RELATIONAL PENDULUM
Side by side the elderly couple's swaying strides grew. Until with each step the two eclipsed one another, dipping into one another at the shoulder like a pair of conjoined twins. Then once again they were separated by the time and tide of their movements.
FALLING OVER DARKNESS
His eyebrows were dark rainbows perfectly arching over the twin orbs. Prominent cheekbones swelling from vivacious eyes. But his bound form stood rigidly straight caged by the retail counter encircling him. A stare dulled his eyes as he crossed his arms. Consciousness flew like a starling over black rainbows.
VIOLENT VITALITY
The tumultuous bouncing steps bent golden pig tails to the accelerated beat of a child's consciousness. Her cheeks bunched like faded cherries, drawing her lips over bold ivory cementing a ferocious smile. Tenaciously pinning a slack jawed stuffed animal an ironclad headlock, she clattered ahead. Two great azure vacuums remained still in contrast to the ecstatic tremors of youth driving her movement. These two hungry mouths of her soul drank in her domain with the utmost satisfaction.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
The Reborn
CHAPTER ONE: TOUCHING CONSCIOUSNESS
The sable base of a shoe became the whole visible world. His nervous system flashed. Consciousness shattered like crystal and fell away in a thousand fragments . . . .
The cold smooth stone felt shocking against her naked flesh. She gasped. Her veins constricted, pulsing until they coursed hellish fire. Lips curled back, a shriek rattled slowly from the base of her stomach towards open feral maw. Her anguish echoed amongst the ancient wooden sentinels . . . .
Two. . . one. His bare feet slap the roof tiles. Body arching, as his forehead raced towards the cobble stones. The winds fingers lovingly combed back his hair. Blood flowed away from his brain, causing black spots to become a flood of darkness. The last thing he felt was the leaden kiss of cobblestone sinking through his forehead at the same instant that his snapping spine threw his heels through the back of his softened skull.
THE PROPHET (Change point of view based on touch)
The crickets called out to cheerfully to their smiling silver patron of darkness. For hours, the peace of night nurtured their energetic voices. A larger choir of the six legged celebrates hushed as the murmurs of the decaying leaves ousted the closest in a parade invaders. He whispered to himself, “One. Bees wax in ears. Two. Stay behind him and, absolutely, no eye contact. Three. Gag him. Four. Make sure he is unconscious. Five. Don't do anything that might kill him.” The five commandments circled his brain like lead a moth approaching a dim lantern.
He licked his weathered lips, while the adrenaline played the dull thumps of his beating heart on his eardrums. Every step closer to the objective, fear choked his throat and pressed heavy hands on his chest. He clung like a shadow to the sides of the ash marked tree and let his forehead fall on the rough bark. “Wait at the tree marked with white ash until you hear the owl coo five times. Then bees wax in and move fast,” He rehearsed through a rasping throat. Funny how much water could leak from his skin at the same moment his mouth felt like a mattress stuffed the driest goose down, he reflected. For the twenty-third time he asked himself, “Why am I doing this?”
He heard the approach before he saw the figure and he felt it before him saw it. He felt like his insides had been scooped out and replaced by a glacier, which was slowly creeping down his back towards his toes.
A long shadow fled from the feet of the deep cowled wanderer. A huge gnarled staff rasped on the uneven soil, as it felt the way through the darkness like the finger of a great arborous god.
Sss. Thump. Sss.
His dirty nails bit into the fissure filled bark. He clung to the tree as if his feet were dangling over the edge of the world, listening in horror to the language of the staff; A dead tongue of dull fricatives.
It was the prophet.
Thump. Ssss. Thump. Thump. Sssssss.
The moments grew painfully long, as each step the prophet grew closer to the ash marked tree. Each time the staff struck the ground the ambusher felt as though a finger of bone and ice slowly traced the ridge of his unguarded spine.
Thump. Sssssssss. Thump. Sssssssssssss.
A little closer and breath wheezed from the trees shadow. He hears me, he thought. The prophet was so close that despite the deep cowl, the ambusher was beginning to make out the pale skin of the prophet.
Sssssssssssss. Thump.
It was too much.
