GOD ATE MY LUNCH

 

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GOD ATE MY LUNCH (in progress)

GOD ATE MY LUNCH

a novel

 E. C. Wells

 

BIOGRAPHY

Internationally acclaimed playwright EDWARD CROSBY WELLS has had his plays produced from coast to coast in the U.S. and in Canada, Scotland, England, Ireland, Spain (translated into Spanish), South Africa, Belgium (translated into Flemish) Poland (translated into Polish), New Zealand and Australia. He is the winner of several international playwriting awards including the Spotlight On Best Play Award for Excellence in Off-Off Broadway Theatre for three consecutive years. His work is published by Greyridge Press, Cyberpress, StagePlays, Meriwether Publishing Ltd., Production Scripts, Smith & Kraus, Inc., and Samuel French, Inc. Edward recently completed his first novel, QUEEN CITY AND OTHER DIMENSIONS, written under the pen of E.C. Wells. He is working on a new novel titled GOD ATE MY LUNCH.

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E. C. Wells

This is only the first chapter after about 20 rewrites, and there will be many more. Also, l put this work into the category Literary Fiction.

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It didn't repost the giggling part. It was meant to be amusing, And self-deprecatory. Literary Fiction is the last category. I should have said "experimental." Thanks

Chapter 1

the boy

    I hope you don’t mind me barging in like this, but I didn’t know anyone I could trust. I mean, really trust. Only you. 

    The truth is, I don’t know what I’m doing, really; and I can’t get it together without enough pieces to see if it’s day or night, so to speak. There’s no puzzle box to tell you how to put it together, nor show you how it should appear when it’s done, if it’s done. If it’s ever done. I mean, I need to put it together by myself and to figure it all out for myself; not until then will I have knowledge of it. When I know what I’m doing, I suppose consequences will be another hurdle. But when I get it right. Satisfaction. Confidence.nMaybe, just maybe, I can do it by myself. Maybe not. Maybe I need you to help me.

    Consider a sheet of paper torn into a dozen or more pieces with emergency matters of life and death, maybe your own, written on it. Consider that each piece is a part of you. And, all of 'you' is needed to save the world. At least, your own world. Now that takes some doing if you only have a single piece of yourself. It is going to take all those pieces of paper to come together? It’s a gruesome way to create an unfortunate future for ourselves, don’t you think? Maybe, we don’t need all the pieces to find our being and to be.

    I’m an ambiguous soul. I like to think that my subconscious has something to do with that. I don’t know why, but it does create a sense of mystery, and it’s oftentimes fun. I’ve tried to change, but, unfortunately, that’s really, really me. A product of relentless self-consciousness. Anyway . . . I think our self-consciousness is the place where our conscience resides. Listen to it? Yes. Yes I do.

    I have no other means to get to the heart of it. To say what I want to say; to say what I need to say. To you. Confession? No, not really, other than my life is bland. I’ve read all the books I could find on the subject of esotericism. Most of their authors should have been imprisoned and denied the use of pencil and paper. The insightful authors gave confirmation, but it never lasts. They were beyond me, but somehow they were able to bring me closer to myself. It’s the oddest sensation. Touching the Soul of Being. Anyway, I needed to tell you that. And to acknowledge why I came to you and only you. You know truth when you hear it. I trust you do. I promise to say truth to the best of my ability. But, don’t deny me some flair and style. 

    Please, hear me out and forgive me for barging in. I knew of nowhere else to go, no one else whom I could trust with myself, so to speak.

    I know, I know. But, I don’t want to go there first. Why should I? Why would I? Nobody cares and nobody wants all that mewling; all that drama, until they’re ready for it. I bet you know that. Of course you do. Who doesn’t? Why whine when what’s done is done? Right? You know all about it anyway. Besides, anyway, this is not the best way to begin a conversation; one-sided as it is. Anyway. . .Anyway. Anyway? What does anyway mean, anyway? Endless choices? Not unless 'ways' are infinite. As long as our race survives. If so, choices are as endless as those who choose; I might be wrong on that. If this means 'that,' then 'that' must mean 'this'. . . a syllogism that is not necessarily so.

