. I glanced behind me and saw a veteran of the USMC working his careful way to the chair.

Then I brokedown.

I had wanted to go up and laud him for his wonderful service to his country. I wanted to tell him all the wonderful things I had experienced because he believed that the "master race" needed to go no further. His actions allowed me to grow up in a christian home, not worrying if I was not living up to a standard. Without him, and others like him, I would not be able to see all the fifty-two birds I had on this trip...

But I brokedown.

Just to see his frail old frame sitting there, lonely, desolate, forgotten by most of the people he worked to keep free, stirred something unmentionable in me. It grabbed my soul and tore down my defenses.

I had grand things to say to him, but I couldn't bring myself to say them.
I shook his hand, stared him directly in the eye, and thanked him. He may not have heard, because my voice was cracking with emotion. Then I went into the map room and cried.

I spent the plane ride reading, catergorizing my life birds, and thinking. Had I said enough? Did I say too much? Did he think me crazy or fruity for crying? I don't know because I was such a wreck of emtions at the time.

Now six or seven months have gone by. Birds have migrated through, graduation has come and gone, girlfriends have come and gone, work, play, college, all these things have had their season in my life and then they left. But I silently hope that honored old man still sits in that museum/gift shop. I hope he sits there as an immutable reminder to us all.

Thank a Veteran any Day.

An Interview with the Man from Indepence

The heavenly aura filled the room, ebbing and flowing like some half forgotten body of water in man's memory. The lights were very bright, but this did not seem to bother the girl at the desk. No, it appeared as if nothing would perturb her. In fact, a fall from Grace could take place right before her eyes and still not one stroke of her filing would be lacking. She sat there, cool and tranquil, chewing her gum.

I on the other hand sat sweaty palm in sweaty palm, staring at the ground. Too scared to move, to scared to speak. The grandfather clock ticked away...something, I'm not sure what the need for a grandfather clock is, but it looked nice.

"Excuse me Gloria?," I said, summoning all the courage I had to speak with. "Could you hurry him up? I've got things to do, and I'm not used to the time zone shift yet. Jet lag is still hanging on."

The secretary looked up at me with the speed of a cow during milking, and said in a most unearthly nasal voice, "Why don't you start walking, by the time you get there, he should be ready."

I agreed.

"When he's ready for you, his door will turn from red to green."

"Like the signs on a airplane bathroom" I offered to lighten the mood. The only light was a lightning bolt and low rumbles of thunder. Nervous chuckles were responded to with demeaning chuckles behind the receptionist's desk.

Two enormous gateways opened their masses toward us, reavealing a grand stairway.

"Is this the...uh..?" I enquired. Two apathetic head nods were the only reply I recieved.

I started up the steps, and simeltaneously began to think. And judging by the size of the stairway, I had plenty of time to think.

How would I approach him? Cordially of course, but with determination. I had to be completely frank in all my motions. Surely he would respond to this. After all, he never let anybody slip under his radar. If I was honest and frank and to the point, this was sure to gain me a more favorable recpetion.

Behave like a gentleman, and be sure to avoid topics like Douglass Macarthur, Frank Lloyd Wright and Joseph McCarthy. These hotpoint should sbe avoided at all cost, or it may cost all...I like that, think I'll tell him that.

To be sure, honesty would be a big part of my succsess. He knew the difference between a truth and a lie. As simple as that may seem, he has it down to an art. There would be no buffaloing this guy.

And number one on my list of things to avoid: autographs! This would screw up everything rather royally. It would show me in an insincere light, which would ruin everthing. This mission is too important for that. No autographs. Ever.

"Man, this taking an eternity!" I bemoaned. At that instant, the stair started to move. "Thanks" I offered the entity in charge of the stairs. I wonder what Led Zeppelin would thinnk of this.

The doors to his office were huge. I stood in amzement and awe at the beautiful engravings. Soon, I was to enter these doors. Was I prepared? What if I goofed up? Woul I get a second.....?

My thoughts were interrupted by the silent creaking of the doors gliding effortessly apart, revealing something beyond all imagination. The room was the oval office, only ten times more grand than anything earth could ever offer. I stood in awe of its beauty, in spite of the fact that my visibility was limited.

Even though it was hard to see, I saw his figure at the desk. Before I knew it, I was greeted by a hand. Not a particularily welcoming hand, but one that assured me I would be honored here.

"I thank you for recieveing me sir, you're very kind." I criticized every word I said, just waiting to mess up.

