Sunday, April 02, 2017

Sunday, March 26, 2017

Rapture

Original photography by clair0bscur
Here in the silent times, I remember the thoughts and words we share. I remember the lessons. I remember the hunts. I remember the soaring flights that we took. Johannes was not the only one who was taken into the fold of a wing. He was not the only one to experience the connection.

I too, was chosen.

Yes, mother, you were.

For us, it is not one over the other. It is us together. We are of one mind sharing the disparate bodies. We gain the experiences of one another for a grand collective to be shared further on down to the new generation. It is not just for you or I. It is for us all.

I too, am sharing.

Yes, mother, you are.

What we have is beyond intimacy. Our symbiosis has given each of us so much. Our decedents may one day understand what passes between us. It is beyond love. It is beyond care. It is beyond what could ever be explained in the mundane world. Our destinies are intertwined and will always be so.

I too, will be with you.

Yes, mother, you will.

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

Roots

Here I am.

Gathering strength to shoot roots down. Through the rocky ground. Through to the fertile soil underneath. Through to the source of energy and nutrients.

It is the ball of tendrils that slowly shift through it all that it begins. It is the model of regeneration. It is the metamorphosis of growth. It is the beginning of change. It is the personification of intent.

The movement is slow, yet deliberate. It could appear that there is no movement at all. It could appear that there is only stasis. That is not the case.

In the seat of it all, there is faith. Without it, there is no growth, there is no movement.

Movement is movement, no matter how small.

It is the nature of roots.

Monday, March 20, 2017

600 Minutes

I just got out of a hospital stay. It was the first time I was admitted as a patient into a facility like that. It was a test of patience. It was a test of family. It was a test of faith.

Nearly a month ago, I had a cough. Rather simplistic and plain. I thought it would run the course and I would be buffeted but none the worse for wear.

This was not the path I was supposed to take, apparently.

Congestion, cough, chills, fever, and night sweats all came and went. Hacking mucus, constant nose blowing, and heavy sighs were companions. Sleep deprivation, annoyance, shortness of breath, and worry also came.

After several OTC solutions and an Urgent Care visit, my wife insisted upon my visiting the Emergency Room to see what was going on.

It took 10 hours from my walking into the ER until I was admitted into a room. The struggle was in the form of a seemingly endless cycle of being called upon to enter the magical double doors to answer questions, raise hopes, only to be sent back to our seats in the waiting area. It was my own personal Bardo.

Finally, I was selected to be examined. Again I was called up to the wooden gateway and allowed to pass through. The attendant was in azure. Darker hallways fanned out before me. Muted lights, grey walls, and painted floors revealed a different caliber of hospitalers buzzing about like moths gathered into cones of light.

Ushered into a small room, I was asked to repeat my story again with an almost jovial, “Well, what brings you here today?” I recited in detail what had happened. I had failed two rounds of antibiotics, spent time and money fighting whatever was inside of me, and finally came to a place of healing to get more expert advice and care.

Fast-Forward through a breathing treatment, a series of intravenous fluids, antibiotics, and a significant wait, and the attending physician agreed to admit me into hospital care. I was wheeled off into another holding unit until they got a bed ready for me.

Admission questions came next, medication lists were verified, and yet another retelling of my story to yet another physician started my stint in this purgatory. The long room used to be for Physical Therapy. Remnants and equipment were scattered throughout the space. It felt of remembered pain.

My bed was ready before my admission questions were completed. Still, I waited for ‘transport’ to my bed. I waited through the rest of my Antibiotic IV to be finished. I waited through being disconnected from the pump and having my vitals taken for what seemed like the hundredth time for the night. I waited until I had to get up to go to the restroom and come back to my gurney.

Depleted, I sat at the end of the gurney and attempted not to be irritated. I was tired and hungry. I was fatigued and had a headache. The wall was coming up fast. The attending nurse took pity upon me.

In an act of defiance to the order of things, she moved me herself. Somehow, ancient stars were becoming into alignment and freeing me from this prison of clinical lighting and sterile scents.

Finally, in a bed, I relaxed. It was a mistake, but the respite from feeling like I was on display was wiped away. Other invasive atrocities took place, but those are perhaps fodder for another story.

Today, I am back to work as an #officehero. There are things to be done.

Saturday, March 18, 2017

Leap of Faith


Blue Moon

Art from LahmatTea. Used without permission.
In the darkened and foggy streets of the city, you can find just about anything. There are deals born of need and want, of greed and satiation, of desperation and hope. There are trades done in brick-lined alleyways and underneath coal smoke. There are commodities traded by men and women that have never seen the light. Prayers are whispered by these denizens in the gritty underbelly of a decaying facade.

The Crown, more concerned about keeping what little is slipping through their fingers, props up straw men in power while formulating plans for the colonies abroad. Jack-booted Guardsman keep the streets with newly minted machine pistols.

Grizzly cigar-smoking toughs do not only work for the gentlemen adventurers and lady dilettantes, but also for those shadowmongers who manipulate the destinies of many unfortunates. Dragon-chasers seek underground dens of moldy racks in order to find dreams or escape. Hatchetmen flex their muscles under silk suits and top hats making sure that the opium keeps flowing.

Technological savants working deep into the night form wondrous marvels of steam and steel and brass. Their laboratories and shops range from the exactingly precise to the violently disheveled. Still, the minds of these engineers are in tune with a force of unsurpassed skill and motivation.

Mystics and self-styled magicians meet in secret chambers to discuss the future of mankind. Cabals formed for both good and evil use their powers to roam the unknown realms beyond the veil to exact their presence upon the things that man was not meant to know.

Throughout it all, one brave soul decides to to make her way into the sooty nights and gas lit streets. It is more than a dalliance in order to keep a brilliant mind at work or a restless soul occupied. She cannot walk away. It is her calling.

In her own way, she is shaping the future of the Empire. Her ways are not the only ways, but they are effective. Her own light tainted by the darkness around her, she fights the the denizens of shadow in the only way she knows how — with lethal intent.

Tuesday, March 07, 2017

A Siren's Call

 Art burgled from @NicoleX (NicoMysterriou) 
 Art burgled from @NicoleX (NicoMysterriou)

I could tell you what you want to know, but that isn’t what you want.

You want to keep me like this, in a bottle, let out every so often so you can see me naked, so you can rub grubby fingers on me. All you want to do is pinch my nipples and slap my ass. You want to slide yourself into my lips and keep my hands bound.

I could tell you what you will become, but that isn’t what you want.

You believe the hype that you spread thick like butter on bread. It is so obvious that you think your strength comes from ownership. A macabre sense of entitlement comes from my silence. You mistake it for weakness. This is your mistake. You are a means to an end.

I could tell you what is going on, but that isn’t what you want.

You think that flesh is the end all be all of existence. You think that there is no magic in the mind. You don’t know that I have worn the phylactery and taken your power long ago. You don’t realize, dear man, that you are the mere puppet performing my bidding.

I could tell you what I am, but that isn’t what you want.

You think there is no pattern to be unlocked. You think that the blood surged and muscle strained work I put you through is somehow love. Love is longer. Love is dedicated. You, in your fleshform are temporary and are no match for the divinity within me.

I could tell you what your weakness is, but that isn’t what you want.

You gaze upon my naked flesh and dream of my nipples and lips. You focus on my breasts and hips. You never realize that my eyes are hidden. You don’t deserve them. You are mere grist for the mill powering all of my spangle.

I could tell you all of these things and more, but that isn’t what you want.

You close off your mind and let your thickness move towards me, within me, through me. It is here within the rituals that I have set in motion that you lose yourself. It is my power that is being fueled by your disposition. It is your weakness I have targeted.

I could tell you of your sacrifice, but that isn’t what you want.

You cannot see the illusion. You cannot see how I have set the machinations in place. You cannot understand the power of sex and what it holds. You cannot understand how a fish can be made to climb.