    I don’t know 'endless' nor 'infinite' either. Who does? And why bother? You can turn yourself inside out and never understand it without getting overwhelmed by it: endless, infinite. That suits so many of us, doesn’t it? Why bother? Who needs to know? It’s comfortable. And that’s the thing. Comfortable is a good place to create the illusion of security. All is well and life is good. There is no such thing as security. I choose not to comment on "life is good," other than to say, a "good" life is when you help life out a bit; live a bit, celebrate. Do and wait for good things. Make them happen. So, as I was saying, that is not for me. But you already know that.    

    I wonder about the concept of endless choices. That’s pretty scary without a clue; a reasonable foreshadowing of things to come, where the road chosen leads. At least, a reason for your attraction to this or that road. Some go with the flow. Some say it’s fate; it was meant to be. Some throw it up to God. Sadly, that enervates me. I don’t like being depressed. Nobody does. Doing nothing keeps it simple and predictable. The status quo. By that I mean some don’t make choices, or have adventures, or conquer obstacles, or face life-altering challenges. They are too comfortable. The status quo. Comfortable without worries, worries me. Comfortable dulls the imagination. A predictable loss on all counts. 'Will' and 'Effort' makes a thrilling adventure.

    Let’s begin with something light. Something pleasant. A time and place remembered. The scent of musk and sweat. The scent of bodies having sex. Let’s go there. Wait. No. It’s of no consequence. Intercourse for its own sake; what could possibly  be wrong with that? Nothing’s more natural. There may be more natural things, but who cares? Sex is an esoteric place in time and place dedicated strictly to physical satisfaction. I was in my prime, and that speaks strictly to the physical. Many years ago it was the right time and the right place. That’s every time and most any place, isn’t it? Tell me different. Well, it was funny to my mind. A bit amusing. Forgive me. I’m not here to start an argument. I only needed someone I could trust. Someone with whom I could be unconditionally honest. Okay. Where was I? Ahh, a time and a place to begin, involves going back a long way.

    Withdrawal got me through those days—and so did you. Days that should have been a time to wonder, were days of abuse; days alive and living in hell. It never stopped. Fear and abuse were chronic. The boy created a new reality. I watched the boy disappear; the boy interrupted by fear and abuse. The boy died the day he . . . The boy doesn’t want me to talk about that. The boy asked me to tell you that he doesn’t remember.

    Okay, I whispered to the boy, if you remember anything, remember this: Spacetime changes as we make our way through a Lifetime. We throw this and that out the window and then we chose in a different 'this’ and 'that.' We constantly create new memories; we reinvent our selves; but never our souls, our spirit. That can never be changed; that is constant.  And, above all else, never trust your memories even when you’re certain. Remember that.

    A farm house. A narrow dirt road; sometimes dusty, sometimes muddy. The farm house. No. Not yet. The lane. The lane is where the journey to the seminary begins; a huge rambling mansion made of brick and marble; the Roman Catholic Order of Something or Other. Priests were at the other end of the lane. 

    The Brothers were mystical. Purveyors of magic. They spoke spirit. They knew God. They ruled the world. The boy wanted to be one of them. To the boy, the seminary, the castle in the valley, will one day be his own Paradise. To rule however and whomever he likes. The library was gargantuan. That was his favorite room. There were ladders on rollers to get to many of the beautiful books with gold and scarlet bindings, long highly polished wooden tables with lamps of brass and green glass shades. You know the kind. The library was scented with incense, as was the entire castle. The Fathers and the Brothers were perfumed by the scent of fresh linen. Despite their gracious benevolence; the Mother Church owned the farm, the farmhouse, and us. 

