It has been awhile since I’ve last posted. The world has undertaken its revolution and not unlike me, much changed has ensued. I remember lying in bed last night, peering past the skin coloured hue where dreams and reality collide in riotous malady. I leered towards the edge of reason and before me set against the backdrop of a blood stained sky stood a town, a town masked in shadow. The silhouettes danced to and fro to the bizarre beauty of its sepia tones and a strange feeling lurked ever closer. Its atmosphere could only be described in true Poe form and the eerie soul of this town was an advent of Lovecraftian lore. I was mesmerized, my body swayed as the haze took me in by trance. I don’t how I came to be lying back in my bed, but I only hope that this town would someday invite me back.
Do dreams ever make you wonder, ponder there meaning and sit blankly at the computer screen, wishing, waiting for that ecclesiastical enlightenment? I wonder if that town, hidden in mystery, wavering to a silent masters doing was merely a subterfuge for my unyielding obedience. I’ve never been one to conform, but in any case I would think it pertinent that I should visit that town once more.
Thoza Moss
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Saturday, March 27, 2010
A souls Rift
28th March 2010
‘Oh Dear Agony, you have peered into my soul once again....’
There are times during a person’s time of reflection that they emerge posing more questions than answers. I’m afraid to tell you, this is one of those times. I have only been awake long enough to cover the wounds of a night filled with nightmares and the tossing and turning of a restless soul.
We were talking about Dana, funnily enough as she lay here pressed up against the forefront of my memories; it is her image that masks the dark as I peer into nothingness. But as you reader have previously discovered, we met on some cement stairs, capturing eyes, frantic apologies and a spilt coffee became the humorous take on our first date. I was 19 when I built up the courage to ask this girl out for the first time, sweaty palms, palpitations that played a hopeless tune on my chest and a tongue twisting experience made it difficult to pursue the want of my curiosity. Her smile was beautiful, a trait that mesmerised me, I haven’t been witness to many beautiful things in my life and here standing before this shy smile, I had been lulled into a trance. My cold jaded eye’s sparked to life as the answer to my whispered incomprehensible question returned with a muttered ‘yes’. She swayed with her books tightly held to her chest, her whit skirt flitted about her legs and her long brown hair covered her ocean blue eyes. The swaying would thrust locks of hair away to present these jewels for viewing, if only for a second. And with each passing my temperature would raise, cheeks glowed irradiated red and my heart would as cliché as it is, skip a beat.
The moon sat high in the sky, full, royal yellow and the ugliest bearer of bad news, an omen I have come to hate. The night marked our 4th date, we sat, her with her head resting on my shoulder and an occasional glance followed by a smile of satisfaction in my direction. Her perfect fingers would hold the popcorn as she placed each puffed up, buttered kernel into her mouth. She was dressed in a low cut shirt, green; her denim jeans were tight, leaving no curve unknown to the imagination. Her intense concentration on the movie made a slight forehead crinkle, a fact I teased her about. The drive-in movie theatre was unusually crowded, but Dana was thirsty, I don’t know why I didn’t go, maybe she insisted on going herself, but all I know was the piercing scream. I turned around, and saw the green shirt, the denim pants contorted, the limp figure, the scream that silently resounded in my mind. I don’t know when I left the car, but the first thing I remember are the streaming tears, her lame body cradled in my arms, the gurgling of clotted blood, splattered as she whispered ‘I’m sorry’, as if it was her fault. The angel’s anthem that was her final scream replayed over and over as I looked at her beautiful face. People surrounded the area, curious onlookers, scum that fed off tragedy congregated as if it was a feeding ground for hyenas, their whispers and conjectures fuelled my ongoing anger. As I brushed my forehead free of sweat, I caught a glimpse of the blood, Dana’s blood, on my hands. The crusted fluid left an everlasting impression, there is no such thing as love, and we are forced to discover this truth, sometimes in the most horrific of ways.
It is late, and this topic weighs heavy on me. But readers make sure you return for the movie theatre is the next arena, Dana’s death was a prelude to a fantastical awakening, a cocoon of epic proportions if you will.
Friday, February 27, 2009
A Matter of Seconds
28th February 2009
Dear reader,
The minutes melded into hours, the night drowned out the soaking calamity of the sun’s rays and all was well within me. The dark brings a certain allure to the morally challenged and socially corrupted and it is there that we find our solace. Lost lives, decaying obedience to justice and a young woman by the name of Dana weighed their precious price of deliberation on my mind. Scattered thoughts rampaged around a delicate inspiration of pure beauty; I had to concentrate or else this fleeting image would become a breath of the past and this was something that I couldn’t allow. I’ve talked relentlessly about the vileness of the night’s demeanour, but amongst the lost temperaments of this evil atmosphere lie brilliantly burning stars. Each blip of light, every facet of their searing contour burns silhouettes of Dana’s eyes into my mind. Her smile carves endless rifts into my soul, as if splayed open for all to see it and it is the one thing that can’t be hidden by the tormenting dark. The taste of her lips makes the food I eat unbearable, the smell of her hair makes the smog filled, rat infested streets tolerable and as I sit here trembling from the thought of her untainted beauty I realise how alone I really am.