The constricted air squeaked out of him with the next breath. The hooded cowl slowly writhed, neck twisting, and eyes assaulting the shadow guarding him. Several moments past as the prophet seemed to be tearing open his rib cage with that stare. So the flesh of his heart was laid back, like a child peeling a potato with a rusty knife. He not so much held his breath, but could not breathe while the cowl held him.
Loudly, a chickadee whistled thrice.
Instantly, the glade opposite him ruptured the yawning silence. Two men raced from the woods the cowled head whipped towards them. Attention of the prophet had shifted. The ambushers breath exploded from his lungs, in the following instant his lungs sucked in air in halting staccato.
The scene seemed like a rabbit being chased by a bear. A terror stricken little man fled a fierce larger form. The rabbits boot caught a shrub bordering the trail. He flew spread eagle and landed heavily on his chest with a pronounced squeak. He was caught. The bear was over him baton in hand. “Please. Please, “whined the diminutive creature worming away from the aggressor.
Then the prophet took the bait, as the owl began to cooed. The prophet moved quickly to incapacitate the two actors.
Five. The ambushers calloused thumbs jammed the yielding wax into his ears. Yawning silence swallowed his consciousness. He sprinted, toes tapping the ground, as he approached the cloaked figure. He vaulted a log. Pulling a length of woolen cloth from beneath his cloak wrapping it quickly around his fists. Deftly, he whipped the length of cloth over the cowled head at the same moment driving a knee into the prophets spine. The cloth dug into the corners of the prophet's mouth forcing open his jaw. The ambusher tied off the gag, while the prophet remained bent back over his knee. A hard tug at one side of the gag torqued the off balance figure, causing him to collapse face down. The ambusher fell on top of him to keep him from rising.
The ambusher felt a sigh of relief shutter through him. Only human. After the tales of prophets he half expected his knee to pass through the ghostly form. Or maybe die on contact. Too easy . . . then a fleshy five legged spider crawled onto the back of his hand. Consciousness diffused . . .
The prophet felt his assailants body go limp. And the pain flashed white as the forehead of the large man on his back crashed senselessly into the back of his skull. In an attempt to gasp, he sucked soil into his open nostrils. He pushed desperately against the forest floor, fighting for air. His body formed organic waves, making him appear to be a wriggling like a fish out of water that is pinned by the tail.
The prophets skin was alive crawling with runic tattoos. Each of the arcane convictions were crawling towards his lips like enraged spiders. He wanted them out. The prophets face was a writhing tangle of script fighting for control of his lips. He began clawing desperately at the cloth gagging impeding their phonetic flow. The knot loosened, he rolled over on his back. But all was black. The sable base of a shoe became the whole visible world. His nervous system flashed. Consciousness shattered like crystal and fell away in a thousand fragments.
The sable base of a shoe became the whole visible world. His nervous system flashed. Consciousness shattered like crystal and fell away in a thousand fragments . . . .
The cold smooth stone felt shocking against her naked flesh. She gasped. Her veins constricted, pulsing until they coursed hellish fire. Lips curled back, a shriek rattled slowly from the base of her stomach towards open feral maw. Her anguish echoed amongst the ancient wooden sentinels . . . .
Two. . . one. His bare feet slap the roof tiles. Body arching, as his forehead raced towards the cobble stones. The winds fingers lovingly combed back his hair. Blood flowed away from his brain, causing black spots to become a flood of darkness. The last thing he felt was the leaden kiss of cobblestone sinking through his forehead at the same instant that his snapping spine threw his heels through the back of his softened skull.
THE PROPHET (Change point of view based on touch)
The crickets called out to cheerfully to their smiling silver patron of darkness. For hours, the peace of night nurtured their energetic voices. A larger choir of the six legged celebrates hushed as the murmurs of the decaying leaves ousted the closest in a parade invaders. He whispered to himself, “One. Bees wax in ears. Two. Stay behind him and, absolutely, no eye contact. Three. Gag him. Four. Make sure he is unconscious. Five. Don't do anything that might kill him.” The five commandments circled his brain like lead a moth approaching a dim lantern.
He licked his weathered lips, while the adrenaline played the dull thumps of his beating heart on his eardrums. Every step closer to the objective, fear choked his throat and pressed heavy hands on his chest. He clung like a shadow to the sides of the ash marked tree and let his forehead fall on the rough bark. “Wait at the tree marked with white ash until you hear the owl coo five times. Then bees wax in and move fast,” He rehearsed through a rasping throat. Funny how much water could leak from his skin at the same moment his mouth felt like a mattress stuffed the driest goose down, he reflected. For the twenty-third time he asked himself, “Why am I doing this?”