"What can I do for you" the kindly yet firm voice intoned.

Do for me? Why you've done enough for forty men. You're the one who through your handling of the Macarthur incident, showed me that patience wins out after all. You also showed me that it is essential to stand behind my convictions. Without them, I'm nothing. You showed me how to handle myself when I'm thrown into something I don't want to do. To the best of my ability. You showed me that the Bible is a beautiful book of poetry, because it is the Word of God. You showed us how a vessel to be used by God could give His people back their dignity and their nation. You showed how sometimes things need to end with a bang.....

But these thoughts never materialized in the factory bewteen my brain and my mouth. They just sat there in backstock, waiting....

Silence.

"Can I have your autograph? Sir?"

More silence.

Balance

The balance shone in my mind. "GOD" was inscribed in the middle of it. On one of the sides was LOVE, and on the other... I don't quite know what was on the other. A mixture of Justice, Holiness, Other-Worldliness. In summary, THE CHARACTER OF GOD THAT I DON'T KNOW. I watched as the scales tried to balance in my mind. But each time they came close together but never close enough. There was always some other factor that prevented the two sides from any kind of agreement.

This was acceptable to my mind for a while, but then it started to nag. "You're a hurting man, and your whole hope hangs in that balance." I don't know what that voice was, but I heartily concurred. If those two sides never meet in agreement, I would be outcast forever, searching for a god when I had no idea where to begin.

The room that housed the balance blackened, and I could feel dark channels filling the void that was the light that had previously illumined my current location. Dark hands began to push me onward; the voices in my head were talking at such a rapid pace all the world's board goverment meetings could not compare to the raucous noise that swarmed through my mind. I suddenly became aware that my neck was in a noose hanging around that balance; and that too much disagreement would break me spiritually.

"Turn somewhere; to someone," a voice cried out. Thankfully, above all the cacophany that the other voices were making, this passed through those distractions and reached my soul. I made an attempt for my phone."No, go straight to the source." Oh, I thought, and looked around. There was my Bible, an unexpected gift from a friend. I chose the psalms to begin with. My eyes perused the ancient hymnal with a fervor that I had never known. I had never put so much of myself into a quest of which I had no idea even where to start.Psalm 34: 17-18. The adress was one of hope. I read the passage, and sat paralyzed for a moment. In fact, the whole world responded in like manner. Everything ceased from normal operating procedures. Even the voices in the room stopped.

Everything known to man was silent....

Except for the slow, creaking noise that a balance makes as it slowly places each one of it's sides exactly center.

Alone? A Life Lesson

Life lessons are hard to describe. What means something so valuable to me may seem invalid to others. Our experiences obviously influence our telling of events, and so some may wonder if there is a point in our telling our life experiences. Well this life anecdote has a grade attached to it, so I figure there is a lot of point to this one.

I have lived a life that appears to be characterized by ups and downs. It seems that at the end of the tunnel there certainly is a light, but at the same time, another tunnel awaits me at the end of the light. Such emotional mountains and valleys tend to wear on my emotions after a while, and the valleys become even deeper with each new experience.

My problem always seems to be that I dwell in the hard times without company. Some internal lying machine seems to suggest that reaching out to others would only be a burden. “But I don’t want to weigh them down with my problems; I just need someone to talk with, about anything for that matter.” “No,” the voice says softly but with authority. “What about just a phone call….?” I inquire. “No,” this time louder and more authoritative. “But…?” “No,” the voice shouts in my ear. “No,” he repeats until I have found no alternative but to believe him. I must believe him; he must be correct.

His main purpose is to isolate me as much as possible, and he accomplishes this by rendering me incapable of reaching out to those would care to help me out of the valley. His lies permeate my thinking and ooze their evil way into my actions.

But then I defy him, stand up for myself, and reach out to someone who I care for, and who I believe reciprocates the feeling. I reach my hand up from out of the mire, grasping for something to cling to, and I usually find a friend. Not a friend who is there one second and gone the next, but one who is there, listening actively. Someone who cares about my condition. Someone who can actively contrast the lying machine, who will show me the goodness of my friends.

My anecdote is a simple one. Certainly it has the potential for complexity, but pay that no heed. One of the most important lessons I have learned is always be there if someone wants to talk. I don’t know what he is experiencing, but I do know how it feels to be on the receiving end of a conversation like that. I know how I am lifted up on eagles wings, and am reminded that good still exists in this world to some degree. So if I can accomplish this, even unwittingly, I will be honored above all other honors. I will have loved a neighbor.