I was 18, had graduated from school at 16 and mum was now working three jobs to support a 16 year old college student. Life was tough, but as if I wasn’t used to that, I worked Thursday nights and weekends to try and alleviate some of the burden, but still it wasn’t much. The years that followed my graduation weren’t kind to my mother; I remember standing at the bathroom entrance staring as the tears rolled down her face at the realisation of her cowering features. Two years had passed since high school and I sat contemplating the day’s lectures on those giant, innumerable cement steps that so many universities pride themselves on having. As a side note, those steps are ridiculous, who in their right mind would want to climb 54 steps that rivalled the incline of Everest. But it was on those steps that I met the ephemeral image of a true fallen star. Her presence as she brushed passed me was inundated with the intoxicating allure of her perfume. My spilt coffee that followed her harsh urge into my back meant nothing when I saw the radiant glow in her eyes. The moment felt like hours, but it took only a few seconds for her to realise her mistake and with recoiling disposition she dropped her books on the ground and began to wipe the liquid off my bleach patterned jeans. The trembling words of acknowledgement for her rather fortuitous mistake and apologies made me smile that half smile that males do so very well. Even though I said not one word, we had a lifetime of conversations and it was then that all my knowledge, all my strength and all my desires meant nothing. She became my all in a matter of seconds.
I’ll lay the thought of Dana to rest for tonight and tomorrow we’ll talk about the soul’s rift. A moment in time that seems to hinge the rest of your life, whether it is for the better or worse.
Dear reader,
The minutes melded into hours, the night drowned out the soaking calamity of the sun’s rays and all was well within me. The dark brings a certain allure to the morally challenged and socially corrupted and it is there that we find our solace. Lost lives, decaying obedience to justice and a young woman by the name of Dana weighed their precious price of deliberation on my mind. Scattered thoughts rampaged around a delicate inspiration of pure beauty; I had to concentrate or else this fleeting image would become a breath of the past and this was something that I couldn’t allow. I’ve talked relentlessly about the vileness of the night’s demeanour, but amongst the lost temperaments of this evil atmosphere lie brilliantly burning stars. Each blip of light, every facet of their searing contour burns silhouettes of Dana’s eyes into my mind. Her smile carves endless rifts into my soul, as if splayed open for all to see it and it is the one thing that can’t be hidden by the tormenting dark. The taste of her lips makes the food I eat unbearable, the smell of her hair makes the smog filled, rat infested streets tolerable and as I sit here trembling from the thought of her untainted beauty I realise how alone I really am.
I was 18, had graduated from school at 16 and mum was now working three jobs to support a 16 year old college student. Life was tough, but as if I wasn’t used to that, I worked Thursday nights and weekends to try and alleviate some of the burden, but still it wasn’t much. The years that followed my graduation weren’t kind to my mother; I remember standing at the bathroom entrance staring as the tears rolled down her face at the realisation of her cowering features. Two years had passed since high school and I sat contemplating the day’s lectures on those giant, innumerable cement steps that so many universities pride themselves on having. As a side note, those steps are ridiculous, who in their right mind would want to climb 54 steps that rivalled the incline of Everest. But it was on those steps that I met the ephemeral image of a true fallen star. Her presence as she brushed passed me was inundated with the intoxicating allure of her perfume. My spilt coffee that followed her harsh urge into my back meant nothing when I saw the radiant glow in her eyes. The moment felt like hours, but it took only a few seconds for her to realise her mistake and with recoiling disposition she dropped her books on the ground and began to wipe the liquid off my bleach patterned jeans. The trembling words of acknowledgement for her rather fortuitous mistake and apologies made me smile that half smile that males do so very well. Even though I said not one word, we had a lifetime of conversations and it was then that all my knowledge, all my strength and all my desires meant nothing. She became my all in a matter of seconds.
