Tag Archives: alcohol

Chapter 1: Please, allow me to introduce myself

1 Jan


Underworld: June 24, 2011 4:45 am

…Said brothah you gotta quit this hailed out cartoon nightmare. It’s redundant you’re redundant I’M redundant, a played out broken record burnt out bitch busted… we’ve reached pitiful mass, I’m friggin over it, we all are, but here we are again so let’s do this…

I can’t stinkin breathe or move with the searing plated arms of my sunnuvabitch Red Knight pushin down all around with about the full weight of his Black Mountain digs straddling my yoke like a gorilla on a tricycle and his Dragon’s flying around screeching because there’s not a ton of room down here, he’s like a wasp trapped in a car looking for the open window…

It’s every time like this classic fool’s journey tarot spread ‘cept I can’t be the fool card any more, my innocence is flat out gone I gotta be the hanged man, y’know; wounded but can’t heal & can’t die either, tragic, and this antagonist obviously assuming the Devil and Knight of Swords card combination just has to play his part bigger & badder than anyone ever, making the hugest deal out of his hatred for me in the grandest theatrical-Grade-A- First-Place-Number-One-Terrorist-of-all-time scene, savoring to torture rather than to just see me die, we get it, Uhhhmm… insecure much? here’s a hint: the repeat overkill is losing dramatic power, Chrissakes you had me at suffocating… oh yeah, and of course they’re both me…

But all that lead up is ‘for kids’ see, get this; Past his dark armored shoulder I watch a tattooed Druid Shaman, big guy, with a gnarled oak staff ceremoniously drawing a circle of flame around us with his classic mastery of fire (bigass showboat too) probably not unlike you’d picture it’d all look, and you might-could guess what comes next if you get to know me; of course he thunders a Celtic power chant and I grock it ape & angel wise like I always do ‘cause I’m ‘sensitive’ that way, despite the fact he’s spittin it in some ages dead language of either ‘The Noble Ones’ or ‘Raven People’, one of those ancient tribes Pytheas the Greek recorded around 300 BC.

Before they were renamed by everyone else their names then were the ‘Decantae’ or the ‘Lugi’, both of ‘em dwellers in the northwestern parts of the land called ‘Pretanica’, it means painted island or painted ones, hence the Shaman’s Pictish skin designs.

You should probably shelve any upcoming internal objections you may have now and doubly true of any you think you may want to actually vocalize about nobody ever teaching you the shit I’m telling you here, I only know a little of it myself, don’t worry nobody told anybody practically, I know, I know, it all seems so weird and wrong to conceal the more ‘colorful’ histories of the human race, I’m with you.

It’s all about ages old power, planetary energy, off planet beings, Giants & Dragons, good vs evil struggles and all that in today’s big babies in the sandbox crap near as I can tell you why.

Just know that it makes complete sense that you never heard this deep mystery, geez, that’s what secrecy’s all about. So without getting over laden with even more details than I’ve already piled on, to simplify, this friggin circus I’m currently attending if not performing in, is located in the nether regions or the Underworld of what came to be known as Britannica, from Pretanica like I said. It’s also been called Pictland, Caledonia, Britain, Alba and finally Scotland and on and on, ya heard of ‘em now? Cripes don’t get me on a tangent, not now please…

BACK to what I was explaining about the dream; okay, to the virgin listener ‘ole Picty MacDruid (not his real name) sounds like one of those street wraiths who’s been ranting like a banshee everyday since the day he or she had that psychotic implosion on acid eleven years ago. I know I’m supposed to be saying it in unison somehow but I’m quiet and not because It’s a cumbersome language, but no wonder it’s dead.