    Box camera. Snapshots. Pinking shear edges. Along the lane. Apples and pears. English walnuts and a grape arbor bursting with concords and possibilities. The lane. A narrow wooden bridge over a stream, maybe five feet across, over the creek that went through the lower cow pasture which fed into the pond where there was an island in the middle of it with home-crafted, unmarked headstones for the dead and buried remains of the unknown. Who they were was a mystery. The creek ran through the pond before it rolled into white water. From there; the boy could not see that far ahead. 

    Gathering watercress. A boy. Age five. Walking with his mother to the seminary where she was studying with the Father Director in preparation for her’s and the boy’s conversion to Roman Catholicism. The boy was forgiven from study. The boy has no memory of ever walking hand-in-hand with his mother; in fact, he remembers very little of his mother, other than brief glimpses in time. 

    Box camera. Snapshots. The boy’s head held on the railroad track. Cheek pressed against hot steel. The odor of melted tar. They both believed that they were going to see Jesus. He shut his eyes tight as he felt the rumbling of the approaching train. The mother held his head down. The boy did not struggle. He was going to be a martyr for Jesus. The train blew its whistle. He remembers black smoke. Neighbors pulled them off the tracks in time. He remembers the whistling sound escaping from unlit burners as the mother held his head in the oven with all the gas jets turned on. Wherever she was going, she was determined to take the boy with her. Again, a neighbor came to the rescue. Dripping with kerosene. Hearing the mother’s insane laughter. The scent of sulfur from striking matches, but the mother never got the chance to torch the boy because a strong wind swooped in, stirred-up decades worth of dust and left her blind. The scalding enemas. It was just a game, she told the boy. You need to poop and I’m going to see you do it. The scalding soap and water left him unable to sit for several days. Red fingernails digging into the boys flesh. "Because Jesus loves you."

    The lane. On the lane the mother was never there. The boy never really felt her presence. She was somewhere else. Other worldly. She had black hair, black eyes, dark red lipstick and long meticulously manicured nails to match. The boy, who also had black hair and black eyes, danced from rock to rock, turned some of them over to see what lay hidden from the light of day; things unseen hiding in the cool shadows; things that crawled and buried themselves to escape the rapacious child. Crayfish. Salamanders. Minnows. And a galaxy of minute life.      

    The lane continued past the cow barn. The machine shop. The wooden outhouse with the rusty hinges and two seats. The pigpen and the rabbit-run. Sounds of men working, laughing, shouting, teasing. Belly-aching. The piercing breakneck heartbeats of the John Deere. They strolled past pastures where cows grazed and meandered endlessly through the heavy scent of cow dung. A footbridge stood over the serpentine brook that led to the pond where the unknown dead were buried was less than a ten-minute walk away; even for a four-year-old boy with black hair and black eyes. The boy’s mother stopped on the footbridge. The boy was given his orders. Down the rocky bank. Don’t fall or else! Or else what? Her creative tortures were endless. Watercress. Nothing else. 

    Watercress sandwiches made with his grandmother’s homemade bread. Still warm. Hot kitchen. Pot belly stove. Flypaper. No vacancy on the flypaper. Oilcloth. Kerosine lamps. Blackout curtains. The War had ended, but the black curtains still fought the good fight. Just in case. Pump the water for the tea. Carefully. Get it in the kettle. On the cast iron stove. Carefully. Always carefully. The sandwich. Thickly spread with freshly churned butter and mayonnaise. Trapped in spacetime. Then, that moment of remembrance is on the tip of the tongue, and then it is gone.

      In the spring. The lane. The boy with his mother, the bright red lipstick and fingernails, walked to the seminary. That time, they took the long way through the orchards. Blossoms scented the breeze with an unsullied, familiar fragrance. Quickly summer. Off to Catholic summer camp for the entire summer. Father Director pulled strings. No charge. Home before autumn. Autumn. Luscious, pungent scent of fallen fruit; the boy’s favorite way to eat a pear. The boy and the mother rested on the weathered wooden seat beneath the grape arbor before continuing their journey past the orchards on the other side of the lane. Pears. The boy’s first place to go. Best when they cover the ground beneath the trees. The fallen pears needed gathering. They’re ripest when they are soft. Discolored spots were not a problem. The salvaged pear collapsed onto its core from the fingers of the boy grabbing it too firmly before biting deeply into its sweet, succulent flesh. The boy didn’t see, nor feel the pear’s nectar spill and run down his chin and neck. Sticky. On his shirt. The boy will pay for that. What torture would she devise this time? 

