When the Smoke Cleared

Ripping through the trees at speeds not seen before I feared not only for myself but for all men. I was crouched low, for twilight made the branches hard to see as we shot under them with critical precision.

My mount responded to the fierce jerks of the reins with undying commitment. His movements were deliberate as he negotiated every turn with the desperation of prey evading predator. I was asking him to stretch his abilities like never before.

The air, now heavy with chill, was surely singeing his lungs for I too felt the burn that only the night air could deliver.

We pushed on, descending deeper into a thicket the likes of which most have never seen. All the while I could hear them howling, riciting the hymn of the damned; calling to the woods to seal off our deliverance.

My skin, frayed on their decree and dampened with blood, saw no relief from the slap of passing foliage that was draped in autumn dew. It seemed mother nature's scolding hand was answering their call and would be the one thing tonight we would not escape. Yet one misstep in these unforgiving lands and she would not be the only one feasting on chilled flesh, for they, were many.

Continuing on and putting what I'd hope to be a safer distance between us and those that would ravage, I listened. The ice like shrills that had pierced the night were now softened, muffled by the brush. As I began to feel, for the first time, an inspiring level of calm I was cautious. Falling victim to false hope here would prove costly, for wickedness knows no boundaries.

The night, now fully upon us, showed me a color from which I thought only one shade existed. We were being asked to progress through a darkness so void of light it grew heavy.

Sunddenly the continuance of time was severed and left for dead as an agonizing sound from above fell upon us with such vigor it shook the very ground. A deafening outcry that appeared to be resonating from heaven itself.

Just as I yanked heavily on the reins bringing us to an abrupt halt, the sound did the same. What, if on earth, could have produced such bedlam? My mind was racing to search for clarity as it hit again with a blast equal to that of the first.

This time, without momentum behind us to cut the sound, I was forced to throw my hands to my head in hopes of minimizing the effects of the resounding torture. The pain burrowed down through my head so thick it was as if it was trying to erase my every thought.

Don't stop! Don't stop! That message, once my law of the night, was now coming in fragments of confusion. The blackness we had lived, just a short time ago, was now becoming gray with distraction. Had to block it out! That was the only clear thought I could summons and with that, just like it had done before, the sound vanished.

What was it? What was I doing there? Feeling unsure of many things, including my own identity, I began trying to wipe the blur from my eyes. This in hopes of recapturing the knowledge that was being blown from my head with each pulse of the intolerable blast.

Hoping maybe we had heard the last of the beast from above it hit again! This time with unparalleled clarity that tore through my brain like a woodsman's knife up the belly of his kill. Louder than that of the two before it, this blast took on a high pitched shriek and it induced a rapid blink that only worsened the haze from which I was forced to peer.

I was now beginning to feel pain in my lower back and legs as the sound blanketed my entire body. It was strikingly clear though that pain was stronger on my right side.

As the piercing began its third retreat I noticed I was lying flat looking up into an unfamiliar setting. I suddenly felt the need to raise my head to scan my surroundings. I was sure this had to be done before the next blast could restrict my movements. In doing this I was startled to find a figure lying to my left.

With understanding now trickling in I shot my head back to the right and was frightened for a split second as I was greeted with my own disheveled presence peering back at me from the dresser mirror. Huh?

You've got to be kidding me! A DREAM?!?! Come on, I have questions! Where was I? Who was I? What were those that we were running from? What had happened leading up to our escape?

Oy Vey! Ruined yet again, stripped of another great ending to another fantastic tale! Wow, there is nothing I hate more than being robbed of the finishing touches to a great fantasy!

Beep! Beep! Beep! Blasted into my ear from the alarm clock on the night stand to my right. SILENCED into snoozery as I pounded it with closed fist! Just once, seriously, just once I would love to be able to finish a dream that actually has a story line! The ones I usually get to finish are the really obscure ones like Spongebob residing over the case of Joe Montana vs. the Fly; a tale of Kermit's shipment of lettuce that grow earthworms with pretty colors. No kidding, my dreams are usually way whacked.

Anyway, here is to hoping someday soon I'll get to complete a true tale of a dream.

These events are of a true nature, names were hidden and the event's whereabouts stricken to protect the Innocent. These events also occurred mysteriously on the night of this Tuesday past, the 25th day of August in the 2009th year of our lord. (A little medieval humor)

And Lead us Not into Admiration

I’m sitting here; my retinas are feasting on the nutrient rich glow beaming from the LCD, yet I'm void of expression. My mouth is hanging open bearing the look of a ninety eight year old man who is unaware his balls have been hanging out of his bathing suit all afternoon. 

Nonetheless, my well lit stare is anxious in its lifelessness and I know I'll be ready to spring into action the moment my pulse decides to flutter.

This could be a sign, I guess, a sign from a higher power telling me to put my writing aside and to signal in my spirituality. Perhaps my energies are to be offered to the world for healing, one living creature at a time; starting with myself? 