I’ll lay the thought of Dana to rest for tonight and tomorrow we’ll talk about the soul’s rift. A moment in time that seems to hinge the rest of your life, whether it is for the better or worse.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Zombie Nation
16th February 2009
With the incredible strength, came a mind that melded to any situation. Maths, English, trigonometry, algebra and second languages became like soup to a starving child. I was a sponge that soaked up everything. The classroom lost its appeal as I became more knowledgeable than the teacher; I had surpassed them and proceeded to learn from my new masters that taught me at the local library. I would sit in class, staring into oblivion as I studied the contours of the mountains; I would watch as the kids kicked the ball and scrutinize its parabolic events before rolling to a standstill. My mind was becoming an untameable beast and at 15 my body started to follow my minds lead. I had started to shake off the scrawny exterior and awaken within me the monster that was clawing at the chance to raise its ugly head. With a new body emerging from its miniscule cocoon and a mind that would tear apart the mythical beasts of old, I inscribed the following passage onto my heart:
You all walk, you all talk, and you all subscribe to the falsity of your faculty to think. You are bonded by a social conscious to live a life destined for the mundane; you have become a zombie nation. You say you rage against injustice, but you don’t even know the meaning. The 10,000 fists that rise against a haunting picture on the television is not justice, the media induced sickness that fills the air is only but a taste of the putrid truth. You fight for what you know not, and sit idle at the wailing of your own decay. Humanity dies here with the sacred tear of the lilium as its only toll.
As the night once again weaves its spell of dimmed light over the roof tops, the dancing mirages wave their fabricated images above the landscape encapsulating the very truth of this city; the lives herein are the forced movements of a silent puppeteer.
And I have waged war.
Dear Reader,
I sat at lunch that day and even though I saw the ease of contempt at my broken innocence, I felt hate. I had a strength that knew no apparent bounds and instead of wanting to lash out at that instant, I knew I had to make my mind sharper, to make it glisten like polished steal on the battle field. Yes, brute force would come in handy, but the mind is the hilt that entwines the providence of the blade with the searing ache of the flesh. I would stop at nothing, my adversaries would know the exponential rate of my wrath, and I would be a god amongst men.With the incredible strength, came a mind that melded to any situation. Maths, English, trigonometry, algebra and second languages became like soup to a starving child. I was a sponge that soaked up everything. The classroom lost its appeal as I became more knowledgeable than the teacher; I had surpassed them and proceeded to learn from my new masters that taught me at the local library. I would sit in class, staring into oblivion as I studied the contours of the mountains; I would watch as the kids kicked the ball and scrutinize its parabolic events before rolling to a standstill. My mind was becoming an untameable beast and at 15 my body started to follow my minds lead. I had started to shake off the scrawny exterior and awaken within me the monster that was clawing at the chance to raise its ugly head. With a new body emerging from its miniscule cocoon and a mind that would tear apart the mythical beasts of old, I inscribed the following passage onto my heart:
You all walk, you all talk, and you all subscribe to the falsity of your faculty to think. You are bonded by a social conscious to live a life destined for the mundane; you have become a zombie nation. You say you rage against injustice, but you don’t even know the meaning. The 10,000 fists that rise against a haunting picture on the television is not justice, the media induced sickness that fills the air is only but a taste of the putrid truth. You fight for what you know not, and sit idle at the wailing of your own decay. Humanity dies here with the sacred tear of the lilium as its only toll.
As the night once again weaves its spell of dimmed light over the roof tops, the dancing mirages wave their fabricated images above the landscape encapsulating the very truth of this city; the lives herein are the forced movements of a silent puppeteer.
And I have waged war.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
The Voiceless Stares
29th January 2009
Dear reader,
‘The fist made of flesh and bone, rises up against the un just’.
Silent screams filled the air as I sat in shame, covered by the omnipresent shadow of my oppressor; I knew something had to be done. I had lived a life surrounded by misery, beaten by my dad, lost in an idle vehicle of restless turmoil, something in me felt like it was about to give. Like a shattered glass releasing its contents in mere moments, so too was the wailing fist as it shattered through the thick, dense shadow that overlorded me. No more sitting on the ground with my legs tucked underneath me, no longer was my head hanging in shame, no longer did the tears well up in the corner of my eyes, I was a phoenix, with the ashes and all. My eyes focused in on his, my fist tensed so much that it made my bare knuckles wane under the pressure of such a grip, I then leaped from the ground, a grunt had pursed its way through my taut vocal cords and I landed knuckle against jaw. The impact against the bony point of my middle knuckle reverberated throughout my whole arm; the tingle of such a clean hit was followed by an intense sting, followed by the realisation of my exuberant outburst.
I stood amongst the multitude of voiceless stares. I gripped my hurting right hand with my left, I felt the pain ease under the tension and I scanned the room for acceptance of such violent intent. I caught the eye of one girl, who quickly turned her head away, another boy stood there looking at me and directed my attention to the result of my painstaking effort. The crowd pulled apart into two files leaving a lane of free space for me to walk through. Whispers began to emerge as I tip toed through the valley of human presence and my head started to move on its own accord as if wanting to see what the tacit commotion was about. Eyes widening, heart pacing, sweat forming and then suddenly clarity. What was I witnessing? Is this even possible? Mike Landrow the oversized beast that had verbally man handled me was now a frameless feature of the back wall. Now understand this, when the fight had broken out, there was a line of kids covering my retreat to the hallway which lined the very same back wall. Even still, the back wall was over 10 meters away! I had clean hit this kid over a bunch of other kids and 10 meters away no less, and the best thing being I was clearly under half his size.