I’m trying not to be too judgmental, I mean, yeah, yeah, I’ve vacationed a spell in Incomprehensible Land myself, I get it but come on, a little help would be the courteous move since no one I know even knows anyone who knows anyone in those tribes who speak that moldy tongue anymore or ever did for that matter, it’s old as friggin dirt, but if I could just force myself to quit interrupting the context at hand it would seem to make beautiful poignant cinematic sense, just trust me – it’s one hundred percent all mystical and mysterious, yeah & serious too so that should be pretty dang cool right? Yeah, but wait…

The painted Shaman also comes locked & loaded with his typical “fail safe” Druid power of sight, magical flight and invocations to break a brothah free, awesome (if not predictable),‘cause if I recall correctly I’m being essentially devoured in the steel armed smother of Knighty MacRederson (not a real name either). BUT THEN my inside mind takes a left turn and the vision of my rescuer and everything around us starts to dissipate on the edges and it cold crashes in my noggin that the flippin time’s gettin short!

Big Picty lifts his head and locks his gaze on to me, pulling me like gravity into his deep googoo trance all spiritually intimate and everything, nice touch… He steadily, deliberately raises up his hand gesturing me to rise but dammit if I don’t start sinking instead, not ascending, descending… TO THE CENTER OF HOLY FRIGGIN NOTHINGNESS!

But THEN; PHEW, okay, okay, what I think are my final glimpses of him start to sharpen and magnify so I can really try to get the glorious existential picture before I frickin croak, sweet & then BAM, reversal, it all blackens –and here comes the kicker –As I’m plain fading away I finally recognize his painted face as my OWN AND I know his voice is my OWN! oooooooooooo-AHAHA Saayy whaaat?!? Shut the front door! Cheese & rice it’s gettin all Shroomy MacTwilightzone (not anyone’s real name) ‘cause SHIT HOLY CRAP, Batman, the Magic man IS me, at least an inner strand of the scandalous multi color/multi form fabric I faithfully confess to be – great, now what?

Well, I’ll tell ya like you probably don’t already guess; of course this growing awareness – ‘cause I’m every kind of hopelessly hopeful sap – it enchants & enlivens me enough to push further through my dwindling haze, uh huh, yep… Sakes alive, glory be, picture me now doing a little Hopely MacPositiveson mug, squeaking, “This time’s gonna be different, I can feel it.” Snnnnnooorrrrrre. (Hopely MacPositiveson is not an actual person that I imitate or “do” as it were)

Now, with the revelation of the Shamanic role reflection bringing to the fore something formidable in me, something is stirring, I’m washed over with white light blah, blah, blah and most importantly I feel the energy of probably the full tribe of those damn Noble & Raven folks bound up inside me like I’m about ten thousand of ‘em, and then it feels like outta nowhere but happens every time for good or bad, the overly protective Mother Dragon of Enchanted Mountain, Benn Shiantaidh, fires over from the twin kingdom, if I had a map I’d show ya it’s right next to us, yin-to-the-yang-like (just go with it) and she’s LAYIN it DOWN to the Red Knight and the Dragon of Black Mountain like a bossy cougar to her delinquent pool boy. Seems we got ourselves a fight here ladies & gents ‘cept all she’s really doin is trying to get me to fight it, not that she’s particularly fond of me for any reason… Ahh, mothers …

All her monster mojo pressurizes my dumb inner plea to breathe, speak, live; I’m seriously maxin’ out on desperate, I have to put somethin on the board but just like the me you’ve come to know by now I only sit there redfaced with a vague rage garbling something, not words as such, not really comprehensible, and pulsing so hard in my viscera bag I got like a migraine and I don’t even get headaches.

Still, I hold out hope because I feel my innard chasms get all heated-oven like humming and vibrating our ‘lightening in a jar’ retaliation pumping a path to eruption from my root, I mean down below ‘de Balzac’ seemingly rising up to my gut, to my heart & on up to my throat as if just about to crest a sloppy sunlit hill or something and I need that now more than ever I mean EVER! But my voice if I can even claim to have had one now, that mythical voice that would ostensibly split the sky like the thundering sword of Calgacus himself, the last of the fucking free… impotently EXPIRES… like a BITCH, fluttering away all limp handshake like, not thundering in the least DAMMIT not doin NUTHIN at all in fact just dead and breathless hateful nothing, like a ghost town, tumbleweed connection… Wouldn’t ya know it.