Maybe I am destined to clutch the lifeless hands of the meek and to guide them on a path to prosperity. Yet how would I know from which path to proceed? Am I to walk with those less privileged or of desolate intellect? If so, behind what blueprint do I precede these people?

Who am I to lead, for I am just a wayward writer who himself is ever thirsting for acceptance and true understanding of one's whereabouts on the path of celebrated continuance. I am a writer who may have, just MAY have, gotten a hold of some questionable shit some years back.

Hold n a second... I do believe we have a pulse!  That’s it! Let’s go with it: "Thirsting for Acceptance"!

What is it that has so many of us craving praise and approval? Why do we seek recognition with such reckless abandon? What makes Bill over there so damned confident while the rest of us continually shiver under the heavy blanket that's embroidered with "Are you sure"? To what publication must we subscribe to find the antidote for our insecurities?

I've also got to wonder if Bill ever needs the warmth of an old comforter like, "I love you." How about the support structure of a, "You are so funny!"? Think Bill ever grovels at the foot of his woman for a simple, "You are so cute”? I think not, for Bill is steadfast in his Zeus-like fortitude. This all brings me to my next question. Anyone know who the hell Bill is?

Anyway, I guess what I'm trying to say is that I suffer from intense worry, uncertainty, and the need to lure compliments. Yep, I am guilty of thirsting for praise just like so many others out there.

For instance;  One night I would like to place the garbage cans at the end of the driveway, outstretch my arms, place palms to the heavens, and receive a thunderous applause.

Is turning in a well grilled fillet, besieged by orchestral accompaniment, out of the question?

 Is it too much to ask for a tympani roll as I enter the bedroom? All I'm asking for here is a little support from time to time; a pat on the back if you will; a confidence booster.

Seriously though, it’s a delicate issue, the need to impress or to receive accolades. I find myself quite regularly flipping the cards in the hopes of an ace of praise. I also find myself very jealous of those who don't need such acclaim, but by the same token I wouldn't want to change who I am becoming.

The one thing I can find in all this, besides realizing I am completely befuddled, is that most entertainers, in all fields, probably feel the same need to be embraced with the warmth of admiration.

 I have always found myself wanting to entertain others in some way shape or form, usually something comedic like. So I guess what I am trying to say is that I'm relatively comfortable knowing that I suffer from the habitual need for approval

The High Noon Gladiator

I've got something serious to talk about. Something that's got me worried and its been eating me up inside. I don't know, I feel like I'm approaching the point of no return. I've talked with people, written others and I've even cried into the ear of a few strangers. What better place than here I guess to purge myself of the mental constraints I've been living with everyday of my life.

Day in and day out I am reminded of the horrible consequences that I could bring upon myself by allowing this affliction to invade the sanctity of my soul. I don't even know where to start or how to quantify the overwhelming distress I am feeling. I guess I'll just say it, forgive me, here goes.

I CAN NOT STOP BUYING JUNK FOOD FOR LUNCH!!! I really can't, I love it! Cheese steak subs, sausage calzone, general tso's chicken, well done french fries, mac & cheese, Italian cold cuts, Royal Farm's steak fries, orange chicken, grilled cheese w/ sausage and tomato, (that's my favorite by the way) meatball sub, the hot bar at various grocery stores and last and probably least Burger King. Shoot, I've even tapped the 7-eleven pizza carousels from time to time. That is pizza right?

Anyway, why do I do this? Why do I love food so much? Especially that which is bad for me. Being such a calorie conscious workout nut it doesn't make sense and I can't figure it out. The only real conclusion I could ever come up with was, Monotony Neurosis. Sounds clinical, I like it.

I don't know, maybe I'm looking at this through smudged glass, maybe it has nothing to do with food at all. Maybe, just maybe, its something much much more. Something from way down deep in the pit of my psyche. Maybe its bordom? That's got to be it!

It has been horribly slow at work during this recession. Funny thing is, I bring a beautiful assortment of food from home everyday and everyday around 10:30 my head becomes the referee in a vicious shoulder to shoulder UFC contest between two mini Garys. The victor usually being the one dressed in red.

Its at that point my mind begins its rapid descent into the imaginary abyss of sustenance. Then, from the large clock on the wall comes a thunderous THWACK as the second hand finishes its ascension into perfect vertical alignment with its brothers clad in black. HIGH NOON!

In desperate need of my daily allotted time of sunshine and air free of dungeon like stench, I race to my car and venture out onto temptation highway, otherwise known as York road. Its there I go for a daily four wheeled stroll to relieve some stress and fight off the rigors of the day. It is also there that the real battle begins.

Let me try to paint a picture for you. Imagine yourself in the time of the roman empire strolling along the city streets filled with merchants, magicians, peasants and street savvy peddlers. The air is alive and filled with sounds of street music, the constant murmur of heavy bartering, the sweet aroma of fresh fruits and warm bread and the occasional plea of the desperate.

As I pass by all of the places that pray on my weaknesses their brightly colored signs claw at me with the persistence of seasoned street vendors. Its then I start to feel the gentle tug of temptation breaking down my defenses and seducing me into submission.