Lunch that day held a lot of interesting conversations. Two hours of class time had given the rest of the student’s time to form their questions, pass notes on how the class bully had to be taken to hospital and inform non-witnesses of the morning’s events. As I had initially expected, I was forced to sit by myself at the beginning of lunch, I opened my brown paper bag and lifted the tuna and cheese sandwiches out and began to unwrap it. Within moments two of the boys from my English class came and sat down beside me. As they sat, I knew it was genuine, they didn’t stare at me, and there was no hesitation or intent to harm me. How did I know this? Well coming from a life time of abuse and seeing the signs written all over my mother’s face, I think I had a pretty clear understanding of these things.
We’ll stop here and things tomorrow should get very interesting!
Dear reader,
‘The fist made of flesh and bone, rises up against the un just’.
Silent screams filled the air as I sat in shame, covered by the omnipresent shadow of my oppressor; I knew something had to be done. I had lived a life surrounded by misery, beaten by my dad, lost in an idle vehicle of restless turmoil, something in me felt like it was about to give. Like a shattered glass releasing its contents in mere moments, so too was the wailing fist as it shattered through the thick, dense shadow that overlorded me. No more sitting on the ground with my legs tucked underneath me, no longer was my head hanging in shame, no longer did the tears well up in the corner of my eyes, I was a phoenix, with the ashes and all. My eyes focused in on his, my fist tensed so much that it made my bare knuckles wane under the pressure of such a grip, I then leaped from the ground, a grunt had pursed its way through my taut vocal cords and I landed knuckle against jaw. The impact against the bony point of my middle knuckle reverberated throughout my whole arm; the tingle of such a clean hit was followed by an intense sting, followed by the realisation of my exuberant outburst.
I stood amongst the multitude of voiceless stares. I gripped my hurting right hand with my left, I felt the pain ease under the tension and I scanned the room for acceptance of such violent intent. I caught the eye of one girl, who quickly turned her head away, another boy stood there looking at me and directed my attention to the result of my painstaking effort. The crowd pulled apart into two files leaving a lane of free space for me to walk through. Whispers began to emerge as I tip toed through the valley of human presence and my head started to move on its own accord as if wanting to see what the tacit commotion was about. Eyes widening, heart pacing, sweat forming and then suddenly clarity. What was I witnessing? Is this even possible? Mike Landrow the oversized beast that had verbally man handled me was now a frameless feature of the back wall. Now understand this, when the fight had broken out, there was a line of kids covering my retreat to the hallway which lined the very same back wall. Even still, the back wall was over 10 meters away! I had clean hit this kid over a bunch of other kids and 10 meters away no less, and the best thing being I was clearly under half his size.
Lunch that day held a lot of interesting conversations. Two hours of class time had given the rest of the student’s time to form their questions, pass notes on how the class bully had to be taken to hospital and inform non-witnesses of the morning’s events. As I had initially expected, I was forced to sit by myself at the beginning of lunch, I opened my brown paper bag and lifted the tuna and cheese sandwiches out and began to unwrap it. Within moments two of the boys from my English class came and sat down beside me. As they sat, I knew it was genuine, they didn’t stare at me, and there was no hesitation or intent to harm me. How did I know this? Well coming from a life time of abuse and seeing the signs written all over my mother’s face, I think I had a pretty clear understanding of these things.
We’ll stop here and things tomorrow should get very interesting!
Monday, January 26, 2009
The Weak Salute
27th January 2009
Dear Reader,
‘.....and they called him god for a day’.
I passed a girl scout today. She was all dressed in green with a sash tightly secured around her left shoulder, winding its way around her miniscule waist and meeting itself at a knot where it was finally laid to rest. This sash bore the many insignia of her laboured efforts. Juxtaposed against a purple background these badges would be just the beginning for her un-relenting social obedience in the future. A small screech rolled out from behind her as her cookie boxes rattled uncontrollably on her twisted axel cart. It was a funny moment as she bumped into me, blissfully unaware of what I was and where I have come from in my life. I felt no malice, no shame, just a blinding light of forgotten childhood memories, which pushed eagerly from my subconscious into my free thoughts.
Our sins are written in blood, we may never see their effects and our hands may seem so clean. But underneath it all, the hidden lie is revealed, that is, morality is but a weak salute. During my teenage years I was under court appointment to serve in a military facility and it is here I learnt the truth behind the salute. Respect to both ourselves and our superiors, honour amongst brethren and if none of those appealed to you, then the salute represented strict submission to an order that frowned at the faculty to think. I became a believer to the latter wisdom.