He heard the approach before he saw the figure and he felt it before him saw it. He felt like his insides had been scooped out and replaced by a glacier, which was slowly creeping down his back towards his toes.
A long shadow fled from the feet of the deep cowled wanderer. A huge gnarled staff rasped on the uneven soil, as it felt the way through the darkness like the finger of a great arborous god.
Sss. Thump. Sss.
His dirty nails bit into the fissure filled bark. He clung to the tree as if his feet were dangling over the edge of the world, listening in horror to the language of the staff; A dead tongue of dull fricatives.
It was the prophet.
Thump. Ssss. Thump. Thump. Sssssss.
The moments grew painfully long, as each step the prophet grew closer to the ash marked tree. Each time the staff struck the ground the ambusher felt as though a finger of bone and ice slowly traced the ridge of his unguarded spine.
Thump. Sssssssss. Thump. Sssssssssssss.
A little closer and breath wheezed from the trees shadow. He hears me, he thought. The prophet was so close that despite the deep cowl, the ambusher was beginning to make out the pale skin of the prophet.
Sssssssssssss. Thump.
It was too much.
The constricted air squeaked out of him with the next breath. The hooded cowl slowly writhed, neck twisting, and eyes assaulting the shadow guarding him. Several moments past as the prophet seemed to be tearing open his rib cage with that stare. So the flesh of his heart was laid back, like a child peeling a potato with a rusty knife. He not so much held his breath, but could not breathe while the cowl held him.
Loudly, a chickadee whistled thrice.
Instantly, the glade opposite him ruptured the yawning silence. Two men raced from the woods the cowled head whipped towards them. Attention of the prophet had shifted. The ambushers breath exploded from his lungs, in the following instant his lungs sucked in air in halting staccato.
The scene seemed like a rabbit being chased by a bear. A terror stricken little man fled a fierce larger form. The rabbits boot caught a shrub bordering the trail. He flew spread eagle and landed heavily on his chest with a pronounced squeak. He was caught. The bear was over him baton in hand. “Please. Please, “whined the diminutive creature worming away from the aggressor.
Then the prophet took the bait, as the owl began to cooed. The prophet moved quickly to incapacitate the two actors.
Five. The ambushers calloused thumbs jammed the yielding wax into his ears. Yawning silence swallowed his consciousness. He sprinted, toes tapping the ground, as he approached the cloaked figure. He vaulted a log. Pulling a length of woolen cloth from beneath his cloak wrapping it quickly around his fists. Deftly, he whipped the length of cloth over the cowled head at the same moment driving a knee into the prophets spine. The cloth dug into the corners of the prophet's mouth forcing open his jaw. The ambusher tied off the gag, while the prophet remained bent back over his knee. A hard tug at one side of the gag torqued the off balance figure, causing him to collapse face down. The ambusher fell on top of him to keep him from rising.
The ambusher felt a sigh of relief shutter through him. Only human. After the tales of prophets he half expected his knee to pass through the ghostly form. Or maybe die on contact. Too easy . . . then a fleshy five legged spider crawled onto the back of his hand. Consciousness diffused . . .
The prophet felt his assailants body go limp. And the pain flashed white as the forehead of the large man on his back crashed senselessly into the back of his skull. In an attempt to gasp, he sucked soil into his open nostrils. He pushed desperately against the forest floor, fighting for air. His body formed organic waves, making him appear to be a wriggling like a fish out of water that is pinned by the tail.
The prophets skin was alive crawling with runic tattoos. Each of the arcane convictions were crawling towards his lips like enraged spiders. He wanted them out. The prophets face was a writhing tangle of script fighting for control of his lips. He began clawing desperately at the cloth gagging impeding their phonetic flow. The knot loosened, he rolled over on his back. But all was black. The sable base of a shoe became the whole visible world. His nervous system flashed. Consciousness shattered like crystal and fell away in a thousand fragments.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Arachiane: The Problem of Evil
Belabored arcs displaced the bitter morning air, forcing subtle ethereal eddies. The capricious eddies spun in and out of existence in the dank air. A wet fall breeze delivered the pungent scent of moldering leaves, smugly kissing the olfactory with the realities of decomposition. The wooden prison shuttled East to West, mimicking the path of the sun, traveling from the life of morning to the death of night. The aquarian prisoner's rebellious surge broke on the sturdy cylindric walls of the ancient bucket. This ancient diluvian prison hung from a heavy yoke, which crowned her twisted spine. A question accented by pain.