When you realized you are old....

Describe a time when you realized that you were old. I have often wondered if there was a definite time in my life when I did feel that shiver up my spine from the realization that life would never be the same. My mind races in the quest for that moment that my mind took a huge paradigm shift, and suddenly I find a different soul inhabiting my body. But alas, I fail to call to mind that magic moment. All my searching appears to be in vain.

Perhaps I am searching in the wrong direction. Maybe my quest has been a noble one; I have just been misguided in the process of looking. Yes, I do believe that the moment when we all realize that our childhood days are done is a quiet one. No bells, no lighting, no angel choirs. No, just a twinge of fond remembrance for what was remains.

It happened to me when I bought the first season of The Muppet Show some years back. I love the Muppets; no one can make me laugh so effortlessly as Jim Henson’s band of furry merrymakers can. Seeing them again on DVD brought back many fond memories, but one episode caught me off guard. I was sitting on my couch; my eyes affixed to the screen as Vincent Price interacted with Kermit, and realized that I had seen this episode before. Sometime in my past, I had been that child sitting in front of the television, laughing away at the antics being acted out on screen. I could hear the laughter and enjoyment resonate through the air, like a thin, sharp whistle going off far away. The smile on this young lads face brought back bittersweet memories to me. I yearned for those days when I clung to my mother for all my needs. When my dad would take me fishing and I would sleep the majority of the trip. Or when my sisters would dress me up in drag and present the horrific creature to my stunned parents. Well, maybe there are parts I don’t pine for…

But I know those days are over. They are somewhere far away in the past. I am picking up on much more of the humor in The Muppet Show. I am shaving; dating; working through college. Yes, the realization came slowly but surely, I am old, and the responsibilities of age are coming along for the ride.

However, every now and then, I go into overload mode, and begin to meltdown. If things have not reached a crisis stage, I like to clear my mind of all my troubles and responsibilities that have come through this new position in life. I then sit down, watch The Muppet Show, and laugh. And somewhere in the distance I hear that childish giggle, and I see that happy smile that only a five year can get when he sees a green frog puppet talking with Vincent Price. And I rest. I rest knowing that although he is far removed from my present state, he is never too far gone to enjoy life. Yes, he is never too far gone to take a reprieve from life and watch a Muppet Show.

Pete Encounters

Admiration is a funny quality, and if the admirer applies all the right principles of admiring to the admired, the whole concept seems to be one big paradox. This observation came about when Pete Dunne caught my attention. Pete Dunne is a famous birder who pioneered new ways of looking at birds. His G.I.S.S (General Impression of Shape and Size), brought a new generation of birders even closer to admiring better the Avi-fauna that they knew and loved so well.
Pete is the president of the Cape May Bird Observatory where I have done a good many hours of volunteering. The first time I spoke with him, I was nearly dumbfounded. Here was the “ambassador of birding,” the one whom the New York Times heralded as “The Bard of Birding.” And there I was in the presence of birding greatness. I was truly stunned and in awe.
As I drove home however, I thought, “Why, he puts his pants on one leg at a time, just like I do.” I was afraid that my admiration would somehow cast an artificial aura of holiness around this mere mortal. I wasn’t sure how to evaluate my feelings towards him.

Then I read one of his books. I knew of his writings, but never had taken the time to read one for myself. When I did, however, I found that most of the feelings I had towards him were truly deserved. Here was a man who felt the same way about birding as I did. He found the true beauty in the natural world and felt passionately about it. I couldn’t believe how much I admired him but was also careful not to put him on an even higher pedestal than he was already on. He had successfully created yet another paradox in my mind. And that is why I admire Peter Dunne the most.

Grief and I Went Birding

Whenever we lose a loved one, in whatever form they leave us, a new person enters our life in return for the loved one’s absence. Not a particularly welcome person, in fact, an entity that tears us apart inside. This uninvited guest barges his way into our heart and soul and demands lodging, and will not leave until he is satisfied. This parasite of the spirit is Grief, and his presence reminds us what we and our late loved one once had together.

One way to diminish his reign upon our lives is to be active with him. As any proper host knows, one should be proactive with a guest, perhaps sharing a favorite hobby or activity with them. My hobby is birding, so when he made his unwelcome appearance in the past two weeks or so, Grief and I went birding together.