The Girl Scout is my muse today, a child of innocence preparing for a life of unexpected tragedies and joys. I remember my first day of grade 8, primary school was a thing of the past and the future held new possibilities. My mother and I had left the town that had forgotten us and we had set up new lives on a street where we received numerous plates of welcoming goodies. I remember pulling up to the front gate of my new school, hand resting on the old, rusted upright pole that hinged the entrance and thinking ‘this is my time’. The archway that bottlenecked the bustling students into the hallway of the school was grand, it was obviously the pinnacle of this school and something that had cost a lot of money to build and maintain. As I walked through under its dominating presence, I stood content, but then something happened that was all too familiar. A boy about twice the size of me, legs like tree trunks, arms as wide as a flapping buzzard, knocked my books out of my hands. As I leaned over to pick up the books, his towering demeanour shadowed my wiry figure and again I receded to the place of torment. Wherever I go, darkness will follow. Laughter rang through the lively hallways as the following words resounded down every wall, ‘hey fag, watch where ya goin’.
This is not the end, but it is here I will leave you for today. Tomorrow we’ll finish and you will see why they called me ‘god for a day’.
Dear Reader,
‘.....and they called him god for a day’.
I passed a girl scout today. She was all dressed in green with a sash tightly secured around her left shoulder, winding its way around her miniscule waist and meeting itself at a knot where it was finally laid to rest. This sash bore the many insignia of her laboured efforts. Juxtaposed against a purple background these badges would be just the beginning for her un-relenting social obedience in the future. A small screech rolled out from behind her as her cookie boxes rattled uncontrollably on her twisted axel cart. It was a funny moment as she bumped into me, blissfully unaware of what I was and where I have come from in my life. I felt no malice, no shame, just a blinding light of forgotten childhood memories, which pushed eagerly from my subconscious into my free thoughts.
Our sins are written in blood, we may never see their effects and our hands may seem so clean. But underneath it all, the hidden lie is revealed, that is, morality is but a weak salute. During my teenage years I was under court appointment to serve in a military facility and it is here I learnt the truth behind the salute. Respect to both ourselves and our superiors, honour amongst brethren and if none of those appealed to you, then the salute represented strict submission to an order that frowned at the faculty to think. I became a believer to the latter wisdom.
The Girl Scout is my muse today, a child of innocence preparing for a life of unexpected tragedies and joys. I remember my first day of grade 8, primary school was a thing of the past and the future held new possibilities. My mother and I had left the town that had forgotten us and we had set up new lives on a street where we received numerous plates of welcoming goodies. I remember pulling up to the front gate of my new school, hand resting on the old, rusted upright pole that hinged the entrance and thinking ‘this is my time’. The archway that bottlenecked the bustling students into the hallway of the school was grand, it was obviously the pinnacle of this school and something that had cost a lot of money to build and maintain. As I walked through under its dominating presence, I stood content, but then something happened that was all too familiar. A boy about twice the size of me, legs like tree trunks, arms as wide as a flapping buzzard, knocked my books out of my hands. As I leaned over to pick up the books, his towering demeanour shadowed my wiry figure and again I receded to the place of torment. Wherever I go, darkness will follow. Laughter rang through the lively hallways as the following words resounded down every wall, ‘hey fag, watch where ya goin’.
This is not the end, but it is here I will leave you for today. Tomorrow we’ll finish and you will see why they called me ‘god for a day’.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Silent Lies
19th January 2009
Dear Reader,
'If looks became me, their silence would be deafening'.
It's dark now. As I sit here typing, being lulled into a trance by the sirens melody of clicking keys. I gaze out past the window and am mesmerized by the landscape of the city buildings. The only light procured by my room is that of neon signs and flickering street lights, the same enchantment that noir films aim to capture. The full moon is decadent tonight, its spectacle casting sillhoettes on the litter covered side walks. Sirens wail as another victim is born and the shouting of two jilted lovers drowns out the serenity of the night.
This town is full of silent lies; if you listen carefully you’ll hear their cries on the undercurrent of this city’s history. What has now become a cesspool of filth was originally fostered from filth.
Such interludes warrant reflection. Even though I love this city, I can’t help but compare it to my childhood home. A small rural town has much to offer, the sun burns brighter, the air is crisper and everyone brags about that special family recipe. Our home was not the worst in the street, my mum used to always tell me that ‘the walls have secrets, but they should never be spoken’. Her answer to keeping our houses’ mouth shut was to work hard and make sure the family home was up to scratch, according to neighbourhood standards. I barely played outside and found a certain pleasure in keeping a close eye on fellow neighbourhood rascals while I peered through a small slit in the front window curtains. I used to watch them ride their bikes up and down the bike paths that had feigned an orange, red and non-regal golden hue during the spring time. Leaves would leap into flight as the boys sped past the giant resting piles at a million miles per hour. I remember never feeling jealous, just different.