Her movements were harsh as if she were an ill made marionette, bouncing awkwardly on end of invisible strings. Each jerking step seemed the work of a diabolical puppet master. The bucket rubbed her skeletal calf each laborious cycle. All of her bulbous joints were swollen like the members of an insect. She lowered her tired body to the ground. The bucket nestled in her center. Her joints crumpled around the cylinder giving off the impression that she was a spider crushed under the weight of the bucket. Foliage reach out for her, curling around her like empathetic fingers of the tattered green. A sigh rattled up her ribcage.
The last vestiges of summer surrounded by encroaching fall hid her harried form. The spring was a emerald bullseye dissipating in a flaxen sea. The liquid life was the reason this wounded Charon had beat a path of death through this pocket of vitality. Each day she ferried life to the living at the price of death to the vegetation. Her bent body maintained the path to the spring by simple friction. Today the callouses cradling the root of her foot had three times raked the ruddy flesh of the open earth leading to bubbling vitality.
Above the moisture of spring filled the avian throats with cheerful song. Hundreds of sparrows danced through topiary exultant at the material providence of the verdant pocket. These chirps slowly circled her ear like a snail drawing deep within his shell. The spiral of cheer burrowed through her physical and spiritual lethargy to echo within her weary soul.
The body of pain's puppet wearily sought slumber, while her mind feared it. She imagined matronly emerald leaves tucking her into an earthen womb. Her eyes flittered like the sparrows. She sternly shook her head. Her twisted prison imagined a still crystalline pool and divine tranquility. She attempted to knuckle the sleep closing eyes. The rust that once was a stately windmill rhythmically clucked like a mother hen. Embryonic in the midst of the molting ferns, she resisted in a battle of attrition that she was bound to loose. A false Zephyr continued to spin Fortune's wheel, as if this pocket of spring was nestled in a heart of fall. The warmth of the soil weighed heavily upon the child's eyelids. Her consciousness spun lazily away like tepid water searching for the drain.
Each sound was the beating of her heart. Each sound echoed through her mind like subtle waves braking on a soft beach. A thousand chirps became one primordial hum. And then there was a voice . . .
. The voice had a quality of wind chimes floating on a placid breeze. The crystalline whisper dripped into her thirsty ear, “Child . . . child . . . open your hand.” Warmth washed over her like a moist rhythmic current; like the breath of the earth itself. “Little one, I have seen you. I'll wait for you here, my child . . . my Arachiane.”
“Wait . . . please, do not leave?” the girls called to the stillness.
Arachiane's eyes twittered as she swam up through lethargy towards the light of waking consciousness. Her eyes lashes open with the slow deliberation of venus fly trap. Spring bloomed on her winter countenance, when she found that blossoms had opened encircling her in delicate yellow wild roses. She looked at the tender petals wondering if the Spring itself were smiling at her. The playful tickle of insect feet roused left hand to dethrone the insect perched on her right. A casual glance at the interloper expelled her breath hissing between desert dry lips. An industrious procession of ants clothed her entire arm. Their bulbous little bodies surged up her arm in waves carrying a beautiful flowering vine towards her open palm. Her left hand fell to her side limp, as her eyes danced to the rhythmic beat of the living black lace gloving her stone still right hand. The black bodied army marched according to miraculous orders twining the vine around Arachiane's outstretched fingers slowly creating a divine laurel.
After the insect army had retreated, leaving a crown of morning glories resting in her ungainly palm. Arachiane lifted the orb of golden trumpets for a closer inspection. It was a visual orchestra balancing the shades of green and golden in tribute to the long past Spring. Arachiane placed the crown of life on her gorgon-like tresses. Her body contorted folding unnaturally, so that she may look on her reflection in the rippling water pinning her arachnid body. As the bucket settled, the distortion of her visage subsided. She found herself staring into the face of a goddess. It looked remotely like her gaunt sunken face. The vivacious sable eyes were strikingly like hers. She stared at the image confounded. Slowly each of the bells turned inward facing the glory of the head it clad.