I tried to keep my distance from him, trying to act as his casual host, not his good friend. However, Grief is not a gentleman, and he constantly held my hand, giving me nudges just as soon as my friend’s memory would fade. I tried to keep my mind active by sorting out the hawks that dotted the sky on that warm autumn morning, but each time I seemed to triumph with a successful distraction, he would turn to me and smile the same smile that she smiled at me so many times before. Perhaps this proactive approach to handling Grief is a fruitless endeavor after all.

Then one form drifting lazily along the horizon caught my attention. It must have caught my visitor’s attention too, because the twinges of pain were easing up. “In the world….?” I thought to myself. It had been so long since I had been birding that it took me a few moments to recognize the sharp dihedral of a northern harrier cruising the open marshland. The beautiful times I had spent on the Delaware Bayshore came flooding back in a deluge of happiness and contentment. To see them flapping or hovering or soaring made me relish being alive, and this one bird brought to my memory all the others I had seen.

I looked at Grief; he shot me a glance that split my heart in two, but I didn’t care. I shut my eyes, and let the cool autumn breeze take my essence and transport it elsewhere. When I opened the shields that hid my eyes from pain, suddenly I was at Jakes Landing in January. No, no, it was the Glades Refuge in February. I’m mistaken; it was Goshen Landing Road in early March. I don’t really know where I was exactly, but there were harriers flying across the waving meadows. There goes a grey ghost, perhaps the most beautiful raptor ever to grace the skies. But wait, what’s this? That’s a short eared owl giving me his best moth impression as he flies by on silent wings. To see these magnificent creations silhouetted against an orange, winter sky as the sun sets over the Delaware Bay; why, the glories of Eden scrape and bow in deference.

I had been so engrossed in the birds that I forgot I had company. I looked to my left, and he was gone. He was also absent from my right side. He had left me, but remnants of him still clung to my conscious mind. Every now and then I felt a sting that reminded me of what was, but that was all that appeared to be left of my detested houseguest. He was just a memory, just a painful rememberance…….

I opened my eyes and adjusted to where I really was. I was still on that dirt road in mid-September. Grief was still there, although his grip had loosened. He smiled his perverse smile, and we turned to depart. But as we did, I looked at him again. My trip ahead in the future showed me that he would leave; that status quo would return sooner or later. However, I also learned that he would be a constant visitor throughout my life. I could depend on him as I could depend on the seasons changing. His presence would be an intermittent visitor that I could count on in total faith.

But as we turned to go, I smiled. I raised my head up high and laughed because I knew something of which he was unaware. I knew that those harriers and those short eareds and the bayshore itself would remain. I knew that all these things would be as constant as he was, and that they will always be a place of retreat for those whom Grief seems to visit once too often.
p.s. This story is dedicated to my loved one, with whose company I must now do without , and to Grief, who is always welcome to join me birding whenever he comes to visit.

Summer of Runny Babbit

Summers come and go too quickly, I have decided. I’ll have to talk with Father Time concerning this distressing phenomenon. Three months is too little time to be soaking in the sun and spending times with my acting troupe. However, one thing that I feel there is never enough time for any time of the year is reading. Knowing how brief this summer would be, I decided to read something short that would make me laugh. The problem with this mission: finding this utopian literary work. Such a daunting task would not be easy, but I knew the literary gods approved of my quest, and so I went full steam ahead with my task.

Then I gave up. “There can be no perfect book like the one I’m in search of,” I cried to the fates in despair. So after about two days of searching, I threw my hands in the air and nailed a white flag to doors at my local library.

Things changed however when a friend gave me the Shel Silverstein epic entitled “Runny Babbit.” At first glance I considered it an okay book. Then I dug deeper into this spoonerism-laden work. Under all the philosophy that the book offered on life, I found a hilarious example of how cross-breeding an odd, urbanite sense of humor with a bunny never hurt anyone.
The book forced me into sporadic fits of laughter which came about through the clever drawings and the subtly humorous wordplays. I’m glad that this summer found me reading “Runny Babbit.” The book is also glad it found me. We’re soul mates now, don’t you know?

p.s. (This journal is written very tongue in cheekly, because if my tongue was outside of my cheek, that would just be weird. I do not believe in literary polytheism or fate. Knock on wood. However, I fimrly believe that this book will lift even the lowest of spirits. Highly recomended for those days that just seem to get worse as they go on.)

