The Hermit Chronicles: Aimless

“The true adventurer goes forth aimless and uncalculating to meet 
and greet unknown fate.
chymecindy
In the early dawn, the dark and the bright birth
My silver cage flew open, and I wandered,
Aimless
 
In the cool of the morning, the placenta of night
My foundling feet find rhythm, and I wandered,
Aimless
 
In the heat of noon, the umbilical light a rage
My downy wings grow furious, and I wandered,
Aimless
 
In the dying day, the flower of life now closing
My infant dreams lay in grasses, and I wandered,

Wisdom’s Seven Pillars – Pillar #2 Peace –

“Wisdom has built her house, she has carved out her seven pillars:” Proverbs 9:1. The aim of this series is to present a non-cliche, non-religious point of view of wisdom. I do subscribe to some religious interpretations of the subjects addressed, but wish to here, only point out the common understanding of the principles.  

If you want to make peace with your enemy, you have to work with your enemy. Then he becomes your partner.”
Nelson Mandela

“If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten we belong to each other”
Pillar #2 Peace 

Wisdom will always seek a way to bring peace within myself and with others. Peace with myself always precedes peace with others. It’s imperative that I find a place of calmness, centered in myself and quiet in my thoughts and from that haven I influence my relationships  looking for ways to get along with my enemy, my friend, my spouse, and my nation. Haste has no room in this pursuit. Anger will rise tempting me to act impulsively but I must resist every urge to act quickly. Calmness, confidence, and quietness will be the lighthouses that guide me through the dire straights of relationships. Taking a deep breath, calming my emotions and raging thoughts, I find the peace that’s born from mother Wisdom.

Tug O War – Playing Games With Anger

“If you are losing a tug-of-war with a tiger, give him the rope before he gets to your arm. You can always buy a new rope.” Gunther, Max

“The best fighter is never angry.” ― Lao Tzu

I grabbed the knotted cloth with my hand, hung on tight and shook it in front on my ever willing mutt, Thor. He responded by latching on and shaking it so vigorously I nearly lost hold. I teased him for a moment, and then used him for a floor mop because despite my best efforts, he wouldn’t let go. This made me laugh and smile, and even video tape him for a YouTube post. Millions have done the same thing, making the rage of the hunt and nurture of the kill a funny moment, inspiring it and laughing only because they controlled that instinct. That’s how it is with my anger.

Those who are comfortable with it, shake the rope, knowing they’re in control. It took me a long time, with my temper flaring at every waved knotted circumstance, to understand this response. What I did in these conflicts was reflect the built up anger in me. After many years of testing and fighting every challenge, it is enough. I quit. I’m tired of my anger being used against me. I’m holding back my anger, and resisting the challenges, leaving the players scratching their head, “Your not behaving like you should, why aren’t you pulling back?” Not every fight needs fighting and not every challenge needs answering. So, that little rope your waving, the rope of conflict, jealousy, anger, or whatever it is you choose to challenge me with, keep it, I’m not participating in your game. I’m aware that to control myself is my biggest challenge and to live in peace, following peace, is the biggest advantage.

My Discordant Song

“Opposition brings concord. Out of discord comes the fairest harmony.”  Heraclitus
 

I am the sum of my defects, to lay them down is to die. Changing me by forcing me to get help is forcing me to becomesomeone else. You think you can help me, or should help me. Is my deficit that annoying? Will “fixing” me make you feel better? Realize that by fixing me, your tearing me apart. I know I’m sick, I’m ill, I’m addicted. I binge, purge, use, fixate, cut, obsess, worry, and rage. I listen to voices telling me you want to change me, to make me better. Really? I don’t see the life you live as better. I see that your scared to let your weaknesses show, to claim them as your own, to know and show that they are a part of you, like every part that is acceptable and healthy. I own my diseases, they are unique, changing and evolving. Predicting my behavior is impossible, unless you give me pills that make me think like you. Or give me programs teaching me to act proper. Or follow me around pushing away the naughty deprecating things that chase me. Let me off your leash of altruism and guilt induced change. My faults, I make them work for me. They become a unique discordant song that never ends. Listen to the off-key and dragging notes, they are a symphony. Dance to my music. Youll never be bored and perhaps youll forget about trying to change me.