“Who are you?” she whispered to the aqueous mirror. The liquid glass rippled lifting the cheeks of the visage into a serene smile. The eyes of the goddess glittered. Arachiane cocked her head forcing an anatomic question. Her divine twin mimicked her with a sardonic flash in her eyes. Smile widening on crystalline circles, the divine reflection initiated the next movement. Arachiane felt her lips pursing in response to the mirror. Horrified, her elbow bent swiveling until she duplicated the divine reflections actions. She found her finger touching water completing the symmetry as the other's finger seemed to be joined to her own. Once again, her lips formed the soundless syllable “you.”
“Me,” she gasped. The eyes in the wood enshrined pool calmly blinked assent. Arachiane upon regaining the use of her gnarled limbs pushed the bucket away in fear. The water sloshed. When Arachiane had the courage to glance in once again she found the fey creature had left. The circling water further distorted Arachiane's sunken uneven eyes and twisted her already gorgon tresses. But this face was the one she knew . . . . She started baffled at the bucket. “Was it a dream? Am I crazy?” she exhaled plaintively. She shook her head, as if trying shed the accumulating illusions clinging to her consciousness.
Magic gone, she looked at the yawning sky. “Oh no . . . ,” she whispered pouring out an unholy mixture of sorrow and dread. The sun was racing towards the open arms of the western horizon. Arachiane reflected on the punishment she was sure to receive. She had no way to account for the time lost. Surely, the magic of the days events would not be a believable excuse. She rose from her prone position, letting neck go slack so that her chin felt the very first sobs rack her malformed ribcage. Swinging the bucket in her right hand, she caught the tears escaping her dower eyes with her left. Her stronger right leg dragged the rest of her atrophied body towards her home and her pain, leaving the circle of yellow roses broken.
The frankensteinian house was reanimated from the bones of abandon homesteads. It was an abomination celebrating the dead dreams of its neighbors. Nothing was plumb. The warped angles of the disparate constructions made it impossible. Each seam looked like ominous mouths filled with splintered teeth. The wind infiltrated every seam wailing. Bathing the current occupants with all the failures of the previous homesteaders.
Her movements were harsh as if she were an ill made marionette, bouncing awkwardly on end of invisible strings. Each jerking step seemed the work of a diabolical puppet master. The bucket rubbed her skeletal calf each laborious cycle. All of her bulbous joints were swollen like the members of an insect. She lowered her tired body to the ground. The bucket nestled in her center. Her joints crumpled around the cylinder giving off the impression that she was a spider crushed under the weight of the bucket. Foliage reach out for her, curling around her like empathetic fingers of the tattered green. A sigh rattled up her ribcage.
The last vestiges of summer surrounded by encroaching fall hid her harried form. The spring was a emerald bullseye dissipating in a flaxen sea. The liquid life was the reason this wounded Charon had beat a path of death through this pocket of vitality. Each day she ferried life to the living at the price of death to the vegetation. Her bent body maintained the path to the spring by simple friction. Today the callouses cradling the root of her foot had three times raked the ruddy flesh of the open earth leading to bubbling vitality.
Above the moisture of spring filled the avian throats with cheerful song. Hundreds of sparrows danced through topiary exultant at the material providence of the verdant pocket. These chirps slowly circled her ear like a snail drawing deep within his shell. The spiral of cheer burrowed through her physical and spiritual lethargy to echo within her weary soul.
The body of pain's puppet wearily sought slumber, while her mind feared it. She imagined matronly emerald leaves tucking her into an earthen womb. Her eyes flittered like the sparrows. She sternly shook her head. Her twisted prison imagined a still crystalline pool and divine tranquility. She attempted to knuckle the sleep closing eyes. The rust that once was a stately windmill rhythmically clucked like a mother hen. Embryonic in the midst of the molting ferns, she resisted in a battle of attrition that she was bound to loose. A false Zephyr continued to spin Fortune's wheel, as if this pocket of spring was nestled in a heart of fall. The warmth of the soil weighed heavily upon the child's eyelids. Her consciousness spun lazily away like tepid water searching for the drain.