The problem with small towns is that news travels fast. Mum’s effort at silencing our houses big mouth was futile. Whispers turned into rumours and rumours into snide snickering. We became the family that no one cared about. When my dad had walked out of our lives, I felt like one of those leaves that had inherited flight after the bikes rode past, I felt free; like a weight had been lifted. But while in mid flight, that leaf had turned into a rock, no longer was I drifting without a care in the world, I was falling, falling at a pace that meant only certain disaster. Again my mother and I had been abandoned, but this time it wasn’t by just one man, but by a whole town that had lost its compassion for the weak.
Dear Reader,
'If looks became me, their silence would be deafening'.
It's dark now. As I sit here typing, being lulled into a trance by the sirens melody of clicking keys. I gaze out past the window and am mesmerized by the landscape of the city buildings. The only light procured by my room is that of neon signs and flickering street lights, the same enchantment that noir films aim to capture. The full moon is decadent tonight, its spectacle casting sillhoettes on the litter covered side walks. Sirens wail as another victim is born and the shouting of two jilted lovers drowns out the serenity of the night.
This town is full of silent lies; if you listen carefully you’ll hear their cries on the undercurrent of this city’s history. What has now become a cesspool of filth was originally fostered from filth.
Such interludes warrant reflection. Even though I love this city, I can’t help but compare it to my childhood home. A small rural town has much to offer, the sun burns brighter, the air is crisper and everyone brags about that special family recipe. Our home was not the worst in the street, my mum used to always tell me that ‘the walls have secrets, but they should never be spoken’. Her answer to keeping our houses’ mouth shut was to work hard and make sure the family home was up to scratch, according to neighbourhood standards. I barely played outside and found a certain pleasure in keeping a close eye on fellow neighbourhood rascals while I peered through a small slit in the front window curtains. I used to watch them ride their bikes up and down the bike paths that had feigned an orange, red and non-regal golden hue during the spring time. Leaves would leap into flight as the boys sped past the giant resting piles at a million miles per hour. I remember never feeling jealous, just different.
The problem with small towns is that news travels fast. Mum’s effort at silencing our houses big mouth was futile. Whispers turned into rumours and rumours into snide snickering. We became the family that no one cared about. When my dad had walked out of our lives, I felt like one of those leaves that had inherited flight after the bikes rode past, I felt free; like a weight had been lifted. But while in mid flight, that leaf had turned into a rock, no longer was I drifting without a care in the world, I was falling, falling at a pace that meant only certain disaster. Again my mother and I had been abandoned, but this time it wasn’t by just one man, but by a whole town that had lost its compassion for the weak.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
The Dream Knight
18th January 2009
Dear Reader,
‘Just as the rain falls on the moral and immoral, pain follows both the weak and the strong’.
His long dark hair slithered over those brown evil laden eyes like contorting, interwoven snakes. With one hand raised above his head and his feet gradually being immersed in an ever expanding pool of tears from his prey, he dropped his arm like a bolt of lightning on the predetermined victim. The night was never my friend as you saw in the last post, but there was always a shimmer of light in the dark. While neck deep in a mere of revulsion I was able to retreat to the pinnacle of safety in my dreams. While terror after terror befell my limp, emotionless body, my mind was always far away.
I am now 30 years old, my hands have intervened in so many tragedies that I’ve lost count, and yet I find myself crying into my pillow as I see my father’s face in the haze just before the sandman takes control of my consciousness. My mother is a kind woman, what circumstances had surrounded her marriage to such a monster has always eluded me. We never talked about the nightmares that lurked during the night and I always felt the air of shame that surrounded her as she looked at my broken body on such occasions. I love my mother. I will protect her.
My dad was a monstrosity of a human being, his dark tanned skin had given the illusion that he had been dredged up from the pits of hell itself. His work in the machine sheds at the railway had given him an 8 hour workout everyday and this was manifested by his muscle indulgent arms and tightly squared cut pectorals. It may all sound romantic to the closet fanatics, but the raw power that ripped through every fibre became evident across every inch of my body. Even though I don’t see my father anymore, I’m left pondering the reality that I never really had one to begin with. That day, that Monday afternoon when the door slammed barely inches away from face and I was left watching his back from the window that overlooked the front driveway. I was given a choice; I now had a destiny, a vengeance that could only be subdued by blood. I love my mother. I will protect her.
Dear Reader,
‘Just as the rain falls on the moral and immoral, pain follows both the weak and the strong’.