Also published in Broowaha Magazine

Slamming Doors – The sound of violence

“A door slamming makes one jump, but
it doesn’t make one afraid. What one fears
is the serpent that crawls underneath it.” – Collete

“Starting when I was a kid barely four,

I knew the beating was coming

by the sound of a slamming door


Picking myself up from off the cold floor

His bruises held my mind in fear

by the sound of a slamming door


Older now and wiser but still my soul abhors

the awful things that come and anger shown

by the sound of a slamming door”
 – DMW



How can I describe the feeling I get when a door slams? Hundreds of heartbreaking moments all carry that signature. I can tell when lives carry the heat of anger by the condition of the doors. Splintered frames, stripped hinges, door knobs shattered with pieces strewn around the room, the bottom of the door scraping the floor. I’ve locked doors, only to see them broken down by a significant other – be it a drunk father, jealous girlfriend, or some random hell bent soul. The sound impacts me psychologically now. It initiates a vigilance and tense anticipation of impending doom. It makes me mad, really mad, like a rage that crawls over me with it’s claws out. There are doors inside my heart as well. You can’t hear them but I do. Women slam them when they betray me, kids slam them when they reject me, and men slam them when they threaten me. I can’t turn off the feelings quick enough when I’m energized by the sound of the slamming doors. I long to live in peace, and right now, I feel real peaceful but wait, did you hear that? Nooooooooo!!!

Related Post: The Tub

Slamming Doors – The sound of violence

“A door slamming makes one jump, but
it doesn’t make one afraid. What one fears
is the serpent that crawls underneath it.” – Collete

“Starting when I was a kid barely four,

I knew the beating was coming

by the sound of a slamming door


Picking myself up from off the cold floor

His bruises held my mind in fear

by the sound of a slamming door


Older now and wiser but still my soul abhors

the awful things that come and anger shown

by the sound of a slamming door”
 – DMW



How can I describe the feeling I get when a door slams? Hundreds of heartbreaking moments all carry that signature. I can tell when lives carry the heat of anger by the condition of the doors. Splintered frames, stripped hinges, door knobs shattered with pieces strewn around the room, the bottom of the door scraping the floor. I’ve locked doors, only to see them broken down by a significant other – be it a drunk father, jealous girlfriend, or some random hell bent soul. The sound impacts me psychologically now. It initiates a vigilance and tense anticipation of impending doom. It makes me mad, really mad, like a rage that crawls over me with it’s claws out. There are doors inside my heart as well. You can’t hear them but I do. Women slam them when they betray me, kids slam them when they reject me, and men slam them when they threaten me. I can’t turn off the feelings quick enough when I’m energized by the sound of the slamming doors. I long to live in peace, and right now, I feel real peaceful but wait, did you hear that? Nooooooooo!!!

Related Post: The Tub

The Little Door – Rage is hidden

“Despite all my rage
I am still just a rat in the cage.”
Billy Corgan
 

Wondering were I got this rage

I started looking ’round the cage
Hiding in the back, a little door. 
Shocked, I never saw this before
Pressing close my ear, hoping to feel
hot to the touch, it made me kneel
Whats behind the door, I’m brave to behold
Rest assured it would soon be told.
Locked! But how do I see?
But soon the door would open to me
Turning away I vented a rage
then I heard a click from the back of my cage
Spinning and turning with a stare
I fell to my knees, all of me aware
The door swung open wide
revealing all that was crammed inside
Memories of things all bad
every one of them made me mad
And with a great breath of wind
a sudden gust that made me spin
to escape from this caged man
jumping to my feet again
I’ll not be captive to anger’s sin
I shoved the door closed with all my might
That will do for now, but then the night
I sit shivering looking across the room
at the little door hiding crazy gloom
I will destroy the insanity
without this rage I will be free
to fly again without a cry
No doors now, in my open sky.

Also published in: Broowaha
09082011 

The Little Door – Rage is hidden

“Despite all my rage
I am still just a rat in the cage.”
Billy Corgan
 

Wondering were I got this rage

I started looking ’round the cage
Hiding in the back, a little door. 
Shocked, I never saw this before
Pressing close my ear, hoping to feel
hot to the touch, it made me kneel
Whats behind the door, I’m brave to behold
Rest assured it would soon be told.
Locked! But how do I see?
But soon the door would open to me
Turning away I vented a rage
then I heard a click from the back of my cage
Spinning and turning with a stare
I fell to my knees, all of me aware
The door swung open wide
revealing all that was crammed inside
Memories of things all bad
every one of them made me mad
And with a great breath of wind
a sudden gust that made me spin
to escape from this caged man
jumping to my feet again
I’ll not be captive to anger’s sin
I shoved the door closed with all my might
That will do for now, but then the night
I sit shivering looking across the room
at the little door hiding crazy gloom
I will destroy the insanity
without this rage I will be free
to fly again without a cry
No doors now, in my open sky.

