The Hermit Chronicles: Cup of Conversation

“Not all those who wander are lost.”
Some things were better lost than found.”
annasasylum

Lost is good, that’s when I find places that appear on the horizon of experience, places that are exciting, painful, and perhaps enlightening. Being lost and alone sounds terrible, but these are exciting lands and through wandering I pass by many old and tattered road signs that point out toward a different way. Beyond addiction’s sign, I see the detritus of the many who travel here strewn about and the bones of those who scarcely made the turn on that road before they died choking on the false hope of that distant city. Violence, that sign bears holes shot through with blame and anger against foes seen and unseen, real and surreal. Down that path I hear echos of private wars, fought more often in that travelers head, then on the road itself. Fame, this sign is hard to see, covered with thick strands of luck and persistence. Looking far down that road I see no one, I only hear crowds gathering and yelling praises at the swollen headed partakers of that way. I love to pass by those exits and the many crisscrossing and circuitous forked roads called psychiatry and religion. Bah, I turn my back on these and wander through my solitary confinement. It’s there I’m comfortable and being lost gives me a reason to go back over my favorite parts. Don’t feel sorry for me as you see my shambled figure shuffling, my face overgrown with disconcerting opinion. I’m happy here, but wait, would you like to share a cup of conversation, speaking without words over my fire? I didn’t think so, you have your eyes set on the exit signs…you’ll be back though, I’ll keep a light on for you.
Related Post: The Hermit Chronicles: Cup of Conversation
 Related Post: The Hermit Chronicles: Fallen Trees
Related Post: The Hermit Chronicles: Aimless 
Related Post: The Hermit Chronicles: Hounds  
Related Post: The Hermit Chronicles: Unbelonging 

Also published in Broowaha
Also published in Life As A Human
041113
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My Tree

Inspired by the death of a friend, the birth of a granddaughter, an ache in my aged bones, and the prayers of my youth.


bbeingmee

Mixed emotions gather in mushroomed gray lined clouds, a fever pitch of worried concern and loss of beloved companions. Friends carried away like leaves in the gusts, piling against some unseen barrier far away from my tree. Familial doves alight from my branches in pursuit of a roost built by man. Could this tree ever hold them? Life is a tornado of ever changing events, blink and their gone, but I need to close my eyes, the dust of change causes pain. Age pursues me with a ravenous appetite, lying like a pride of lions before the pool of forever hope. Will I drink, or will I be consumed, to be a part of something else, my bones becoming their bones, my blood bringing health to their blood? Sweet Peace, where have you hidden yourself? Are you in the garden, hiding behind a tree? Come to me and share your priceless trinkets. Blinking back tears, pressing against the incoming tide, I swallow inevitable foamed certainties. I pulled an old jar from the ground beneath my tree. In it I hid inscribed hope with these words: God dances over me with joy and He will give me rest. I close my eyes in a sleep that only comes to those who labored hard in the fields, harvesting crops of contentment from the begrudging earth.

Frankenstein

“I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.”
Mary Shelley,
Frankenstein

Loneliness, dissatisfaction, and depression are all signs that my heartbeat sits in the background, flat-lined and breathless until I use it. Then I see it’s deformity. During my socialization, the malnutrition of nature and nurture led to a distorted development, an immature birth, an aborted process of creation. I patch up these defects with anything I can grab until I, a zombie Frankenstein, could attempt to imitate the living. It’s very obvious that something’s not right in this ambling beast. My expressions of adoration are awkward and stumbling, and especially given to extremes of violence and overcompensation. I’m quite adept at camouflaging their deadness with faked kindness and sweet articulations. In the world of the living dead appearances are deceiving. 
I use many things to stimulate my undead “love”. Money, words, drugs, and appearances can all be used to bring in the deformed masses that they may “love” me. I’m well aware they love my gifts, leading this Frankenstein to once again, lay on a mad doctor’s operating table to perform more abortions as I attempt to fix what can only be transformed by a power much greater. I felt real love once, when I sought a God that could deliver me from this horrid process. After I feeling it, it disappeared in my religious ideals and ceremonies which produced nothing of the vibrant love that I longed to possess. I know my last hope is in a divine intervention, and as I lay down on a stainless steel table of deliverance,  I wait for Elysian lightning to strike a real heartbeat in this Frankenstein of love. 