    Under the bee-buzzing arbor, they feasted on colossal  concord grapes with skins that could be slipped back, then with a pinch of the boy’s fingers, the meat of the grape popped out. Near the arbor. A forest of evergreens. Mother and son dawdled through the forest. That was the boy’s spiritual part of the day’s journey.

    Through pine towers of evergreen were carefully intended trails that led to clearings where the Stations of the Cross were erected. Cool marble benches to languish upon and gather strength from the serenity of the pines as Jesus sluggishly made his way toward his crucifixion. The boy wondered if he might like to be crucified? Go directly to Heaven. He wanted to be a martyr for Jesus. The forest was preternatural and magical before the age of reason came and explained the magic away. 

When they arrived at the seminary, there were always the Brothers to greet them. The boy’s mother was escorted to her lessons by the Father Director of the seminary. The boy was left in the care of convivial Brothers in black cassocks. It was a respite from the horrors. It was a microscopic time of joy. A time to savor. A time filled with wonder. To marvel. The world. Nature. Creation. Short-lived. The resilience of childhood has its limits and risks becoming brittle; brittle as fallen leaves and dead twigs beneath hard boot leather in late autumn. 

When his mother was finished with her lessons for the day, she and the Father Director would find the boy laughing and playing with the Brothers. It was time to go home. The laughter suddenly stopped. Father and the boy with the mother set out to walk the Stations of the Cross before the boy and his mother turned back to the lane and began their journey home. Alone. The boy and the mother who was always somewhere else.

The mother was twenty-three. The boy was five and never heard the words, "I love you."

    The scars from the mother’s last brutal beating by the father were still on her face, and pretty much the rest of her body as well. Her lip was split and swollen. She miscarried the boy’s little sister. The father blamed her, but he knew different. The truck driver disappeared afterward. Runaway. Time and time again. No child support. No rent money. No food money. No nothing. The boy’s grandparents delivered food and paid the next month’s rent. And when the rent money ceased it was time to leave and move to the boy’s grandparent’s house. The grandmother gave the mother her old room back. The boy’s room was small with a slanted ceiling. It was the boy’s favorite room.

    Is it that deep enough for you? Sometimes you scare me. There are some who scare me all the time. I don’t know what to do. No. I don’t think I’m a coward, but time will tell. The truth is what I said. I am pretty sure of that. I haven’t been tested yet. Besides, you don’t scare in a bad way and you know it. Honestly. You’re my biggest fan. You know I don’t want to fight. Please. I came for your voltage. Yes, I confess. You’re my only way forward. I like being around you. Sometimes, you give me a jolt to move on. And, when you are lightning, you take my breath away. When you are wind you inspire. When you are rain you cleanse me. Thank you. Now, where was I?

    Months later. Homeward wheels the father. Always the same. The mother will take the truant husband back. She always does. Always. Maddening, right? She fingers her rosary, kisses the hanging body of Jesus on the cross, then puts the rosary back into the pocket of her housedress. 

    The boy’s father had blond silky hair like cornsilk, and pale blue eyes that went somewhere beyond their opaqueness into a dark unfathomable place. He was attractive and enigmatic. He also had a fabulous way with bullshit! He was the master of bullshit. It carried the day. Much of what the father claimed to know began with bullshit. He made the boy with the black hair and black eyes want to be, beg to be, a martyr for Jesus. The boy saw himself hanging from an oak. A birch. Or maybe an elm. But Jesus wasn’t ready for him yet.