His long dark hair slithered over those brown evil laden eyes like contorting, interwoven snakes. With one hand raised above his head and his feet gradually being immersed in an ever expanding pool of tears from his prey, he dropped his arm like a bolt of lightning on the predetermined victim. The night was never my friend as you saw in the last post, but there was always a shimmer of light in the dark. While neck deep in a mere of revulsion I was able to retreat to the pinnacle of safety in my dreams. While terror after terror befell my limp, emotionless body, my mind was always far away.
I am now 30 years old, my hands have intervened in so many tragedies that I’ve lost count, and yet I find myself crying into my pillow as I see my father’s face in the haze just before the sandman takes control of my consciousness. My mother is a kind woman, what circumstances had surrounded her marriage to such a monster has always eluded me. We never talked about the nightmares that lurked during the night and I always felt the air of shame that surrounded her as she looked at my broken body on such occasions. I love my mother. I will protect her.
My dad was a monstrosity of a human being, his dark tanned skin had given the illusion that he had been dredged up from the pits of hell itself. His work in the machine sheds at the railway had given him an 8 hour workout everyday and this was manifested by his muscle indulgent arms and tightly squared cut pectorals. It may all sound romantic to the closet fanatics, but the raw power that ripped through every fibre became evident across every inch of my body. Even though I don’t see my father anymore, I’m left pondering the reality that I never really had one to begin with. That day, that Monday afternoon when the door slammed barely inches away from face and I was left watching his back from the window that overlooked the front driveway. I was given a choice; I now had a destiny, a vengeance that could only be subdued by blood. I love my mother. I will protect her.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
The Fall of a Titan
14th January 2009
Dear Reader,
‘Life in many instances throws us funny curve balls.’
Just as you were, I was born kicking and screaming.... pulled from a milieu of urine, maternal fluid and various other bodily fabrications. My unformed skull had been aggressively moulded to a replica of my mother’s birth canal, and at which point had resembled the makings of an ice cream cone. I entered this world as a meat sack with a birth weight of 6 pounds and a length on the 50th percentile. Apparently I was kept in a humidified crib for 2 weeks relating to undiagnosed jaundice. Of course none of this comes from my own memory, so here I shall tell the story of my father. He is the self professed unsung hero, who never forgets to inform me of my apparent evil plan to overthrow his empire, which was my birth.
My father turned 48 this year, I never see him and my mother would rather spit on his grave then have to execute an obligatory smile in his favour. He left when I was 12 in the same manner I was delivered; kicking and screaming, all of which culminated in feelings of guilt and repressed memories. It wasn’t until I was 18 that I remembered his defining words to me as he looked straight into my eyes before slamming the front door 2 inches from my face. ‘You have ruined my life, I was going somewhere until you were born and now only the bare road is in front of me’. A 12 year old should never have to hear those words, I was the chaos to his order, his kryptonite, and ultimately I became the knife that pierced his perfect plans. Truth be told the man was a walking contradiction, he was never going anywhere, he was stuck working in the railway at a dead end job from Monday to Friday. Friday nights he would head down to the pub and whistle at the passing bar maids, by 2am Saturday morning he would stumble in. I remember his heavy work boots, staggering around the front entrance on the old polished floor boards. It sounded as if a giant had donned a pair of trees for dance shoes and started a non-rhythmical tap recital. It was at those times that I knew a storm was brewing. I hid like a scared 12 year old does under the sheets, thinking all the while that that flimsy piece of cloth would endure the anguish of a young boys silent screams.
Morning would bring its own new sting of reality as I watched my mother walk out of her room, sometimes swathed in a motley covered gown of dried blood and white cotton. I never forget peering through the undeveloped tears that lingered at the base of my eyes and seeing the blue-green hue that enveloped my mum’s face like a semi-permanent mask.
I don’t know if you are willing to go any further and horror in many forms can only be handled in small doses. So here I shall leave you and hope that tonight you will sleep undisturbed, for tomorrow will only beget more mindless torture.
Dear Reader,
‘Life in many instances throws us funny curve balls.’
Just as you were, I was born kicking and screaming.... pulled from a milieu of urine, maternal fluid and various other bodily fabrications. My unformed skull had been aggressively moulded to a replica of my mother’s birth canal, and at which point had resembled the makings of an ice cream cone. I entered this world as a meat sack with a birth weight of 6 pounds and a length on the 50th percentile. Apparently I was kept in a humidified crib for 2 weeks relating to undiagnosed jaundice. Of course none of this comes from my own memory, so here I shall tell the story of my father. He is the self professed unsung hero, who never forgets to inform me of my apparent evil plan to overthrow his empire, which was my birth.