So now it’s damn clear where all this is headed and of course I get that old familiar plunging feeling as the inevitable conversation with myself gets kinda abusive really, scolding & shaming myself for acting all naïve like I didn’t know this was coming and what a fool I was to clumsily believe I had any hope at all of inner triumph, haaaaaaaaa, what a dope, you flippin fool… and I’ve got these real or imagined echoes leaping all over my head/heart mess, further scrambling the supposed whoopass spanking trapped in my being that I couldn’t and sure as shit still can’t deliver to that fucker.

Unsurprising as a Stallone B movie, here comes my epic tears and blood, all passion of the Christ-ish, draining all that remains to emptiness, aborting existence in my ‘mourning while dying’ play.

Mind you, I’m never shy about mythic symbolic cliches, you mighta gleened that, predictable as they may be they’re true. Truth is theatre and that theatre, if not all, is truth. I can’t say I’m surprised either being that my courtship of the abyss and its demons has been pretty unsubtle; awkward drunken lover style but almost heroic in its diligence, or probably more anti-heroic… Anyway, I hate to brag about my losses like an ass but it’s a great notable wonder that I even survive at all.

BTW, the ‘mourning while dying’ play I just mentioned is one of my more finely cut preoccupations I should tell you. I’m expert level but I don’t pass on the chance to laugh at it, as and at me in it (tongue twister?). I mean come on, mourning my own death while dying? How poignant, right? I’m big on poignant. I’m not a huge fan of the literal F-Bomb but here it comes, it’s funny as a FUCKING heart attack. Or do I mean serious as a FUCKING heart attack? Probly both ‘cause if I know me like I know me I’ll surely wanna savor the luxury of having the two and a couple spares just like ‘em, I’m a glutton like that…

Arrrgghh, where am I was I?? Getting back to the matter that’s where. So you know the score, that ever stupifying terrorist still clutches me with the grip of a single fist, the guy’s like friggin Hercules and Samson combined. His vicious black eyes stab like ice picks to my heart deflating my previously inspired strength like incising a ruddy boil while he smashes me against this hot muddy wall bringing his dagger toward my face in the sweaty grip of his other meaty fist, aiming to slice out my damn tongue, not just a friendly metaphorical kind of silencing now, he’s really gonna ply that blade between my lips and teeth and cut it out like an apple core. You’d think he’d notice that if I had any power of voice at all I’d have used it a hot minute ago, but remember he tends to overdo so he’s ensuring for good & ever that my voice, i.e. my energy, will never vibrate rightly outta me or be heard again.

I’m streaming sweat so bad my eyes are stingin blind. I’ve completely failed again I know that much, well technically it’s not completed, I’m still in the midst of the failure right here and now, but there’s no question this time my life’s truly on its last leg. I mean absolutely, for sure. Perdition is nigh, yeah Brothah, Ahhhh… bittersweet Hades, boyo, me bosom mate, me China plate, how’d I know we’d meet again?

I can’t even see the Painted one anymore nor locate him psychically like I’d expect to, and to salt my wounds my lame defunct incantation to geld Mr. Terror’s monster nutsack still obnoxiously clangs in my receding mind and clamors down in my marrow but I simply can’t release it, nope, no way. It’s astonishing to me now to have thought I would roar it heroically like I would in the mushy fable. I cannot (or will not) raise my giant voice to save my life…

There I said it, plain as day. I mean Jesus, let’s just get to the point already…

Yea, yea, so duh, I’m up to speed with me now. Lordy I can be willfully obtuse and I’m like molasses sometimes I mean slooooowwwww, so luckily God knows he has to help me construct these really big glaring neon sign type messages so I won’t miss ‘em while distractedly picking and thumbing my existence like a scab that can’t heal because I keep picking and thumbing it. I’m right to crack a little wise & cynical at what a hot mess I built up silly old me to be. I didn’t have to, but I GOT to…