Each sound was the beating of her heart. Each sound echoed through her mind like subtle waves braking on a soft beach. A thousand chirps became one primordial hum. And then there was a voice . . .
. The voice had a quality of wind chimes floating on a placid breeze. The crystalline whisper dripped into her thirsty ear, “Child . . . child . . . open your hand.” Warmth washed over her like a moist rhythmic current; like the breath of the earth itself. “Little one, I have seen you. I'll wait for you here, my child . . . my Arachiane.”
“Wait . . . please, do not leave?” the girls called to the stillness.
Arachiane's eyes twittered as she swam up through lethargy towards the light of waking consciousness. Her eyes lashes open with the slow deliberation of venus fly trap. Spring bloomed on her winter countenance, when she found that blossoms had opened encircling her in delicate yellow wild roses. She looked at the tender petals wondering if the Spring itself were smiling at her. The playful tickle of insect feet roused left hand to dethrone the insect perched on her right. A casual glance at the interloper expelled her breath hissing between desert dry lips. An industrious procession of ants clothed her entire arm. Their bulbous little bodies surged up her arm in waves carrying a beautiful flowering vine towards her open palm. Her left hand fell to her side limp, as her eyes danced to the rhythmic beat of the living black lace gloving her stone still right hand. The black bodied army marched according to miraculous orders twining the vine around Arachiane's outstretched fingers slowly creating a divine laurel.
After the insect army had retreated, leaving a crown of morning glories resting in her ungainly palm. Arachiane lifted the orb of golden trumpets for a closer inspection. It was a visual orchestra balancing the shades of green and golden in tribute to the long past Spring. Arachiane placed the crown of life on her gorgon-like tresses. Her body contorted folding unnaturally, so that she may look on her reflection in the rippling water pinning her arachnid body. As the bucket settled, the distortion of her visage subsided. She found herself staring into the face of a goddess. It looked remotely like her gaunt sunken face. The vivacious sable eyes were strikingly like hers. She stared at the image confounded. Slowly each of the bells turned inward facing the glory of the head it clad.
“Who are you?” she whispered to the aqueous mirror. The liquid glass rippled lifting the cheeks of the visage into a serene smile. The eyes of the goddess glittered. Arachiane cocked her head forcing an anatomic question. Her divine twin mimicked her with a sardonic flash in her eyes. Smile widening on crystalline circles, the divine reflection initiated the next movement. Arachiane felt her lips pursing in response to the mirror. Horrified, her elbow bent swiveling until she duplicated the divine reflections actions. She found her finger touching water completing the symmetry as the other's finger seemed to be joined to her own. Once again, her lips formed the soundless syllable “you.”
“Me,” she gasped. The eyes in the wood enshrined pool calmly blinked assent. Arachiane upon regaining the use of her gnarled limbs pushed the bucket away in fear. The water sloshed. When Arachiane had the courage to glance in once again she found the fey creature had left. The circling water further distorted Arachiane's sunken uneven eyes and twisted her already gorgon tresses. But this face was the one she knew . . . . She started baffled at the bucket. “Was it a dream? Am I crazy?” she exhaled plaintively. She shook her head, as if trying shed the accumulating illusions clinging to her consciousness.
Magic gone, she looked at the yawning sky. “Oh no . . . ,” she whispered pouring out an unholy mixture of sorrow and dread. The sun was racing towards the open arms of the western horizon. Arachiane reflected on the punishment she was sure to receive. She had no way to account for the time lost. Surely, the magic of the days events would not be a believable excuse. She rose from her prone position, letting neck go slack so that her chin felt the very first sobs rack her malformed ribcage. Swinging the bucket in her right hand, she caught the tears escaping her dower eyes with her left. Her stronger right leg dragged the rest of her atrophied body towards her home and her pain, leaving the circle of yellow roses broken.
The frankensteinian house was reanimated from the bones of abandon homesteads. It was an abomination celebrating the dead dreams of its neighbors. Nothing was plumb. The warped angles of the disparate constructions made it impossible. Each seam looked like ominous mouths filled with splintered teeth. The wind infiltrated every seam wailing. Bathing the current occupants with all the failures of the previous homesteaders.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Samuel and Norbert
Samuel and Norbert: Providence and Wonder
Samuel had managed to wrangle two gauze socks on the ends of his despondent appendages. With much eye rubbing and many cavernous yawns, he succeeded in capping his foot with a single worn boot. But the morning weighed heavily on his eye lids. He found himself staring helplessly at the leather object. Exhaustion dilated his pupil pushing the boot farther from his apprehension. His mind was so stagnant that the task seemed herculean. He was loosing a battle of attrition with his second boot.