Also published in: Broowaha
09082011 

The Queen – Chapter 11 – Taking out the trash

The sting of the needle, inserted quickly out of necessity, brought me back to consciousness. The gray bearded, decrepit doc had me laying on the kitchen counter, working out of an old leather bag which resembled the texture of his skin. Evidently I was out for a while and as he busied himself cleaning up, I looked over my shoulder, seeing the body of our attacker wrapped in heavy plastic, red smears on the inside looking like a crazed water-color painting. My Queen was calm, her hands stroking the blood, my and his, from my body.  I noticed a strength in me, her strength, unafraid and capable of handling these situations, enabled me, giving me confidence and lifting me above fear. She was amazing, and I owed my life to her now, as she did me for had I not taken the hit, she surely would be the one in water colored plastic. I saw her reach under the counter, pressing something, the cabinet above the sink shuttered and then flipped into itself revealing a stash of items, the most prominent of which were stacks of green, fresh money, the counting straps still banding them together. Grabbing a couple of bundles she handed them to the doc, the street has its own health care system. Letting sleep claim me again, I dreamed of the nights with my queen, her body an escort into the galaxies of pleasure beyond my experience.


The doc left satisfied and we settled into an evening of wine and pills, my Queen drowning my pain and apprehension with kisses down my neck and chest, settling into a rhythm with her hair in my lap. Closing my eyes, I turned to see the body again, I inquired about how to handle the trash. “The cleaners would be here soon, don’t worry.” She went back to her self-imposed task of intimating sexual pleasure on her bodyguard. As I grew closer to the summit of my desire, I recalled that this was the reason I worked my mundane, back-breaking job, to guard her and escape from the listless world that was mine, outside this Queen’s castle.

Related Posts: The Queen,  Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10,  Part 11,, Part 12, Part 13

The Queen – Chapter 10 – The Resistance

 image credit: nahom1

Whispering directions to her room, her voice was scant, forcing me to listen. Speaking softly, she could make others stop their routine to pay attention. Her eyes pulling them, me, closer as we leaned in to listen. She led me to her house, a loft in an unpretentious part of town. The door popped when she opened it, perhaps she hadn’t been here in a while. My Queen had access to many places I’m sure, not to mention the access she gains so readily to the hearts of her subjects. The smell of incense, strong and lingering, permeated her sanctuary, adding an element of Eros to the sultry décor. I turned to put up my jacket, damp from the evening dew of our walk, and bending down to untie my boots, I noticed she was gone from the room. I knew where she went, a trail of garments, first her jacket, then more personal items, her black and lacy bra, her panties stretching out from tip of her high-heeled shoes, all led to the shower, now filling with steam.


Following this not so subtle trail was easy, and looking up I caught sight of her voluptuous body sliding behind the clear shower glass enclosure. My voyeurism was cut short by the steam of the shower rapidly filling the now heated bathroom, my body filled with heat of a different sort. The door was left open, in an invitation that I should join her. I quickly disrobed, the tiles giving a sharp crack of complaint when my pistol hit the floor, in my haste I forgot the gun was stuck in my waistband. I heard a giggle come from the shower, she called out, “I have something to handle that”. Meaning a holster, I thought, however, I was naked now and saw she had rubbed the mist off the glass to peek at my manhood. I responded almost immediately, grateful that she knows how to excite me beyond every threshold of passion I ever knew.


I watched her hands caress her body, her glistening skin a perfect canvas for the long streaks of soap trails. She knew how to touch herself, her mouth responding with open acclamation of passions’ triumph over her body. I reached out to touch the Queen, with one hand she took herself and the other took me. With a rhythm born from an ancient percussion of tribal hedonistic dance, we moved together. Every part of her taking me without reservation. I watched as her nipples swelled with anticipation, my tongue gathering the hot streams of water from their graceful tips. I pulled her leg up in the crook of my arm and proceeded to take deep her offerings of pleasure for my parched soul. She responded to my every move, not just receiving me, but giving me herself. We entwined over, around, under, our bodies desire facilitated by the hot water and the oil she poured on our tangle of lust. My Queen, my queen, you have taken me as I have you. I kissed her deep as I finished, only to hear the sharp break of glass and feel a hot sting drive itself deep in my shoulder. 

Blood spattered across my Queens cheek, the bullet passed through me and hit the tile, a few inches over from her head. With her eyes wide in fear, but hot with rage, she grabbed me tight and pushed me through the shattered shower door, I, even in shock, knew what she knew, my pistol was right by the shower, under my pants. With a huge shove that could only been born of adrenalin, she ran me into the intruder. As he and I stumbled in a frantic and fierce dance of death, she grabbed the pistol and with confident defiance placed it within inches of his ear, pulling the trigger, putting an emphatic resistance to the defilement of her palace. The shot deafened me, my ears were ringing, my mind was cloudy, my vision going blurry, my voice only asking if she was OK. She whispered, her voice strong and controlled, that she was fine but she needed to get help for me immediately. As I let her words lead me to hope, I recalled that this is the reason I worked my mundane, back-breaking job, to guard her and escape from the listless world that was mine, outside this Queen’s castle. 

Related Posts: The Queen Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7

Also published in Broowaha