The standard “none so blind as those who will not see” seems grossly apt in hindsight, but if you’re me you live with the certainty that of course you’ll see, sure, it’ll just be right at the edge of too late which gets a chuckle, or past it which is hilarious. It’s the customary gamble with precious life I lovingly call panache and it’s supposed to be funny and it’s supposed to be sad and it’s supposed to be funny and sad that it IS both funny and sad… Wait a minute, let me try to breathe through my guffawing. HAHA. Willful tragedy, so sweet & sincere. Hey, absurdity you terribly cozy item, you gonna keep on being at least cozy enough to not try an opposite road ever?

The epilogue gets properly ill directly proportionate to all the foregone, because in a couple a shakes it’s bubbling up in my physical for reals. We’re at the ‘fateful’ finish of our favorite dance the Red Knight and I, and our favorite mud-wall dating routine must now as always erupt in fire crumbling in a rockslide flash.

It’s a welcome relief to feel myself and the sagging mountains within & without implode, and you know what?; by now I just thank frickin God it’s ending. The whole scenario and surroundings crumble and I don’t know why I’m surprised at the ‘happens every time’ switchup that’s coming, as if I ain’t been a regular here but I am surprised, because here we go again into the most graceless edit I could call up from the booth down deep in my subconscious, out of Randomville with no clear reasons we go south, I morph. That’s it I just morph. My shape is shifted FOR me through a nebulous dark matter singularity with everything else that just existed. And a little too neatly I get spilled out with zero fanfare by an ‘unidentified force’ to where? Where do I spill from there? Onto a rickety old wagon that’s where, snail trailing its way down through a black canyon so tall it feels like a dome barely lit but by a sliver moon and glowing rock embers hardly enough to see my own hand in front of my face and hotter than sin. Not that I can give you any definite improvement on this out of my conscious mind, but I just think the morph is convenient and lazy. I can’t stand my subconscious for things exactly like that.

We’re pulled along by a goat who communicates telepathically how much strain he’s under like a netherworld Eeyore, driven by a jester troll who repeats the same joke pathologically; ‘missed the turn off, you shoulda said somethin’ which it occurs to me isn’t even a joke because it either waits for a punchline or it is one without the setup.

I’m positioned on the wagon to be facing up the trail behind us disappearing in the distance barely able to breathe or focus my sight but just enough to see the old broken metal highway sign that hangs crooked by one bolt reading “CALFORNIA – 11,700 miles” getting smaller as we roll away. Otherwise I see almost nothing by dark on one side of me and so I turn to look the other way just to be pantscrap scared out of my wits by the grinning face of my Red Knight riding right along with me. He grabs my throat again and begins to squeeze and cackle, I mean does this cunt ever fucking rest?

And with that, the rightest thing I can manage to do is bust out cackling uproariously right along with him but just a bit louder at my own ridiculous psyche, my persistent and storied graphic parables of cinematic stature, oh, sure I can breathe for that.

I can feel if there is any REAL fitting end point it’s gotta be coming right here. I anticipate it. I internally call for it and ready for my getaway, straining out a sarcastic ‘later on, see ya soon’ with his fist still gripping me right up to the second a bona fide Divine force finally ejects me from the goat-cart rocketing me through the charred tunnel like hot blood from a vein spitting me back to detestable undeniable waking.

I don’t slide into consciousness like your cool inebriated uncle funnily scurrying over home plate just to sprint back to the icy beer in the cooler at the weekend family ball game, I bolt up from sleeping sweating stillness with Dastardly’s ugly mug STILL essentially up in my face.

No more jovial nudge and wink from me and my terrified eyes stripped wide, huh uh, I’m gasping for air and immediately dragging my line of sight over each crack and corner of the room trying to difference the amber candle light from darkness and hopefully affirm that I actually got back here alone… the guy’s like gum on a shoe.