A boot that had been on the feet of a whole family and after they were worn beyond utility given to the village orphan. The boot had become more patches than boot. Maybe the boot itself was secretly apprehensive. That one more foot of one more dirty dirty boy was too much for the leather soul to take.1
At last with a great turning of the tide, Samuel tugged the tongue and inserted his fleshy depressor. His toes were thwarted by a crunchy mass. With a harsh gasp, Samuel reflexively withdrew his foot from the boots yawning laced maw. The violent movement of his leg unseated him and he slid from his cot striking the unyielding floor with his ribs. His nose was the first to detect the pungent nature of the recalcitrant boot. Samuel opened his eyes and found that at the base the neck of the boot was comprehensive collection nondescript items gathered about the room: a handfull of leaves, a feather, the patch he had prepared for the failing knee of his pants, a failed writing exercise scavenged from the waste basket, and a bit of cotton from a wounded pillow. Samuel eyed the most suspect corners for the furry master craftsmen. Grudgingly, Samuel conceded, “Wow. A throne fit for a furry little king.” After tugging a sturdy little mouse nest from the boots toe and force his foot inside he won a decisive victory over the morning.
But the fur laden craftsmen was not so easily conquered. After Samuel had given his dedicated effort to unseat the enterprising mouse, he conceded defeat. Finishing his dressing went quickly and he was about his chores.
A crack in the door revealed, the minister seated like an sage king surrounded by a rampart of books. His dress was a mime-like confusion of blacks and whites. Frankensteinean hair exploded up from his scalp like a speckled gray mushroom. The skin on his chin hung in a loose pouch girdled in his collar. Loose skin trembled causing seismic quivers to wave across his wrinkled visage as he toiled over a piece of paper.
The sound of Samuel shutting the door behind him drew the eyes of the minister. He darted his squib into the ink well. As a smile pulled all the loose skin taunt against his face, he reminded Samuel of a baby smiling during a game of hide-and-seek. That moment of glee when the playful child takes his hands away and finds that the wondrous world outside himself remains. For the briefest moment the diabolic enchantment of decay was defeated by the child-like transformation conquering his face. But only for a moment, for the minster labored to rise from his seat and after three or four arduous contortions he stood. “Mornin' Samuel, m' boy,” rasped the minister.
“Morning, Paster Eli.” groaned Samuel, as happily as could be expected of him at this hour. The old man reached him with a pronounced duck footed waddle. Eli's open arms pulled the boy into himself. Samuel found himself enveloped in the center of the aged man. Even the gentle tremor's of the embrace had become Samuel's home. With a tender pat on the cheek, he released Samuel.
Eli took one preoccupied step back. “Busy day. Busy day,” aspirated the patriarch. “I need you to run about for me today. These legs will not get me far fast. Yours will. Don't get old Samuel, my boy. Don't get old.”
The minister tottered back to his desk. He licked his finger and started paging through a stack on his left. “I have . . . it here . . . somewhere,” he said absently, while still trying to lick his finger every page. “Ah hear it is. Take this letter to the, uh, posht oaffith,” he lisped as he attempted to talk and lick the envelope. Samuel giggled at his antics. While the old pastor beamed finding the laughter of children to be as enthralling as a siren's call without all the dangers. So many years of loneliness and books made the mirth of children like the melody of angels.
Eli shoveled the arms of his knight errant full of quests. “Widow Smith, a bit of money . . . Bill at the corner store a list of requests for Easter . . . A thank you to Mrs. Green . . . A donation for Mr. Brown who has broken an arm with four little mouths to feed,” Eli anxiously stacked Samuel to his chin with errands. Samuel sleepily blinked as each request fell on his day like a bandit leaving him without a moment. And no time to hunt up that mouse, Samuel considered pensively.
