For the pleasure of words.
I put my ears to the winds,
my eyes to the screens
Unsurprisingly, nothing to be heard
And nothing to be seen.
But a resounding silence;
A dried up stream
Empty, shallow, bereft -
The growing split of humanity's seam.
Their kith and their kin
forever hear their silent screams.
Erased from life, extinguished
their stolen dreams.
Photo by Kristina Flour on Unsplash
An army, of untold numbers
barracks at the base.
Moving upward and onward,
deftly marching up the mountain.
Rushing, Rushing. Steady Pace.
Ready to be liberated, unleashed.
Traveling through that infinite space
at the urging of the Head Master
Charging, rushing to the ever after,
a phenomenal cosmic race.
What's out there, still unknown
But always onward, onward, faster, faster - In first place.
The soldiers, uniforms alabaster,
reach the top of that mountain,
their explosive coup de grace.
One by one, they take that perverse Leap of Faith
Arcing through the ether - shooting out from hiding place.
Their favourite distance to traverse
between dark and light - hope they make it safe.
And keep the battle raging for the human race.
Photo by Saksham Gangwar on Unsplash
Life lessons are all around us, if only we take a moment to learn.
The world is ripe with an abundance of knowledge.
Use this knowledge and grant yourself power.
Unimaginable power.
The type of power that can put an end to hunger, even if it is your very own.
For example, surround yourself with those who are allergic to nuts.
The others.
Gather foods, that at their very essence, are constructed from these delightful plant birthing pods.
You will never have to share.
You will never go hungry because those others will never take from you.
Let the world be your teacher.
And the nuts be your sustenance.
Photo by Juan José Valencia Antía on Unsplash
I was recently reminded of how I did battle with Mothra.
It was a hard fought skirmish, lasting a better part of 45 minutes. Weaving and bobbing all about.
Mothra was devious. Cunning. Wiley like a coyote. Like s/he could sense my next move. And parry defensively at will. Strategy built over generations of evolution, sewn into their very genetic fabric.
But, in the end, I was more than Mothra could handle.
Trapped in the gentle cupping of my meaty paws, it was not to be Mothra’s end. There would be mercy.
Mothra deserved liberty. And so, s/he would be freed outside.
I called out for assistance, as my hands were full, and the door was opened for me. I stepped outside into the dark, into the calm opacity that silenced Mothra’s frayed nerves.
Behind me, behind us, the door slammed shut.
A voice could be heard cackling from the other side: “sometimes, sacrifices must be made.”
In the end, Mothra and I were not much different.
Photo by Mikkel Frimer-Rasmussen on Unsplash
If we observe the world around us, we have the opportunity to learn The Truth.
The Truth, capital T, that crosses all labels, genders, races, cultures, sexualities, and any other terms of stratification.
For example, the other day on my drive in to work, as I pulled up to a red light, I nonchalantly shifted my gaze about as we drivers often do.
I took that few moments of driver’s respite to soak in all the majesty that the industrial side street I was on could offer – the big chimney stacks spewing copious amounts of billowing white mist, lightly dusted with sulphur, the big rig trucks backed with skill into the truck level loading doors, the protective bumpers compressed to form a soothing seal around the edges.
As sometimes occurs, my eyes locked with the distinguished gentleman in the fancy, gleaming sports car beside mine.
But this time, it was different. It was electric.
We both stopped. Frozen in time.
He with his left index finger shoved knuckle deep into his left nostril, obviously scratching his nose. From the inside.
Me, unable to avert my gaze, trying to understand how such a small nose could take in such a large finger.
And then it hit me.
The Truth.
No matter who you are, or what you do, if you are inside of a car, at some point you will have an itch that needs scratching, usually at a red light.
And that is what he, the posh gentleman in the fancy, gleaming sports car, taught me.
Photo by Erwan Hesry on Unsplash
It feels like an eternity has passed. But it’s only been minutes. It doesn’t matter. To him. Or to her. They sit on opposite sides of the short, rectangular table, staring intently at each other. In that moment, they are adversaries, this much they both know. Both with their own purpose, their own agendas.
In the ripening silence, the battling duo reach an impasse.
As the depth of the stillness grows, the burly man with his weathered features leans forward and places his scarred elbows on the cheaply finished surface of the table, his calloused palms flat, fingers spread wide.
Pressing his fingertips downward, they blanche and the once delineated half moons of his nail beds disappear into the whiteness, the blood forced out. The hardness and coldness of the scuffed table sends a small jolt into his awareness. A reflexive flash of movement is visible across his face; his jaw clenches as he ignores the discomfort, focused on the seemingly insurmountable task at hand.
He shifts his immense frame forward to create proximity but not enough to induce threat, his biceps straining against the weight they are now tasked with holding up, the cuffed short sleeves of his polo shirt stretched to their limit. With this simple act, the man brings himself closer to his worthy opponent, trying to find common ground from where they can start the process anew, where he can salvage this interaction.
There is an edge to his voice.
She looks up at him, her fixed eyes barely flicking upward to register his voice as it cuts through the quiet. Instantly, he feels his face flush with heat, the rising anger bubbling up from deep within his belly. He manages to choke it back down almost instantly. His years of training as a high risk interrogator enables him to catch himself before he loses his cool, his control. Before the visible ticks and tells, the ones we all have, can be used by his worthy opponent to chip away at his smooth external veneer. Before she can expose all the cracks below his unblemished exterior, thereby gaining the upper hand.
A quick thought flashes through his mind. It has been a long time since any of his subjects have stirred this response in him, awoken it in such dramatic fashion. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, counting to five.
He is one of the best in the industry with accolades and awards liberally sprinkled through his storied 20 year policing career. He is directly credited with brining down indoctrinated terrorists and deranged gunmen in high stakes standoffs in his life as a public servant. He deals with some of the most cunning, cerebral miscreants, always managing to find a way in, to gain the upper hand in the weaponless battle of wits, never once unholstering his weapon, or requiring his charges do the same.
A week away from retirement, his incredible record now looks to be completed with a question mark.
She struggles against her restraints, pushing her body against the snug nylon straps that tether her in place, arching her back hard. The sturdy straps hold fast, unyielding. Her body falls back limp into her seat, his prisoner. Her eyes blaze in rage. The dark pupils dilated, reflecting the solitary light that hangs from the ceiling above.
She doesn’t care fo anyone but herself. She has demonstrated that time and time again.
Although she finds herself stuck, she still understands she is in the power position. That she has the ability to bend him to her will, whenever she chooses to do so. He is merely a pawn, a disposable piece in her game.
She remains silent, her eyes still lit with the angry fire.
He starts but doesn’t get a chance to finish, interrupted by the cup that hurtles towards him through the air end over end, it’s contents initially suspended in the air like a fine art tableau of paint blotches. Spatter on an ethereal canvas.
He had offered her a beverage when their delicate dance had begun, and it was commanded by gravity to the now dirty floor below his feet, droplets of the tawny liquid soiling his crisp, freshly pressed trousers, staining them.
Her eyes are alive now, knowing she has struck a chord, engendered a response from him. Her own little Newtonian experiment. Action. Reaction.
A low guttural growl escapes under his breath. She is laughing silently, her dark eyes dancing, the corners of her eye lids crinkled. Taunting him. Demanding he engage in this high stakes game of brinkmanship.
He’s never faced anyone like her before. She is impervious to his techniques, his negotiations. They’ve been at it for over an hour and he’s no closer to his end game than when he started.
Reciprocity. Rapport. Threats. Engagement. He’s tried it all. Good cop. Bad cop. The carrot. The stick. Nothing is working. She is the Moriarty to his Holmes, but far more sinister.
He finally cries in exasperation as he brings another airplane full of food on a spoon through the air in for a landing in her mouth.
The little girl, her lips sealed in a tight, thin line, slaps the spoon away as her head turns, rejecting her father’s offering.
Photo by duong chung on Unsplash
What happens when I let my hair down on a Friday night…
Walking the dairy aisle of the local grocery store one time, a young child of about 7 or 8 is staring intently at me, head craned 180 degrees as he’s walking forward, perhaps even gliding on those light up roller shoes that seem the rage with the youngsters these days.
Unbeknownst to him, the stylish, leather jacket clad woman directly in front of him stopped abruptly to compare butter prices. There were deals to be had, after all.
Possibly enchanted by my wild visage and free-flowing locks, he did not.
I’m not sure if it was ass to face or face to ass, but I will admit, I laughed out loud.
Our young protagonist, with nary a word, quickly scampered and/or slid away to join his blissfully unaware mother-figure who was further down the aisle, procuring what would be his future sustenance.
The leather jacket clad woman turned quickly on her clickity heels to cast a scathing look upon my jungly being. Her disdain for the posterior intrusion etched plainly for all to see, directed in all its fury squarely on me.
Until she immediately realized the wee little ginger did not belong to me.
Those crazy Friday nights…