The Snake – There is someone out there as dangerous as you

“Never assume that the person you are dealing with is weaker or less important than you are. Some people are slow to take offense, which may make you misjudge the thickness of their skin, and fail to worry about insulting them. But should you offend their honor and their pride, they will overwhelm you with a violence that seems sudden and extreme given their slowness to anger.” Robert Greene, 48 Laws of Power
 

“What gets me is the laughter. Laughing, mocking, putting me to shame. Be careful to never shame others, there is someone out there just like you, like me, waiting in the shadows for the final stroke, the lash that brings to light the hidden madness. Be careful young soul that you do not mock the snake.”

I coil around these young, nurturing their venomous beginnings. Ever aware, hyper-vigilant, to protect and bring to maturation these slithering things. Theyve become my children. In them I invest my time and energy, daily laboring, thinking about their growth and how they will manifest in this humbled time. My nest, being formed in the moist and dark, is where they grow, and where the stench festers inciting more depravity from the natural courses that flow so easily. The rubbish of shame and hate piled on my fertile ground, gives rise to a perfect incubator for my brood. Throw another log on you spoiled soul, forget not that under your insults, warmth and protection brought about by numb insulation, cords piled high, will let my life swarm. Not one bite will injure you, but many, not from one direction, but from several. You gave me advantage by leaving the dark crevices where I crawl and my thirst for poisoned blood grows. I can prosper in obscurity, in the loneliness you force on me with your betrayals and mocking laughter. Night has come, I find myself drawn from the pile. You forget that life grows dark even in your world and there is where I prosper, having grown accustomed to the dimness in your dungeon. Feel your skin crawl as sounds of my approach come near. I taste your fear with my carefully timed flicks of tongue. I feel your vibrations, you can’t run. Where will you go? Naturally you will find a dark place, a hole to run to. There I will catch you, and the dull red of your hatred of my life will flow thickly into my long furnace. Here the heat will consume you, and I will crawl, satiated with revenge, leaving the bones and fur of your carcass as testimony to the lethality of leaving your shamed captives alive.


The Battle is Me

“Confront the dark parts of yourself, and work to banish them with illumination and forgiveness. Your willingness to wrestle with your demons will cause your angels to sing. Use the pain as fuel, as a reminder of your strength.”August Wilson


Cataclysm-x

“My hand breaks my bones

My thoughts accuse and torment
My enemy is I, armies of Me bring enmity
Against my dichotomy, my duality

Where can I go from this fate?
Where can I flee from this destiny?
Where is the peace from battles fought?
When my worst foe, is my deepest thought” – DMW
There is a struggle that exists in my mind. Unseen enemies launch terroristic attacks against my peace and tranquility. Serenity dies a martyr’s death at the hands of hooded mercenaries. These are not physical combatants, they exist only in my mind. Hiding from this warfare is not possible, the fight follows me everywhere. Making advancements at great expense to my happiness, I press against them. The end waits, the war’s final battle. There are no options, no choices, other than to persevere and prevail in the battle against me, my own worst enemy.

The Battle is Me

“Confront the dark parts of yourself, and work to banish them with illumination and forgiveness. Your willingness to wrestle with your demons will cause your angels to sing. Use the pain as fuel, as a reminder of your strength.”August Wilson


Cataclysm-x

“My hand breaks my bones

My thoughts accuse and torment
My enemy is I, armies of Me bring enmity
Against my dichotomy, my duality

Where can I go from this fate?
Where can I flee from this destiny?
Where is the peace from battles fought?
When my worst foe, is my deepest thought” – DMW
There is a struggle that exists in my mind. Unseen enemies launch terroristic attacks against my peace and tranquility. Serenity dies a martyr’s death at the hands of hooded mercenaries. These are not physical combatants, they exist only in my mind. Hiding from this warfare is not possible, the fight follows me everywhere. Making advancements at great expense to my happiness, I press against them. The end waits, the war’s final battle. There are no options, no choices, other than to persevere and prevail in the battle against me, my own worst enemy.

Build on the Carcass – The death of one is the birth of another

 “With my ninth mind I resurrect my first
and dance slow to the music of my soul made new.” 
“Only after disaster can we be resurrected.” – Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club  

itsleeaa

I crawl on the floor, a wet blanket of affection, cold in the after thought, wrapped tightly around my face. Looking up through the swirl of dark and gray smoke, I catch the glimpse of fiery tongues consuming my reputation. No loss, this consumption of smokey history, what was built before can be built again, with improvements not considered before. The demise of one dream is the birth of another and dwelling on sentimentality isn’t an option. Crawl now my shattered bones of the present, know that shortly you’ll be born again on the carcass of this ashed life.