Eli stuffed a piece of chilled toast into Samuel's yawning mouth. No doubt the toast had been forgotten hours earlier in a fit of the most absent minded scholarship. “Remember that man does not live by bread alone. You need a verse to chew on,” intoned the elder. Samuel mumbled back something through his bread that was unintelligible. The minister licked and turned until his eyes brightened. “Ah, Luke nine two through four. This seems fitting passage,” nodded the pastor. He began after a pause with all the pomp of a Shakespearean performance, “'And He (that's Jesus) sent them out to proclaim the kingdom of God and to perform healing.'” Eli further wrinkled his brow. “I suppose I am not sending you to proclaim, but live the kingdom of God. Hmmm . . . miraculous healing seems . . . unlikely. . . ,” he embellished uncertainly through pursed lips. “'And He (that's that Jesus guy again) said to them, “Take nothing for your journey, neither a staff, not a bag, nor bread, nor money; and do not even have two tunics apiece,” the frown continued to deepen the fissures on his face. Eli looked at the tottering stack of responsibilities in Samuel's arms. He sighed, “Hmm . . well, I guess I am sending you out with quite a lot. The passage does not quite fit, oh well. The sent part was go though,” Eli shrugged in playful defeat. Samuel gave a carnivorous smile, clamping the toasts in his teeth.
“Do not run so fast in your youth that you do not listen for God's voice,” Eli chattered, making a long good bye longer with the same fervency as a mother releasing her child to his first day of school.
Samuel coughed a goodbye through his toast.
The collection of buildings people around called “The Town” was the definition of finitude being set like an impossibly small jewel in the center of spreading plains that eluded Samuel's imagination.
1[At the height of Samuel's struggle shear desperation caused his mind to consider the metaphysical implications of a boot. His mind bounced back and forth between the boot and his feet considering them as strange and alien. Why do I have feet at all? And what is a boot that I should have to put it on?]
Saturday, October 4, 2008
The Problem: How I got there!
I can think of a thousand different ways to elucidate this cardinal problem. I will demonstrate through three reflections that captured me: Nietzsche, literary movements, and providence. All of these reflections became a litmus test that demonstrated the sickness of my own worldview.
Nietzsche
At first glance, I was not all that impressed by the German philosopher Nietzsche. His language was amazing. A German friend told me that Nietzsche is second only to Goethe in his effect on the German language. His philosophy, however, was judgmental, (He calls Kant an idiot, because he does not work out is ethics based on the idea evolution like Nietzsche. Kant can be called a lot of things, but an idiot is not amongst them.), and his conclusions did not seem to follow from his data.
In Nietzche's famous piece Thus Spoke the Zarathustra, his hermit protagonist accuses modern man of killing God. Nietzsche eluded me. When I anticipated an argument against the existence of God, I instead heard the voice of William James. The argument was not that modern man succeeded in disproving the existence of God, but rather that he lived as if he did. It was a practical argument. After the Enlightenment, or ideological movement of Rationalism, man act as though there was no God. Man willed the death of God.
I am in Nietzche's serves, for this lead be to reflect that I often made decisions in my own life, as if there is no God. Was I murdering God within my will and mind, when I made decisions as if He was not there? Absolutely!
Conviction: I, and many in the Christian community, have expunged the consciousness God and His presence (or believed that His existence has no practical import).
Literary Movements
I am currently teaching High School literature and as such I find myself spending a lot of time explaining the ideologies behind a literary movement. Last year I taught a sympathy to the Naturalist movement, but now I feel sorrow. Naturalism means that Romanticism lost its battle with the Enlightenment in a fight to decide wither the cosmos has meaning or not. Let me explain. . . .
Enlightenment is the child of the Rationalist movement, as I alluded to above. Rationalism believe that there are really only two sources of certain truth: A mathematical philosophy and the scientific method. The Romantics took this for what it practically meant: the end of love, truth, beauty, emotion, the soul, and subsequently humanity. But since the Enlightenment claimed reason as its virtue, Romanticism fought instead with beauty, emotion, and nostalgia. Enlightenment used nature and paganism as there most common object. The Transcendentalists argued that nature transcended scientific facts. Naturalism was the literary answer to Transcendentalism. Naturalism concluded that Nature was cruel and absurd. Naturalism is the opposite of providence (and natural selection). In naturalism and strongest and most virtuous die first, under the frigid sky of an uncaring cosmos.
My general acceptance of the argument of Naturalism means that I was accepting a worldview that was in substance anti-Christian. A world where providence is dead.
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