    The only clues as to where the father had been, during his three months of truancy, were in an assortment of odds and ends. He bestowed, in lieu of needed cash, bolo neckties with turquoise and silver from Out West; a stuffed alligator from down south, maracas, beads and sandals from “Old Mexico;” a stuffed parrot and a kewpie doll from God knows where; a "real" shrunken head from the jungles of darkest Africa. And once, a crate of inedible bananas still on the stalk from “Sunny Florida.” In this cycle of insanity the boy survived.

    A long line where they gave food away. Cans of vegetables and fruits. Cornflakes and a box of spaghetti. The church undercroft dispensed clothing. The boy wore a girl’s winter coat that year. The grandparents were tenant farmers traumatized by The Great Depression. They had no phone. Shut that light off. You’re wasting electricity. Use the kerosene lamp. The boy remembers his grandmother’s beautiful collection of lamps. Touching the good carnival glass and milk glass was not allowed. The boy loved his grandmother, but he never heard his grandmother say, "I love you." But, he knew she did. He imagined the words because the words made it real.

    The mother suffered migraine headaches. She stayed in bed, crying mostly. When the father returned he expected her to take him back. Another ramshackle bungalow awaits. More torturous beatings. The mother put a chef’s knife under the boy’s mattress. Just in case. Hold it like this. Sharp side down. In the back. Stab him in his back as hard as you can. The father found the knife. A neighbor took the boy to the hospital. He had fallen off the John Deere. A terrible accident. But, the boy had never been on the John Deere. On the way to the hospital the boy prayed to the Devil. He promised to serve the God Satan. He prayed to Satan to save him. The mother remained on the floor of the bungalow, praying to another God.

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Chapter 2

     the mother

    I trust you don’t mind? I’m honestly grateful for your kindness, your compassion. I know one of us wouldn’t be here if you did mind. I cannot say thank you enough. Thank you. Sincerely. Coming here was my last option. My only option, really. Wait. That’s not true. There is no "only option." Why did I assume that? There must be another option. Maybe I’m wrong. I could be wrong. I think I’m wrong. I often am, so it won’t come to some as a grave inaccuracy. There must be something better. I took a careful and honest look around our environment. Mingled with crowds and watched shoppers. Honestly, there must be something better. I willed for something better. Every act, every word, carefully thought, became part of a chain that led me to my goal by "willing" it so. Oftentimes, I think about how to use the power of "willingness?" I believe there is more to "will power" than most realize. 

    So, here is the thing, it’s all personal with me. I feel I’ve let someone down when I was so positive, so adamant, so argumentative, and then realize later in time, maybe decades, that I had been wrong all that time. I made a fool of myself and, as a consequence, I lost that friend. And many others. Unless you know something firsthand, you don’t know it. Plain and simple. Certitude is annoying when one starts throwing about their opinions sans thought. With bone chilling shrugs. And worse, a liar, which I was; even though that was not my intention. Secondhand "knowledge" ain’t knowledge at all.  And worst of all, is when you realize you’ve damned a qualitative friend to extinction. That was me. It’s important to me, how I am seen. Why? Well, I forget. It used to be important to me. I don’t care so much anymore. I just want to be myself and continue to feel alive. Please. I don’t want you to think that I’ve barged in again to pontificate. Old habits die hard. Mea culpa. Forgive me.

    And something else. Do we create feelings in others, or do others create our feelings, emotions, our sense of self. "You made me do it." How is that possible? Really? "You made me feel so bad." Why blame others when it is our own problem with emotional control. There is nothing I know to stop one from having emotions. I believe that is a major part of being human; emotions. However. Taking control is not easily accomplished, but we must in order to move forward. To reinvent. Otherwise it’s an angry, bitter, negative lifeline. I’m talking to myself, of course. Every bit of advice or bullshit I give to others turns out to be the very advice I should have taken myself. That’s true and don’t forget it. I hate preaching, but I’m good at. So don’t forget that. Please. Stop me if I go crazy with myself. Forgive me. I told you I can’t get it together by myself. In the least, I need to bounce it off you. To figure it out. To find out what it is. Who I am. I am trying so hard to possess my internal essence. Ever feel that way? Well, it feels that way most of the time. This is what is going through my mind. I came to tell truth. Not Truth, but my truth. 

    The perception of truth and reality changes with time. Unaware and unnoticed, in an imperceptible shift of attention, everything changes, and the course of life is altered, once again, by events big and small, seen and unseen. What seemed of consequence one day is dismissed as unimportant the next; and sometimes the other way around. It only takes a blink of an eye and day can turn into night, good into bad, love into hate, trust into suspicion. The illusion of security holds a life together, holds every molecule from scattering in the winds of caprice—this is the nature of change—all in a moment, a nanosecond, a blink and change begins. However, that’s how it feels. No, maybe not. 

    The real and sound reality is that change happens, slowly, until one has a revelation at the point of realization. They cannot help but become one event—revelation and realization.

    I don’t like how any of this is going. I don’t imagine you do, either. I certainly do not want to be petulant, nor make excuses for myself. The perception of the man is not the perception of the boy. Assumption? Not at all. We assume the sun will still be there in the morning. One might find cause for alarm should one think otherwise. However, there is the implausible possibility that one day it might not rise, but I’d assume it’ll be there in the morning. I’d bet on it.

    What happens to the boy happens to the man. A lifeline, is a line and not a series of dots and hyphens, turning off, turning on. It contains all that came before. A lifeline is a line that represents and defines us. A lifeline is your life. Again, what happens to the boy happens to the man. The lifeline contains the fragile substance which is the sum of us. Every moment is mother to the next. Cause and effect. How they all connect, I haven’t a clue. I am so glad you are here to listen to me.

    The mother deliberately molded the boy. It was a long and torturous process. The mother was an overpowering influence. A good influence until "the change." Something happened. All in a second, she tore into the boy’s spirit with blunt objects. She shoved her hand deeply into his wound, then sloshed it about before she pulled her bloody hand out, leaving the boy to scream and writhe in pain. Then, she soothes the boy. She kisses him. She strokes the boy’s hair with her long red fingernails. See. You’re all better now, aren’t you? Yes. There is no other answer without chancing another barrage of blunt objects thrown at the boy. Mostly hyperbolic, of course. 

    The mother. Intense. A character by Eugene O’Neal or Garcia Lorca. Smart. Clever. Yet absolutely tragic. The pain behind those black eyes could not be hidden. Only seventeen and she was world-weary. A scholarship to a State University. Another out-of-state. Here is where the tragic Greek drama unfolds—the mother meets her future in a movie theater, in a nanosecond, in Technicolor. Soon the lovebirds were sure they were made for each other.

    The mother abandoned so many dreams: college, becoming a poet, a novelist, or something sensible like teaching. She was happy for a short while. She had a man she thought she loved, but she knew nothing about him. She was in love with nothing. Just a body.    

    The nuclear bomb ended the Big War. The father was let out of prison and dishonorably discharged. Prison and the dishonorable discharge was not completely all the father’s fault. In fact, it could be argued that he was not at fault at all. The mother and Father Director at the seminary wrote to Generals, Commanders and Chaplains, anyone they thought could help. The message was that the mother was dying. He was needed home. Urgently! The Commander would not let him go because the father was on restrictions due to his violent encounter with another soldier. So he went AWOL. It was contrivance by the mother and the Father Director. Contrived because the mother wanted childcare for his son. She never got it. The father was in prison for the duration of the war.  

    The mother was a fainter. When she was unhappy, she fainted. She never fainted when there was no audience. She needed an audience to share in her misery. An audience of empaths. When her film is over, she wanted her audience to cry. Not to leave a dry eye in the house. Sadly or otherwise, after her death, few tears were shed for her. The boy was unable to cry, so he faked it—loudly and annoyingly. We’re getting ahead of ourselves.

    The conversion to Catholicism meant the rest of her family of Methodists were no longer eligible to enjoy as much as a speculation for heavenly redemption. When you are a converted Catholic, merely being a Christian is no longer any guarantee of salvation; to enter Heaven one must be Catholic. The zeal of the boy’s mother was unmatched in the world of her mind. Attending church services became a daily torture for the boy, as was the saying of the Rosary. Having little choice in the matter, the boy went to church, seven days a week, under duress. It was the scent of spent incense that permeated the walls, the books, the very atmosphere one breathed that made his attendance more bearable. The boy did not think that he wanted to be a martyr for Jesus. 

    Soon after their conversion, the mother’s detailed accounts of visitations from the Virgin Mary, as well as from some saints and some blessed beatifications whom were yet to be exalted to sainthood, appeared to her regularly. Often these heavenly bodies would appear and make themselves at home in her bedroom, in the bathroom and once, the children of Fatima were hiding in her clothes closet. The company she kept was worrisome. She grew more mad by the day.

    I trust you don’t mind? I’m honestly grateful for your kindness, your compassion, your listening. I know one of us wouldn’t be here if you did mind. I cannot say thank you enough. Thank you. Sincerely. Coming here was my last option. My only option. Wait. That’s not true. There is no only. Why do we assume that? There must be another option. Maybe I’m wrong. I could be wrong, I often am, so it won’t come to you as a grave inaccuracy. That’s what I said, there must be something better. Look around. There must be something better!

    Here’s the thing, it’s all personal with me. I feel I’ve let someone down when I’m so positive, so adamant, only to realize later in time that I had been wrong all that time; and as a consequence I lost that friend. And many more. With bone chilling shrugs, I remember these things and I wince. I no longer see those I have wronged, but I feel the chill from remembering how I must have been seen as a fool. Or worse, a liar. And worst of all, is when you realize you’ve damned a qualitative friend to extinction. That, of course, was me. Often. It’s important to me, how I am seen. Why? Well, I forget. It used to be important to me. I don’t care so much anymore. I just want to be myself and feel alive before . . . before what? I haven’t a word I like for the "end." I don’t want you to think that I’ve barged in again just to bore you. I really do have a point. 

    Okay. Do we create feelings in others, or do others create our feelings, our emotions, our sense of self? "You made me do it." How is that possible? Really? "You make me feel so bad." Why blame others when it is our own problem with emotional control. There is nothing to stop one from emotions. And one should’t. It’s difficult enough just to get rid of the negative forces. Taking control of oneself, myself. It’s best we take control of ourselves and move forward. Otherwise it’s an angry, bitter, negative lifeline. I’m talking to myself, you know. Every bit of advice or bullshit I give to others turns out to be the very advice I should have taken myself. That’s true and don’t forget it. I hate preaching, but I’m good at. Stop me if I go crazy with myself. Forgive me. I told you I can’t get it together by myself. In the least, I need to bounce it off you. To figure it out. You’re here and I’m here. So, maybe there’s a chance to put something together. Something positive.

    It was a long time ago. A very long time ago. Well, it feels that way much of the time. The perception of truth and reality changes with time. Unaware and unnoticed, in an imperceptible shift of attention, everything changes, and the course of life is altered by events; big and small, seen and unseen. What seemed of consequence one day is dismissed as unimportant the next; and sometimes the other way around. It only takes a blink of an eye and day turns into night, good into bad, love into hate, trust into suspicion. Less than a breath away another world awaits. The illusion of security holds a life together, holds every molecule from scattering in the winds of caprice—this is the nature of change—all in a moment, a nanosecond, a blink and change begins. However, that’s only how it feels. The real and sound reality is that change happens slowly until one has a revelation—at the point of realization.

    At some point she stopped eating cooked meat. She would only eat raw meat—beef, chicken, pork, fish, etc.—and forced the boy to do the same. She grew more mad by the day. For the mother, living was a deliberate and conscious act of inhaling and exhaling; a vacillation between the pain of the flesh and the pain of a tortured soul.

 

 

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