Prolific

"Prolific" was a short story I composed for an english assignment. It looks a little raw, but I do enjoy revisting it from time to time. Hope you fell the same.

Even today’s lethargic crowds could not help but grow excited at the prospect of a goal from the young soccer prodigy. The talented girl dribbled past the defenders with an ease that turned heads, and drew all sorts of amateur news attention. As she grew closer and closer to the goal, a few in the crowd grew even louder, cheering wildly. But the majority of the spectators sat silent, fingers crossed, reciting silent, mental prayers to the God of Heaven and Earth for this one goal.
The defense grew tighter, as did the stomachs of the girl’s parents and friends. “SWOOSH.” The sound of victory, which, to the girl had grown common place, but at the same time was a miraculous event. The following auditory orgy of cheering and clamorous noise was also familiar to the girl.

“Holy Cow, that was beautiful!” “Your talent is so huge; we may need a larger field.” “College?” “Do you score in your dreams, I’m sure your subconscious is affected by such a habit.”

Fighting her way through the small crowds of the secluded private school, these were the comments the girl would face after the obligatory hand-shakes and the post game meeting. These congratulations seemed somehow to not faze her, but one, just one would perk her ears and stimulate her brain like no other: “You’re too good, what are you doing in this Jerkwater school.” This phrase, and other similar variants on the theme, would be interspersed amongst the statements, but would never fail to catch her off guard.

“This school is fine, and I think that if I weren’t here, the team would do just fine”, she said with believable calm and just a touch of offense. But perhaps she should have tried out for the drama club, for such an answer could not have been farther from the truth. She was enrolled at a private school with a flailing athletic program, and the fact was always on her conscious mind. The school appreciated her athletic prowess; even letting her play at varsity in the seventh grade, but still, something was lacking, something….. Something terribly large was absent from her life.

After the crowds left, the field was as silent as it ever was, the bleachers just metal and wood, and the parking lot as desolate as any desert wasteland. As she walked to her truck, kicking empty hot-dog wrappers and other various litter left by the crowds, something was different. Something that brought a little life to the empty parking lot.

Sitting on a bench, smoking a cigarette, was a tall, gaunt, interesting looking man. As she walked towards him to get to her truck, she was disturbed by his appearance. His suit had a very old, very elegant look about it, and his whole ensemble was rather eccentric, she thought. Wearing a navy blue fedora, and an ascot around the neck, he looked incongruous with the styles of the day. “Oh well”, she thought, “doesn’t bother me,” and walked past.

“Rhiannon James, I presume?”, the voice was fragile and strange. Executing a quick about-face, Rhiannon, in a state of shock, stood and stared at the oddly attired man. “Excuse me, I don’t….” the words had trouble coming from her lips due to the surprise.

“You don’t know me, correct. But I know you very well. Before this conversation gets any stranger, here is my business card.” He pulled a small card, seemingly out of nowhere, and handed it to her.

“James A. Devon”, she read, nervously, “but it doesn’t say who you are, and most importantly, it doesn’t say why you know me!” The tension in her voice was clearly audible now, but there was something about him, some odd spiritual attraction almost, that made her disregard all elementary laws of not speaking to strangers. “Who are you? Did you read about me from the papers?”

Peering out from under the brim of his hat, his small old voice seemed warm and friendly, “It’s my business to know you. I know most things about most people.”

“Like a surveyor or something?” she inquired. His eyes grew bright and larger than before,
“In a manner of speaking, Ms. James, that is exactly what I am!”

“I don’t have the time right now.” The spell apparently broken, she walked to her truck, equipment in hand.

“What do you desire the most, Ms. James?” The question caught the young girl off guard, but the man seemed unaffected as ever.

“What?” The spell was cast over her again, and she couldn’t help but answer.
“Your heart’s desire, Ms. James, what is it?”

“Why are you talking to an old man who you don’t even know?” Rhiannon’s conscience kept nagging at her. Walk away slowly and quietly, jump in the truck and speed away. Under most circumstances she would have done just that, but there was something about him, just something different…..

“Well…?” he inquired; his eyes seemed to glow now, attracting her even more. Finally she had it, and she sat down beside him and poured her heart and soul out to this perfect stranger. “If you really want to know, my heart’s desire is to be famous, to be the best!”

“The best actress, the best dancer, the best runner, the best what?”

“I would like to be the best, most famous at anything in the sports world”, the excitement in her voice becoming more and more audible as she spoke.