My father turned 48 this year, I never see him and my mother would rather spit on his grave then have to execute an obligatory smile in his favour. He left when I was 12 in the same manner I was delivered; kicking and screaming, all of which culminated in feelings of guilt and repressed memories. It wasn’t until I was 18 that I remembered his defining words to me as he looked straight into my eyes before slamming the front door 2 inches from my face. ‘You have ruined my life, I was going somewhere until you were born and now only the bare road is in front of me’. A 12 year old should never have to hear those words, I was the chaos to his order, his kryptonite, and ultimately I became the knife that pierced his perfect plans. Truth be told the man was a walking contradiction, he was never going anywhere, he was stuck working in the railway at a dead end job from Monday to Friday. Friday nights he would head down to the pub and whistle at the passing bar maids, by 2am Saturday morning he would stumble in. I remember his heavy work boots, staggering around the front entrance on the old polished floor boards. It sounded as if a giant had donned a pair of trees for dance shoes and started a non-rhythmical tap recital. It was at those times that I knew a storm was brewing. I hid like a scared 12 year old does under the sheets, thinking all the while that that flimsy piece of cloth would endure the anguish of a young boys silent screams.
Morning would bring its own new sting of reality as I watched my mother walk out of her room, sometimes swathed in a motley covered gown of dried blood and white cotton. I never forget peering through the undeveloped tears that lingered at the base of my eyes and seeing the blue-green hue that enveloped my mum’s face like a semi-permanent mask.
I don’t know if you are willing to go any further and horror in many forms can only be handled in small doses. So here I shall leave you and hope that tonight you will sleep undisturbed, for tomorrow will only beget more mindless torture.
Monday, January 12, 2009
The Nameless Shadow
13th January 2009
Dear Reader,
It appears that even considering the warning; you are still pursuing this dangerous road into my thoughts. But I don’t think I can blame you, an unknown world, an adventure of prolific consequences can’t help but be captivating!
I thought much today about what characters should be played out in detail throughout our journey together. I trust that you are most intrigued at my appearance, my mannerisms and idiosyncrasies because who in their right mind (and I stress RIGHT...) would write such enigmatic prose. But I have claimed nothing about being normal.
So, for now just think of me as your kind next door neighbour, maybe he’s old, young, hot or not. The meaning being that I am as average as the next guy, with one difference. I have a secret like the world has never known. And the tales that follow will undoubtedly throw a shadow over the unknown life of a nameless stranger.
But before we begin, I guess I should tell you the whole story. So lets continue this tomorrow and who knows, maybe you'll be horrorfied enough just to let 'sleeping dogs lie'.
Till then I bid you farewell.
Dear Reader,
It appears that even considering the warning; you are still pursuing this dangerous road into my thoughts. But I don’t think I can blame you, an unknown world, an adventure of prolific consequences can’t help but be captivating!
I thought much today about what characters should be played out in detail throughout our journey together. I trust that you are most intrigued at my appearance, my mannerisms and idiosyncrasies because who in their right mind (and I stress RIGHT...) would write such enigmatic prose. But I have claimed nothing about being normal.
So, for now just think of me as your kind next door neighbour, maybe he’s old, young, hot or not. The meaning being that I am as average as the next guy, with one difference. I have a secret like the world has never known. And the tales that follow will undoubtedly throw a shadow over the unknown life of a nameless stranger.
But before we begin, I guess I should tell you the whole story. So lets continue this tomorrow and who knows, maybe you'll be horrorfied enough just to let 'sleeping dogs lie'.
Till then I bid you farewell.
The Unknown Beginning
12th January 2009
I suppose I should start off with 'dear diary', or some other form of personified greeting. The truth is, I find it ridiculous, sure you can argue and rightfully so, that words can be personal. But to personify it, and greet it like a well loved relative makes absolutely no sense. So I shall simply start off by saying 'Dear Reader'. For if you find yourself delving into the pages of this proverbial journal, it is for you that I write this.
But alas, as many journals do, this one comes with a warning. A warning to you reader, for these words may not necessarily be fact, but rather fiction. To decipher these cryptic memories, you'll need a knowledge that only I can give you and experiences that only I've had.
So it is here I start my self reflection and until tomorrow, I lay this journal to rest.
I suppose I should start off with 'dear diary', or some other form of personified greeting. The truth is, I find it ridiculous, sure you can argue and rightfully so, that words can be personal. But to personify it, and greet it like a well loved relative makes absolutely no sense. So I shall simply start off by saying 'Dear Reader'. For if you find yourself delving into the pages of this proverbial journal, it is for you that I write this.
But alas, as many journals do, this one comes with a warning. A warning to you reader, for these words may not necessarily be fact, but rather fiction. To decipher these cryptic memories, you'll need a knowledge that only I can give you and experiences that only I've had.
So it is here I start my self reflection and until tomorrow, I lay this journal to rest.
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