I hardly ever come back out of my ‘visitations’ with the cognizant surety that it was all just a bad dream, I know that where I live that shit is for always and ever, maybe in the under unseen and all that generous relief, but it’s there. I mean here. I just manage to string assorted other hours of conscious activity together by dumb luck it seems. I’m don’t even imagine I’m out of peril with that toxic slurping dominion of demon world subsiding and my own human desolation & doom flooding in mercilessly like raving crack-monkey assholes to suck me dry.

I snatch up a bedside pint whisky to pull the last gulps down with a shudder but I have to keep it down and wait out those moments to feel the rising glow… I got aches and shakes. I carefully stretch out on my side trying to just even out, watching through the window like a bean counter to catch the Rainman receding as his finishing wetness hits the window’s eve where I’ve got my weary eyes fixed to keep this friggin world from flopping upside down.

©copyright 2015 Brent David Fraser/Stratherrick Publishers, all rights reserved

Fraser’s Surrender

20 Sep

It was 10:21 in the morning, Hollywood, May 11, 1996. The heat of the spring sun was building all over the city and shone down through eucalyptus branches on the pitiful face of Solomon Fraser, who lay strewn like a dead body, just off of the sidewalk. His visage was pale and lifeless. His jeans were falling down around his hips and he was wearing only athletic socks and a T-shirt otherwise on his sinewy body.

Sol is about six foot tall and “prettier” than a man should be, with thick, dark auburn hair, fair skin and hazel eyes, one of which is just slight bit more lazy than the other, giving his mug unique, strong character. Even as he sleeps this frontage is in a constant state of expression, ever-shifting through a panoply of masks.

His taught frame has an athletic look. His hands bear the scars of one who reaches without caution too often. On this day he appeared to wear something between a smirk and a smile, covering the desolate sadness of his spirit, always covering. At the time, he looked about twenty-three years old but was actually twenty-nine. He has always looked younger than his age, significantly.

There were no visible traces of ancient pedigree, aristocracy, finer education, intellectualism, heirlooms, old Alban wealth, Salons D’arts, Waterford, Minton, Royal crown Derby, Locharron Tweeds, 17th century silver hallmarks, coats of arms, or the “haut monde” backweave of his life beyond the Hollywood affectation and costume, unless one could look more deeply. Beyond the shameless childishness of his deep spirit, a spirit nurtured and armored by mother’s beliefs. He’d always played in a private game of disguising his beginnings. He acted in the conservative Scots tradition in which the appearance of having or process of making money was fraught with shame, not to be spoken of, “declasser” en francais, if one did.

“You can do anything Sol, you can be anything you want to, if you want to badly enough, if you believe you can. You are a Fraser… and as such, can conquer all.” But, at a glance, there was nothing beyond the demoralized sot, a toff down the skaup, stoney street. In completion, any idea of his potential, all belief in himself vanished, powerless.

His head lay hanging partly off of the curb. His eyes began to open, no more than slits, to try to fight the brightness of the sun and suddenly to see the front right wheel of an oncoming bread truck approaching quickly. The driver honked the horn as he and his partner laughed at Sol, whom they thought a pathetic street-urchin to torment. Sol quickly realized he was not in his bed, or anywhere near it. He rolled out of the way immediately, but sat up slowly, with much effort.

His body ached. It felt as though he had been badly beaten. He searched for his wallet, which was gone when he saw that his boots had been stolen from his feet, as was his denim jacket from his body. He found none of the emblems of his life in his pockets; no keys, no money, nor any explanation  in his mind. He did a balancing act to get to his feet and began to walk home.

He was somewhere between Sunset Boulevard and Hollywood Boulevard, on Las Palmas Avenue, in the heart of the seedier backroutes. Stripped of his ruffian image, He scuffed his feet along looking weak, headed to his apartment, vulnerable and not out of place. He kept thinking to look for clues or find someone he might ask as to how he got there, what happened, maybe someone had seen it, but he couldn’t muster the social skills to ask any of those hanging around.