Time after time I lose my battle with Yorkeus Roadeus, the greatest compromiser of integrity my world has ever seen. Today it was Subway's tuna fish. Tomorrow it will probably be guilt laden hot bar. Meanwhile the wonderfully healthy food that I brought from home grows weary with complex and draws ever closer to the realm of the underworld. (dumpster out back)

In closing, is all of this really that big of a deal? No it's not. I just figure like some people though, I'm manically exercising regularly, so that I can give into my temptations quite frequently, all the while enjoying the not so positive fruits of life. Its been pretty slow at work lately, lots of time to get lost in some crazy thoughts and eccentric reasoning.

Reflections, The Building Blocks

Back a week now from vacation and still suffering from massive blogger bog. So new at this and already so stumped. It figures, over thinking is my specialty. What to type? Where to take the few of you who would show me mild interest? I know, lets take a look at what this trip to the beach managed to jog free in my brain, maybe even throw a few people under the bus.

While away I was continually pummeled about the face with reminders as to why my head is a magic bullet of baffling childhood memories, present day delusions and futuristic derangement. MY PARENTS WENT!

Don't get me wrong, without these two wonderful occupants of Pandora's box I would not be here and for that I am extremely grateful but I can't pretend for a second that the unsettled precarious nature of me, isn't a direct result of two, for lack of a better word, enigmas.

OK, lets rewind to 1980 for a minute or two. That's the year ground was broken for the foundation of the man who types before you today. Try to imagine yourself an eight year old and scared beyond comprehension time and time again from the horrific images of the big screen. Way too many to count. Oh how my parents loved the movies.

Persistent visions of Jack Nicholson plunging an axe into the chest of an unsuspecting Scat man Carothers stand at the forefront. (The Shining) Now imagine its late at night and you are alone in a house positioned at the edge of a waterway and a mysterious fog is rolling in off the water. Not long after visibility is drained to nothing, a slow deep resonating knock happens on the front door, thump like and heavy with horror. (The Fog) How about "Its Alive"? All I can remember of that, approved for all audiences gem, was a horribly deformed greenish grey hand with sharp nails dangling off the side of a baby carriage. When I'm flying up my steps from the basement, to this day, its that hand that comes through step #6 and grabs my ankle.

Still imagining you are eight? I could go on and on but I think you get the idea. As a matter of fact I'm typing this in a dark house, at 2am, and hearing all kinds of scary stuff! Basement is going unchecked before bed this night!

Anyway, Its funny what a child will do to reverse the effects of such images and combat the fear that lives inside. I can remember going to bingo with my mother on Friday nights to sacred heart church in Reisterstown and when we left the house I would close the big door making sure a piece of aluminum wrapper from a stick of Freedent gum (Mom's favorite) was lodged tightly in between the door and the jam.

I did this so when we returned I would know if someone was in the house. Wrapper on the floor meant inside was a man, waiting with a meat cleaver, wearing someone else's flesh as a sport coat. Wrapper still nestled, no worries. Or so I thought. Where was dad? Oh yeah, the bar!

Now, every Friday at 11:20pm we would return home, my heart thumping almost audibly and I would run up and check on the position of the wrapper in the door. Yet every week, just like clockwork, the wrapper held steady. Somehow I still found it in me to be certain that a robber, monster or raging homicidal saber fanged lunatic had gotten in past my Goddard space center rivaling defences.

Soon after entering the house and gently shuffle footing into the kitchen, I would tell my mother I saw a figure dart past the bottom of the stairwell and toward the unfinished section of the cellar. She would then say to me "Gary there is nobody downstairs, must we do this every week"? Funny how this half creature, half human, sweaty loose fleshed Houdini of a monster always knew to be at that very spot every Friday. I know because I saw him!

So every week I would convince mom to call my aunt who lived down the street. After running up to our house, with my uncle's long barreled Easton softball bat in tow, we would proceed to check the house thoroughly. Two woman, an eight year old with IBS and a cylindrical weapon of death. Creature didn't stand a f@%#ing chance! Now when the search party was finally called off, to bed I was supposed to go? Think mom would have laid down with me right? Uhhhhh, no chance. Shoot, more times than not she giggled at me. Parental compassion worthy of praise, don't you think?

Now I know back in the day parenting was a little more lenient and a lot of children saw scary movies but this stuff was obviously affecting me. I never even wanted to go into my own basement during the day and if I did, who do you think was waiting upstairs to yell "BOOGIES' GONNA GETCHYA" but my 20 year old brother and 13 year old monster of a sister.

Oh well, its funny what an O.C. trip with parents will dig up in ones brain huh. Now don't get me wrong, I love my parents dearly as I know they love me. Its just that over the years there have been some strange ways of showing it. A few other words come to mind but lets just go with liberally for now.

OK, now we know where my fear of being alone and darkness comes from so lets move on to the teenage years. Well maybe later.