He sat there for a few minutes, carefully puffing on his cigarette, thinking. “She wants to be a prolific sports figure……hmmm, aha!” He reached into his suit pocket, digging around for something, “I know just who you can be.”

“Are we playing dress up or somethin’?” she asked, interrupting his quest through his suit. He gave a solemn glare and she was scared to death she had upset him. After a few, long uninterrupted moments of awkward silence, he broke out in a loud, throaty laugh. “What a clever mind you have, Rhiannon, dress up indeed!” The bellows of laughter soothed the uncomfortable girl.

Before long, he produced a piece of paper that looked like a scroll, a vial with a deep red liquid in it, and a quill pen, all these seemingly from no where. “Sign here,” he said beckoning her to do so. She was shocked, because, for the first time, all the pieces seemed to fit. “Is that…, and in the bottle, is that real….and you are…. Oh my Lord!”

“No but close,” he said, a small smirk stealing across his lips, “your signature, Ms. James?” She sat stunned; she couldn’t even believe it was happening to her. Finally, she came to her senses, “I’m sorry,” she said, a trace of regret in her voice, “can you come back later?.”

He sat a while, and after a few seconds of reflection and deep pause, took the stationery items in his hands, and prepared to leave. “I guess you don’t want to be famous that bad,” he said, as a small playful intonation entered his voice. “Guess I will move on to someone who does.” She couldn’t stand to see him go. She knew who he was, and what he wanted, but perhaps he was right, maybe she didn’t want it bad enough.

“See,” he continued, “the world is full of people like you. This planet earth is filled to the brim with people who talk about what they want until they turn blue in the face, but when they are presented with an opportunity, well, they’d rather keep on talking then sacrificing whatever to get what they want. You’re one of a million, Ms. James and not destined to be more than that.”
He was right. Here fate dropped the opportunity of a lifetime into her lap, and she was going to drop the ball. The internal storm raging inside of her was fierce. Her brow knitted, her lips pursed, she seized her chance just as he was walking away. “WAIT!!” The yell did not catch him by surprise, evident in how he simply stopped walking, paused, and turned about face, the parchment, vial, and quill in his hands.

“Well, let’s drop all formalities and have you sign this now.” His eyes meant business, she could tell that, and so she wasted no time. She dipped the quill into the vial, slowly took it out, and placed her signature on the paper.

What happened next was strange and felt completely foreign to her. He simply took his gaunt hand and waved it in front of her face. Then she dropped, unconscious, to the ground.

If the first experience was unique to her, how she felt when she woke up was completely terrifying. She felt the same, but some things were different. In this waking state of consciousness, she felt her hands. They were larger then before. She felt her face; it was inexplicably itchy. Then she felt a stab in her thigh. Not knowing what to make of it, she looked down and noticed her surroundings were completely different from those she had fallen asleep in. There was a bed under her. There were several paintings hanging from the walls. This was extremely different from anything she had ever seen.

“Ouch!” The oddly pulsating pain in her leg continued. Not knowing what to do, she slowly reached for the covers of this odd bed she had found herself in, and grabbing tightly onto it, slowly pulled them up. Each second worried her as to what she would find. The terror of the unknown besieged her, and now there was only a thin piece of material separating her from the pain she felt. As she drew back the sheet, she saw a large, white form. She kept pulling, and what she found startled her into remembrance.

“A CAST! I have a broken leg!?” Suddenly, a flood of memories of recent occurrences came to her. The “man” in the parking lot, the deal, everything became very clear. “How can I be a famous sports figure with a broken leg?”

Other things struck her as odd. Like the amount of her body fat all around seemed to have miraculously increased. Her percentage of body hair was also different than she remembered, but she was so confused these facts only stayed in her mind for a moment.

She was struggling out of the strange bed, when a small Hispanic woman dressed as a maid came in the room. “Sir, what are you doing?” she cried, “let me help you.

Sir? It must have been an oversight in the confusion. Maybe she was just learning English. Maybe…

”Here sir, let’s get you to the restroom and get you changed. You almost missed your interview with the sports station.”

Again with the sir.

Whatever had occurred would all be cleared up with a look in the mirror. All these odd feelings would be swept away with one glance at the looking glass, she knew it. The maid helped the patient to the crutches, and they hobbled along the finely decorated hallway.

The whole place was so lavish, so extravagant in the details poured over the house. The decorations and modern art displays made Rhiannon uncomfortable. They were like nothing she had ever seen before.

But no matter how foreign the house was, she knew the image glaring back at her would be oh so familiar. The closer the odd couple came to the bedroom, however, the more disturbed she became, the more she came to doubt who she was…..

The maid left her off at the bathroom door. She slowly hobbled across the fine tile, slowly making her way towards the clamshell style mirror. What she saw was beyond her comprehension. What she saw was an old, rather rotund man staring back at her. Shock, total shock set in. The difference she had felt all the time was real, and she, or was it he now?, would bet anything it had to do with the stranger on the bench.

Slowly making her/his way to the bathroom door, she found the maid, stunned at this change in attitude. With his/her courage mustered she inquired, “It sounds weird, but tell me, who am I, and what do I do?”

The maid gave an inquisitive look, but ever the faithful servant answered anyway: “You are James Fleetwood. You review sports for a living.”

There had to be a mistake, or perhaps she was deceived by that thing on the bench. But she had to find out: “Am I famous, am I any good at what I do?

“Famous?” The answer had a shocked intonation to it. “Good? Why you’re prolific! The best of the best!”

It hit her like a ton of bricks. She was prolific; the deal had been lived up to.

As she wandered back to her room, she thought of how generic she was, how her passions controlled her and how she had gotten exactly what she had asked for. She was trapped in this old, beaten, weathered body. But thankfully for not many years, judging by this stranger’s, now her, health. Then a drastic thought came to her: why not end it early, her soul was already determined a home anyway?

She limped back to her, or was it his?, room searching for a belt or rope or something, when she noticed an object on the pillow. “Clumsy maid,” he muttered, but stopped as soon as she had said it, so discomforting was the new voice.

But the maid had not left it there. She scrutinized it closer. It was the agreement, the deal that she and the thing on the bench had reached. Something on it was highlighted in red. Perhaps it was an escape clause?! Maybe it was some way out of this wretched deal, this horrible situation that had been created by a want of something more.

But the highlighted section offered no comfort. She read: “Along with Fame and Notoriety among the Client’s Peers, and the World at Large, comes Immortality in which Client Can Enjoy Said Fame.”

She dropped the paper to the floor. She had a broken leg. Her gender had been changed. She was considerably older. But most of all she was prolific. And she would stay that way….throughout all eternity.

Blogs for Pat-Genesis

Writing is a therapy to which there is little that can rival it's power. The moment that a finger touches a letter key, the moment that a book is published or a blog is posted, these moments in time release as much stress and anxiety as a primal scream session. Putting our thoughts into the written word, void of worries about the view others will take towards us, is a catharsis beyond all value. Thus, I have decided to create this blog with the intent of releasing some demons that have been pent up inside me of late. Transporting them into words can loosen their hold on my thoughts and emotions; therefore, this is a major advantage to having a blog.

But there is a another advantage to having a blog, and this aspect of writing correlates with the choosing of the title. The nominal Pat of the title is a friend of mine. A friend in the truest sense of the word. I have many invaluable friends, each who through just being themselves reveals things that I would never see had I been alone. But I believe that on the S.S. Friendship, Pat just might be the captain. She revealed a world I had never thought to study before. An alternate universe that is five yards away in my frontyard; namely, the natural world. She took me under her "wing" as a young naturlist and believed in me. I don't know if she consciously thought this, but she was determined to show me the good that still remains in this world. The good forces of a butterfly landing on Milkweed, or perhaps an osprey soaring high above the Bayshore. She understood that good was becoming scarcer and scarcer with each passing day, and in turn opened up the beauties of creation to eyes that were totally eager to recieve. The hand of God can be seen in creation, I believe in that with with every fiber of my being. And because of Pat, I can see that hand a little clearer.

The purpose of this blog is twofold; a reason selfish and a reason generous. I am going to let go of the bewilidering demons that have seem to plague my phsyche as of late. That is for me alone, to release those dark channels onto my computer screen. But I want something for everyone who is reading this. I want you to see the good that is left in the world. To see the evil, just turn on the T.V. That seems a statement overstated, but I have no regrets in typing it as it is painfully true. However good still exists, and believe it or not, in some places it even thrives. That part of my motivation is generous, not from me of course, because humanity is not inately genrous, but from the God who placed us here. So I hope when you read my writings that you are inspired to see the good in the world. I had an amazing mentor open my eyes to it, thus I dedicate this blog to her, and everything she stands for. I truly hope these works can inspire you.
God Bless,
David Lord