By the time he had walked a hundred yards he could not tell how far it had been, or from where he had awakened and walked mere minutes before. Feelings of desperation were beginning to build inside him. As he crossed Hollywood Boulevard he started to sweat and panic. The noises of the city and the urgency of the cars and pedestrians were making him sick. The world was spinning around him, waiting for him to drop out of its way. He felt alone and lost. He started to search his mind for pieces to the puzzle. How had this happened?

He had gone out to the street last night, like so many nights before in search of drugs. Nothing weird about that. He did that five or six times on an average night, looking for cocaine, processed to a rock form that was smoked, he refused to refer to as “crack” but in a joking manner… He had done it for about five years; too many times to count. He always made it home with a handful of the little pebbles.

Why should last night have been any different, aside from the ridiculous level of drunkenness he had achieved? It didn’t make sense, but reality was starting to take effect. He stumbled along as his mind found it’s way to the grips of his mother complex and all she’d ever shaped in him about his life’s possibilities, how much faith she had bestowed in him. To the father he now resembled and emulated rebelliously as answer to that, and the family and all the hope they had for his great rise to world renown, to one day continue in the family tradition of bringing great honor on the family name, as all feats his father had been unable to perform. The great tree, like an unwavering oak, from which he had sprung and fallen. So far from it’s “entitled”, indomitable roots. These were the thoughts that always came with his present brand of remorse. The ones with which he could really tear himself down. That had been the central game in constant production.

His mother had begun telling him in his teen years that if he stayed on his path of carelessness and irresponsibility, drinking too much and thinking too little, he would end up just like his father. He would have nothing more than a bright and promising life flushed down the toilet. She told him that he might have a genetic predisposition that put him at risk, which sounded so enticing at the time. Whatever and wherever dad was, it’s got to be better than being here, or he wouldn’t do it, right. She had been correct, as was the usual case too often lately.

He wallowed in thoughts of all that he had become and not become. Suddenly, the urge to vomit overtook him, pulling him to his knees just near the corner of Franklin Avenue and Las Palmas, dry heaving and retching, producing nothing but bile. He hadn’t eaten much of anything in days.

As the relentless sun bore down upon him he began to weep and sob. His cries grew louder and more violent as he tilted his head aloft to God, the universe, or whatever power would hear him. Screams tore through his throat. The far away and broken screams of a young man who had burned his life to the ground and knelt, whimpering like a baby, in the smoldering wreckage and grimy soot. “Whyyy???…Hooowww????… Goooooooooddd, tell me Hooowww.” He cried. He knew he was far away from God. But God wasn’t the one who had taken the distance.

He stumbled to his feet again, feeling little stones through his socks, now worn through to the skin at the heels and toes. He teetered home trying to appear to be anything other than the wretched soul that he was, climbing clumsily over the security gate and up the stairs to his unlocked apartment. He crumpled to the floor like a waif in the corner, to sleep without dreams for the next eighteen hours. The recent three-day run had reached its pitiful, incomprehensible and demoralizing end and the sight of him curled like an animal in the grand spaciousness of the top floor loft apartment he owned, looked more as if he were a drug driven criminal who had passed out on the job.

Upon waking, his mind would not relent in its search for what psychological corners he had turned, specifically, that led him to his eventual demise. Was it too late to save anything from the wreckage? He had pondered this thought many mornings before, but this day was different.

Then came a moment of frightening clarity. He remembered, regretfully, that this had, sadly, been his plan, and that everything had gone according to it. He was having a hard time now remembering what was so romantic about the path he had chosen. His problems were of his own making. He thought that being aware of it, being the conscious chooser gave him impunity. There was no one, nothing outside of himself to blame, it had all been, and still was, up to him.

Sol had always stressed an acquired theory that the course of life, well his life anyway, was dictated in part by its long series of defining moments. As he grew older and made more decisions for himself the truth of this statement became fact. For the choices he would make, he told himself, he would gladly accept the full consequences, but those choices were an effort to create himself to be something that was so against his true nature that they destroyed his character. He had not planned for that. He knelt and prayed, again, and again, feeling the guilt of foxhole prayers, not leaving his home for days. Inspiration came.

He came to the thought, through all of his self-pity, that his trials were, in actuality, small, compared to what his ancestors had endured. That he had lived ungratefully in the fruits of all of their labors, biting the hands that fed him. He began to feel as if all of their efforts would have been in vain if he were to give up the grail quest now. All of the power, real or imagined, of the Scottish Highland tales he had been taught, welled up in him as a driving force.

He would not give in, he decided. He would root out the problem or die trying, just as his forefathers would have done. It was the only option. For a moment his cynicism had him laughing internally at himself and the “help me now, Jesus” nature of his thoughts, but what else was there? He prayed to God for help to do right by those who had brought him here, and to honor what they had sacrificed to do so.

Sol chose a standard Judeo-Christian concept of God: the old man, gray beard, omniscient, omnipotent idea of the Holy Father that comforted him. He enjoyed it. He was not interested in spending time inventing an image that would work for everybody else, mainly because that’s a fruitless effort. This God would guide him, if sought, he was told and did believe it.

He holed up in his apartment, poring over his past for what his life’s defining moments had been, he found that there were many more than just a few, more than one, or two per year. The fact was, that since his ability to be honest with himself had not been completely lost or forgotten in the mess of his life, he, eventually, was able to see that; in essence, when it came down to it, every moment had been a defining moment.

Sol began to see that the tools for living he had learned to view as a safety or a comfort were exactly the opposite. His world became an unlivable place not because of what it was, but because of what he perceived it to be and how he behaved behind that perception. His mother had always said, “When all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail.” His life had to become about getting a whole new set of tools. One can imagine the difficulties involved. Sol is a constant reminder to many that there are no advantages, no amount of money, privilege, intelligence, charm or good looks that will necessarily save one from one’s own mental obsession, character defects, allergy of the body and spiritual dis-ease, or malady. That his entire story has been the revelation of Spirit, by Spirit, for the benefit of Spirit, to give back to Spirit, is a belief that came after much careful consideration, by the grace of the same named. No one is not expected to adopt that as his or her own belief. The broken young man who knelt and prayed would not have believed it either.

©2014 Stratherrick Publishers/Brent David Fraser, all rights reserved


Brent David Fraser – The Mirror – from CD Albion Moonlight and the Sea of Troubles

27 Jun

It’s about a father and a son and the alcohol that stood
between them… i’m told you’re in the way i use my hands
and in the way my mood and anger play.
i’m told you can be seen, when i’m expressing what i mean,
that you would say things the same way.

you’re in the way i’ll take an afternoon to think,
you’re in the way i love my music with my drink,
in almost all i am and all i do,
i am the mirror that you never looked into…

i’m told you can be heard in my loud laugh,
that when i speak of god there is your voice.
that you’re stumbling with me, when i am drunk so happily,
that it’s genetic, but i still say it’s my choice.

i’m told you’re probably dead and gone by now,
yet more in me each day you are revealed.
in your spiritual design, there is a pathway into mine,
but it’s overgrown, the more that i am healed… -BDF
©2013 brent david fraser, Stratherrick Publishers, all rights reserved (ASCAP)
#FREE #DOWNLOAD at http://brentdavidfraser.bandcamp.com/track/the-mirror
from Albion Moonlight and the Sea of Troubles, released 13 March 2012
Brent David Fraser – Lyrics, Vocals, Acoustic Guitar
Martin Blasick – Producer, Lead Guitar, Bass Guitar
Glen Thompson – Bagpipes
Peter Del Giudice – Drums, Percussion

%d bloggers like this: