Tag Archives: dreams

My Highland Heart (excerpt)

3 Sep

cropped-mhh-blogtalkradio-header.jpgIn birth I felt the grip of those before me,

Their Highland valor beating in my chest,

If ever I would wonder where is for me,

In dreams I glimpsed the glens ‘round Inverness.

In life I’ve passed my rites’ initiations,

Withstood tough trials that few could ever bear,

Had friends who’ve honored me, my name, and nation

Who were, in my darkest fights, my saving care.

In death I’ll be forgiven, I’ll have no pain,

As Fraser Ghosts come to me from Strathfarrar,

To lift me on a bed of plaid through Heaven’s rain,

Return to God my grateful Highland Heart –BDF, 2002

This book is for my Mother, Mary Jane Fraser

Je Suis Prest (I Am Ready)

-Clan Fraser Motto

From a naked wee bairn I was shaped & hewn by elders of exceptional character and heroic proportion, to their measure of grit, panache, and ancestral solidarity. Transmitting and fusing their silvery traits into my consciousness with the gutsy, soul soothing tales of our forebears. These luminous legends thrived and grew through the refinery of generations, kept alive and flowing from the mouths of the raconteurs and orators of each era.

Countless drizzly nights by cozy wood-fire warmth laid the setting for this purposeful duty delivered to a tot’s ears, that was Clan tradition from the beginning. They branded me in the bold history of Scottish life in our wet homeland in the Highlands of ancient Alba (bonnie Scotland), giving me placement in our living, breathing saga. It taught me how by multiplying, cultivating, soldiering, striving, enterprising and winning (but not by too conspicuous a margin), my kith and kin had made the journey that landed me on this earth.

I learned of their struggles and suffering too, with the great number of Gaels in the cultural destruction following the failed ‘45 uprising and the Battle of Culloden. With numbers as great they left our historic origins in Inverness-shire and ‘The Aird’, Stratherrick, Strathfarrar, and Strathglass to a sustainable living in Edinburgh, Lanark, Liverpool, Keith, Glasgow, New York, Pennsylvania, Illinois, Ohio, Montana, Washington and California.

The braveries of their trek uncovered an inborn devotion to the “blood of my blood” and “bone of my bone”. Sooner than I could speak I was gripped with a passion for my blood home, and brought to the fore was a bond to it I carried into this life. I’ve never not felt, deep down under my toenails, that stamp that blessed and built me with a rich, rare sense of place, unknown to many.

I haven’t found family passion of depth or height like this in other people, save for very few. It’s a love affair for our souls’ true home, a flood of that blood bond with which I’ve since entered every fight and fray.

But with that, throughout my tender youth, my elders imparted an axiom (a law) that I only wrestled into my mental grasp under the dominating, demoralizing consequences of my self-gratifying years. They tempered with this: “Whenever you think to find fault or inferiority in others, remember that the majority of this world do not have comparable favor of the family, history, and privilege you have… so, your growth & improvement are compulsory.

I’m called to raise myself up again now to seek the recovery of losses, of family principles and good favor, life skills and social codes with which I’d been gifted from the start. I rise up again to hunt down my self respect and earn the respect of others, rebuild trust, walk with liberty, heal within my family, but most of all break open the willingness to love freely again… even after manufacturing wreckage in a life I will have scattered far from those valuable properties, for whys and wherefores I couldn’t catch or comprehend until this late in the game… even after episodes of explosion and implosion that nearly cost me, again, everything I love and live for.

But in this battle, equipped with new purposed bravado and audacity, (though shaky at first) I begin a fresh contract with integrity, humility and esteem for myself, my family, my strength and purpose. I resolve to fight well, honestly and fairly, cultivating and inspiring good mood, good will, passion and fire for life, loving openly, gratitude, kindness, helpfulness, devotion, compassion and generally walking in the sunlight of the spirit. I have no aim to change anyone, win over the cynical, nor my detractors to my side of this world, but all should be aware that anyone near me will be hearing much about the GOOD in everything.

It’s the unquieted voice of that ignited fire in me with which I’ll tell you my tales as they’re written and rewritten, and the magic and miracle of truths shared with all my beloved. Hopefully it will compliment what gave birth and rise to all of it.. or I end up revealing all of my worser deeds in a stark, rigorously truthful telling of everything about me I’d rather you not learn if I could help it.

It’s my defining aspiration, fueled by my heart’s core knowledge of a grail of sorts awaiting, with a loving, golden spirit. Something calls more distinctly every time it’s heard, from among infinite blessings and various victories ahead on my horizon. There’s little to say more about who or what I am than that I yearn to bring healing such as my experience may produce to bear upon this apocalyptic saga of love, liberty and life. The grail of which I write today carries a higher meaning now, that in greater alignment with God and my fellows I might aid suffering souls to suffer less.

What parts of myself are inseparable and eternally unified are where my fight for love is most alive… It’s been made clear how I’d hung it in the balance, in peril, under attack or ambush by the diabolical soul destruction of the true enemies living and fighting to rule inside me.

I had to be cracked open, broken down and to descend to the dungeon to unchain the better self I had masked for so long with regret, “justified” anger, resentment, fear, guilt, shame, and self pity. If I am to walk a free man and live in the dream of a unified life made to exist for a greater good, I must shed the lot of them.

Hadn’t I always found my way home? Hadn’t there always been a light in my shadows? And hadn’t I always landed back on my feet? Wasn’t there always serendipity, unexpected riches & triumphant comebacks? And, hadn’t I, when I recalled our ancient truths, always had that love? Had I simply been a lucky man? Or maybe instead, might I remember, that I too had always been loved?

At the bottom line this is a dance I must do alone if I’m to escape this prison cell of my own making in heart and mind, but when my fight becomes about something bigger than me, and better than me, serving the good of love, family, or the bigger picture. When my work turns from “have to” to “get to”, and duty becomes privilege is when I’m back in the game. That’s when the more skilled play begins.

The Declaration of Arbroath in 1320 still lends me the  most articulate guideline; “…It is in truth not for glory, nor riches, nor honours that I am fighting, but for freedom – for that alone, which no honest man gives up but with life itself”.

Skies that pour all day with tears, from God’s grey hollow till it clears, for just a second, short & then, it starts to rain & rain again, The pine & fir forest’s muddy floor, the mountain’s rising rocky door, The seas of teal & jade that spill to frigid shores when winters kill. I’m one of many northwest winds, blowing blessings, expiring sins, a son of silky skies that pour, the misty blood I’ve bled before

–27 June, 2011, Bellingham, Washington

I break from sleeping stillness like amber candle light from darkness, as the Rainman lets last drops sprinkle sparsely to tree branches and hang on, hang on, then let loose, plummeting eventually like jumpers to death. I’ve been shot out of a seething, pulsing dream tunnel, like blood from a sliced artery, spitting me back into a rusty consciousness and instant panic, sweat, anxiety and fear.   

I too am dripping beads and pieces of myself by the second; the sopping shreds of veiled truths, falling to a mudded, treed pathway within, as late spring leaves turn down with water to leak it to the brown fallen duff, the long dead. Some rise and put on a masquerade of living, inspired with a short wind, shooting around in twirling gusts, then littering the base of softly lighted tall trunks I scan from the opened windows of my room, serving up my own reflection.

My dry alcoholic mind mirrors the spinning subtle chaos under the trees, at first bare, but filling up with questions and demands, and rapid creations and re-creations of fevered, fantastical scenes in fast forward, play, break, repeat, shake, stop, scatter, repeat, play, the inevitable desperate vision in which I’m seen clawing through whatever bottles there may be all the way up those heaving stairs, to serve up a strong dose of the medicinal solution central to my horrific obsession and spiritual ache.

Clicking go the sounds of breaking twigs and picking birds. Early summer rain fancies no particular tree, giving equal ratios of moisture to nature’s otherwise perfect symphony of being born and dying. Even the least imposing sounds seem to irritate my ears, ringing like an endless scream. Clicking, clicking, ticking, ticking, I throw off the comforter with an exasperation, inhale, prop myself up and spill my weight forward to take me from the bed to teetering footsteps in sync with the echoing beat, on to the stairs and begin the climb, arms and hands outstretched in case I will have to drop to all fours and dog it upwards. I slide shuffle across the wooden floor to the dining room liquor cabinet, and muster all the control of my shaking that I can wield, to pilfer a hefty single malt whisky bottle tucked back behind others and lift it without clinking its neighbors, also reaching in my left hand to glide it right over the tops of the others. These savior bottles almost never get removed from their placements, no one here ever drinks or pays enough attention to their visible measures. Strange people. I quietly spin off the cap, hoist up to salivated lips and chug a long pull. I consider not so much what amount would by some long shot be noticed, but more to be sure to get enough in me to warm and relieve my avalanching brain, my aching frame. Enough that will endure the coming hours. My gut twists to try to send it back up but I squelch my breath and freeze, hold, wait for the reflex to subside and the stomach to accept the marriage to my prescribed poison, to seep right to the bloodstream through the its lining. I breathe out, releasing, calmed like a babe, with the comfort that it’s settling over me in right time. Yes, first relief. Amen.

Slipping the bottle back into its resting place, a fearful voice shouts out immediately that I should have taken more, but I must be wary of waking my sister, bringing on the discovery of me in the ugly throes of my plague. All of my movements, even just standing, heart beating, breathing, with the vibrating collections of molecules placed about; sofas, paintings, table and chairs and plants humming in amplified frequency to my lying ears. I don’t know what noise level I’m truly generating, or not.

I breathe back into a more workable perception. It’s quiet now. It feels like an eternity that I stood there. I collect and console myself that there is a just as full bottle of vodka waiting back there as I tiger step away more smoothly than I arrived. I’m measuring already the way in which I will re-approach the medicine later, playwriting it in my tuned up mind, with the visualized exactness that only a singular, crystalline obsession can paint. I recede, carefully getting away like the sole witness to a bloody crime.

I’m steady on the pathway back to my comfy bedroom with a feeling of solidity and the assuredness of being held in a place of grace. I am well known here. Known by the spirits in these rooms, the home, the trees, the welcoming town, the history in and out of time, running in lines as deep as the sea that ebbs away and rises up along its harbor.

This town is Bellingham, Washington, not my place of birth, but the most of home I’ve known given the nomadic conditioning that came to be me. The home to which I’ve returned to reckon with the call of endings in myself. Home to charge my heart to begin anew, on the less traveled leg of my journey. I’ll spend only a few days here piecing a sought rebirth with hands not my own holding the humming power to reboot the game in the matrix, dump the cache, so it forgets all lost games past in a God blink. That I may saunter onto the pitted moor laid out in anticipation of the dragon cave, with 7 new lives… Or so my companion voices have said in chorus, deflecting my ego’s doubtful ways. Where better to be reborn than the home of Mother? Though, sadly, she’s away at a diametric pole point in China.

I’ve skillfully crafted aloneness as my one man show. I, to the naked eye, my own audience. But, ah, if one could only see the soiree of mechanics backstage. The hands managing ropes, pulleys, trap doors, false partitions, facades, curtains, costumes and masks. The heaven and the pit, the orchestra and all the ethereal, co-witnessing, co-starring players’ faces that blink into visible existence most when the house lights are brought down and my willful play begins, flashing winks and grins in waves, particles and stardust.

And, well, there will be my compassionate sister too,  observing when and where she can. Not much gets by her, one can be assured. She’s there when she’s not there, she sees the hidden. I do so appreciate an audience, of any or all, size is relative, especially those familiar enough with my act to expect better and keep me sharp.

So, The first morning has been an alcoholic success as compared to how I came into it. Got all fixed up in a flurry of motion now remembered as a sweeping, bountiful roll of the dice ending me up back in the comfy wrapping of covers in bed.

As I lay watching out the window, rays of golden dawn overtake clouds, illuminating my room, my personal effects, my awakened face and my resting thoughts. My sight slowly surveys the clarty coziness of this chamber, piece by piece, as I do what I’ve been doing in customary fashion through the closing months of my last seasons at Shilshole Bay, before breaking or ripping myself away just a day ago.

I look from this safe harbor to rough seas with anticipation, recalling many storms I’ve pulled through to survive by toughening, grateful that I’ve well learned how to sail them, sometimes in winds and waters knowingly churned up by me alone. There will be another port, but before that I’m to be tossed about by great dark depths, but not go down.

I call to my inward self as is my habit, “Prepare to come about! Loosen the jib, hard lean to the wind”… The mainsail takes care of itself, grabbing gusts coming over my starboard, then to my port side as I’ve made the saving revolution, cutting farther along into another safe slippage to take respite until time comes to face once more the eventual fight of open waters. From port to port, harbor to harbor, a capable Mariner could weather the whole world.

In a certain similar way, maybe more like foxhole to foxhole, I trudge through seaside rituals I’d settled down upon me as the consequence of my darkest, most destructive years. I’ve been long more in the immediate terrors of battle than the tenable cautions of the sea. With this I drift into second sleep.

“Nothing else in nature behaves so consistently and rigidly as a human being in pursuit of hell.”

Pete Townshend, Horse’s Neck

In the first year and a half of my three year return to this corner of the world that stays as wet as I have, being a terror myself, worse than ever I’d been, courting death in a well learned dance with demon forces I gave apparent entry back into the house, and the run of it further than ever before. I no longer feared them, consciously. Mayhem ensued and settled in quite comfortably, dancing me through deeper gateways, more volatile, violent, manipulating, scheming, selfish, thieving, cheating, lying and not bothering much to conceal these from anyone, except when it would pay me something to do so. I had my head clocked and knocked out in crack deals for my smart ass arrogance berating beasts of any size without a thought of it. Ended myself up in jails and hospital beds with a defiance beyond any I had before, printed fake money to stick a fuck back to the likes of dealers known to short, give bunk shit, or take money and split, charting a chosen course to run, a planned circuit around a couple city blocks in the busiest night hours from a point of entry to a point of exit, hitting 5 to 7 of them before any could discover and corroborate with each other who it was or where I’d gone. I continued car driven missions with suspended license, expired tags, pulled over by cops numerous  times and let go, dodging justice for whatever reasons, smugly. My roommate and my girlfriend got to the point of hiding the car key, and keeping me stuck in Lawtonwood, away from downtown, no way to get there, mostly broke, constantly. Drinking whatever I could find containing alcohol, from vanilla extract, to perfume or hair spray, rubbing alcohol, hand sanitizer, anything. Every road block and dead end was being put up to fight my drives coming to a day there was no more, with a liquor store too far off for my depleted body to walk, nor could I successfully steal away in the car without discovery, to get downtown to trade transport to dealers to re-up their supplies stored in the outer lying neighborhoods

I’d taken on these spirit fiends in dark rituals and reveries in my aging years, in classic pseudo-spiritual arrogance which held that my powers were special and I could act with impunity. I felt immune to their powers, that I was the decider, not they, that I was their controller, tamer and choosy user of their amusements.

For some time I consciously thought I’d banished them methodically enough in a former period of sobriety to have them gone for good, but they simply lay patiently in wait, with the patience of Job, beyond my inmost sight, chipping, slicing and exacting chunks from my fortified wall as my sly but willful ego would silently contract to let them. Via resentment, masked self pity, envy and greed I invited them back in unwitting denial of such, as I practiced too well the social game of looking good, and not looking good, always confident I behaved only in the former, with a deeply cultured mechanism that hid the latter from me, with only a lip service conscience, employing rationalization, justification, martyrdom and entitlement.

When I took them up again in the year 2000 they settled in with heartily satisfied reclamation and ownership. Still keeping deep in the under-shadow, I can tell now in the clarity shattering consequence can bring, that most every inward and outward movement I have enacted was more their call than mine. I have them now portioned to more distinguishable places of separation from “myself” but that’s in a manner of articulating their aspects, they are all me, as the young man’s continuation of creating several selves as coping tools to disassociate from childhood traumas, stepping outside reality, sublimating the feelings in the way, becoming adept at looking good from the very beginning.

Distillation of the last half year and then some, fortified with steady whisky, water of life, to stalk through a dark warrior forest, hunting down my self, my ego, my identity, through my waking screams and night panics regarding my creation, quelling terrors in the skewed state of my craving awareness, of myself as sole witness to my own ravaging of heart, mind, spirit, with a hand more powerful than I visibly pushing and pulling into place the pieces I would need to depart.

A low commanding voice not my own, but in me, invoking the conquering wind to send waves in sets of three, carrying its new spells to my cottage shore, nightly transporting my self through fall and winter’s isolated darkness, away from the lifeless body bedded down like a dreaming seed, un-gripping my soul self to do its lucid summons, and take my unconscious mind’s pathway through the dim wood to beckon my necessary soul companions alive beyond the veil, the cunning Urisk who tracks the Fox who will follow the Owl to the spring hunt. We find rest in clearings we create within, rubbing the peelings of my dry mind together like sticks to spark a friction fire for a blind man to see, in this sublime quest the blind man is me, humming mantras from our deep shadowy woods back to the sea.

Over time, the invocations and alignments overtook mere ceremonious drunkenness that lulled me to let go of my ego’s control, let my shadow self conduct the business with its team of spirit animals, talismans and spells. With the achievement of some resulting conscious clarity and direction, they took me from place to place, societal bureaus where I could pay my debts enough to clean my record, to be a citizen adherent to laws of community and road, like real grownups do.

We pared down, packed up and cut away all but the essential for the coming byways and highways to something other. Something different. Something more.

Now I’m grappling with memory. Contemplating the time gone descending, the plans ahead arising, each step that I’m aware has brought me to the conditions of this day, and each stroke that tolls the bell of brighter undertakings & enterprises, stepping to a ticking clock. I’m called to bring new order out of chaos, sense from senselessness, and growth from reduction & absurdity. Sleep is the one state where I shed these thoughts.

“They are hardy, intrepid, accustomed to a rough country, and no great mischief if they fall.”

-General James Wolfe on Highland Soldiers

I’m up. To shower, dress and attend to my morning ritual, which currently consists of collecting & throwing out the empty cans of whatever alcohol I slipped out to pick up from the little roadside general store across from Sudden Valley golf course to drink in the evening to get me to sleep. I’d been putting the empties on top of a dresser in the closet, so they wouldn’t be out in plain view for my sister Carmen to see. She knows I still drink but doesn’t mention it. I don’t like to do it “in her face”, or anyone’s face at this point, though I think she saw the empties last night when she came downstairs to search all the rooms for her cat. It’s been mostly “controlled drinking” in the day hours of the last months while taking care of all the things necessary for my move and road trip; a daily maintenance keeping the volume of psychological chatter turned down, or off…

I have resolved that if “Brent” must still drink until getting to Los Angeles, that “Brent” just could not drink and drive. It’s been said that one of the early signs of schizophrenia is speaking to or of oneself in 3rd person… it’s been quite a habit of mine for a while. I am Brent’s only consistent witness with nowhere else to go.

I calculate the mental deficit incurred by all the energy required in planning days around drinking, like a meter running, ever reminding myself that it will be ending “soon”. Mornings are a little shaky, so it’s good to have some tasks.

I separate and pack the last traveling pieces from those that will remain here in mom’s garage, puzzle piecing them into my ‘75 Chevy Cheyenne pickup truck bed; my magic carpet. I fire the engine to let it warm, mindful that I can’t let the 350 small-block with headers popping out their combustion song go too long without offending neighbors. I eat a green apple and a slice of oat bread while calling out superficial chitchat with sister, as I wander through the home to soak in its resonance. We’ve lived in many different houses throughout the years and each one’s carried lots of the same items that hold memories and emotions of all that time. No matter where the house is, it’s a familiar home, and a gallery of our history.

Mom left me a nice black and blue Hugo Boss high collared, long sleeve over-shirt for Carmen to give me that I’m carrying around unconsciously like a security blanket while I do the final walk-through. I almost cried at her sweet forethought in knowing I’d want the shirt. I don’t buy nice things anymore.

Hugs and loving exchanges of little words & looks between Carmen and me say more than words would do. Luckily time doesn’t allow what a genuine parting conversation would require for us to have resolution or understanding about everything of my life she has witnessed more closely the last few years. I’m a little “raw” at this point. I put on the long sleeve; armored.

Into my warmed-up truck, I tug the gear shifter down to R, wave to sister on the porch, click on my portable Goodwill $1.99 wind up radio, and back away from this wet wooded setting. As I pull off from the house, tooling up and down narrow avenues, I take account of the tree lined lanes & mossy houses, toys left soaking in front yards, bits of open sky flashing like slide shows above my head, winding down to the main road, bigger, more purposeful, calling up thoughts again of what I have done, what happened, and what pilgrimage I go to do now.

I adjust the blinker switch to indicate a right turn, check for on-comers and pull onto Sudden Valley Road, into its blind turns, past the aforementioned golf course & general store, gripping so tightly to the wheel I could crush it, hands are sweating, my head saying everything it can to get me to pull in and gas up there, and just have one morning tall boy to take the edge off, but no, I can’t break my rule, at least not from the very start. I can’t afford the consequences, so I admonish myself the gas costs a fortune there and I’ll wait to get to the station right near the freeway – catastrophe averted – I may fail my resolve and drink one of these sojourn mornings, but not this morning.

I calm a bit and center again while navigating the back woods road maze that leads to the last chance fuel stop.

Inside I get coffee to go, as the pump draws premium grade from their underground reservoir and walk back to the truck to top it off. Throttling out of the petrol station, over the Freeway to the southward on-ramp . . . I pull off to the dirt shoulder . . . I take a breath, hold, exhale . . . visualize my whole endeavor.

I’ve been working my way to this trip and wrenching on this old Chevy I adore for about four months, aided by numerous friends, loved ones; angels. What remains of my entire life is tucked in the bed under a tarp, where I’ll sleep and camp my way down the coast. She’s road ready and we’ll be off in the wind, from the trouble I’ve got myself in, commanding this chariot from the remote corner of Washington State, to drive, drive & drive, all the way back to Southern California, exiting the emptiness & smallness I’ve deconstructed my life to be, led by a building sense of actual departure and new discovery. I go to reclaim something that lay there. I go by Faith not by sight; the evidence of all I don’t have yet. I roll the window down & turn up the radio with Stevie Nicks landing her own “landslide” directly on or into me –

…Mirror in the sky, what is love? Can the child within my heart rise above? Can I sail through the changing ocean tides? Can I handle the seasons of my life?

Well, I’ve been afraid of changing, ‘Cause I’ve built my life around you, But time makes you bolder, Even children get older, and I’m getting older too…

I REV the engine, kiss the inside of my right hand, smack it on the dash, leaving a stamp, drop the shifter down to D, wheels spit gravel & chirp grabbing pavement, I gun it onto the Freeway, laugh & humm…

And so it begins. And so it IS…

Even with recent surrenders bringing blessings, inspiration, determination, fire, some restored confidence, cleaned legal record, my trusty truck, my career experience, and a few dollars more, I feel I’m up against far more highly stacked odds than way back when, but going after it feels to be the only thing to do. If I didn’t go, I’d never know. I don’t know what will happen if I do it, but I know what won’t happen if I don’t. I can’t abide that decision any longer, I just can’t. Throw the runes. Roll the dice. Pitch and toss. The great dealer in the sky still has some cards for you, so shut up and let him deal.

When I went down this road more than twenty years ago, I had no sordid past, just a glowing fire, utterly bold confidence, and a naiveté that always seemed to endear me to the world, not bar me from its blessings. Though only somewhat consciously (and probably poorly) calculated, it was still a pure, decent, great dream… as well as a crafted avoidance of consequences, and a downright, bright light/good night 7/11 crapshoot. I rolled sevens & elevens for a long run, on gut feelings, hunches & intuition alone. Come along on the back-story road with me briefly, about my “boulevard of broken dreams”…

 

Remember That Love, by #BDF

20 Jun

And we made fists with our hearts and we pretended to have motion. But we stayed so close and held fast to the only friend we knew would always be there: Our own self-loathing. I recall we were going to rent a car and drive to the mountains, or the islands on the ferry. Take the passenger boat to Catalina. We absorbed the whole security of having the option to go somewhere. The museum, the park, the ocean, anyplace far enough away to distract us and enhance the pitiful agreement to live together through it all. The groping need to have a good experience, finally. To share something exciting and new. To toss it upon ourselves as casually as candy to the tongue. We thought about it, vocalized the need, the desire. Then the urge would subside, overtaken by the impulse to destroy us, and each other, our opponent and its reflection. and the underlying, overbearing, desperation-defined hope. The wish. The truly heartfelt desire for something or someone better or healthier took a terribly long time to pull us away or rather to break us free from our chosen bond, our chosen lies and illusion. So much wasted, so much gained. #BDF

Rebirth, by #BDF

20 Jun

I look bleary eyed back to my major relationship and feel in my muscles the command I gave it and doofusly still give it over my life and my own everyday. To encapsulate the whole period of time, it seemed to be a constant northwestern autumn day, or maybe just one giant winter rain storm, lasting an unfriendly dogged and dysfunctional four years ish. The first minute was when we saw the sun, the darkness then closed in with its cold wetness and dug its way into our blood and our brains dined in the drunkenness. But this was not the whole story. It does not do justice to the dirty truth, if truth can be deemed dirty. Sad to say it is infested to the gills with other unwanted details. It was much more a prison cell than the peaceful peak of a mountain top. And I’ve pulled many a salty tear from the mess of misery and madness in my heart. I remain responsible for my own hanging on and my own inability to stop my deceiving fears from dictating my every step. The stairway descended to the dungeon of our souls and there seemed to be no out door, no escape, no letting go, or freedom behind the fear. But still when all is said and all is done my tattered pictures, my well worn pains are alive within and they lend me their horrible essence. And they leave me a small tip for the service and come back for refills later when I grasp at the cut. The wound is so deep that I cannot see exactly where the cut ends and where it begins. And I think the two may be cohorts standing on the same corner. She sometimes seemed a circus barker selling tickets to her side show. I’d lurk and prowl and sit serene and sleep and eat under someone else’s control relinquishing my own willingly to the level that i could allow and then have no more of that task. And exercise my own, desperately and furiously so not to crucify myself. I feel its not so holy an act sometimes to let the all pass over and through you. I will enter the kingdom of heaven as it were not by acts but by faith alone. on The flip side of this: my heavy self identification my desperate search for faith love and forgiveness in myself, its not necessarily my place to forgive, but maybe to retreat and allow my fellow souls to forgive themselves. Lord be with them. I picture her the beauty of my past laying alone and having hit hard dreary… With her beloved side show, literally behind bars. I wonder what will be the truth in that instance, of what she thinks in pre-sleep and dreams. Soft hopes of escape and realities unbearable and hard as walnuts or hammers. And maybe her only true peace with, and fondness for, me was in my absence, left alone to dream of what could be “IF”, but could not, be very certain. The muddy fear of that fact drove her deeper into illusion and I, in my own illusion and we would caress that hell. And “I’ll be home soon my sweet, my heart is taxed my heart is beat, but I’ll be home. We’ll hold each other as we bleed each other of our innocence, and our vision, with abandon and willingly, for we have our love”. Stronger than great god above we insisted. And we raped our souls, and our god, with fear as a weapon and threatened ourselves to believe that all could be good and pure someday, someway. We would see it through to forever. We would see it through. it was predestined… #BDF

Chapter 1: Please, allow me to introduce myself

1 Jan

Albion-Moonlight-14

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

Fresh Air

21 Jan

I remember thinking that this stinking town would be the death of me,
isn’t that an old cliche, the cynics say
I wish I was joking, I’ve been choking, metaphorically,
I know so many ways to while away the day

my mind pollution’s left me bare, but i’ll keep fighting, i don’t care,
i’ll drink in your light, you’re everywhere, to me,
you’re a breath of fresh air, fresh air,
I bet I know you and you’re my breath of fresh air

out from under rubble, feeling double the man I was yesterday,
let’s run to the hills and see how naked we can be
I will play today again the way a boy does naturally,
and you can join me if you like the world I see

bridge: and all we have is time, to find the meaning,
the sublime, and I can’t promise you that I’d lasso the moon,
but I will promise you I’d try, I promise I would try…

© 2010 brent david fraser, all rights reserved

A Teardrop

31 Dec

midnight’s making her way to the Lonely Hotel
she hopes there‘s someone there for her to greet
she say’s she’s only looking for the man from Heytown city
the one who sang her melodies so sweet

and she cries at night for every time he packed and moved along
she says that she is his and only his
she looks upon the moon, like a great big gray balloon
a teardrop, that’s all her memory is

daylight is her middle name, like every bright new dawn
and on her knees she prays to see it through
with every ounce of courage and any will she has left
she holds on to the love she knows is true

and she cries at night for every time he sang her sweet love songs
she says forever is not long enough at all, she looks upon the stars
while the angels play guitars
a teardrop just took her for a fall

long fight is the only name she has for this one love
if only she could rest to see the sun
she says she’s only looking for the man from Heytown city
forever she’ll be for him, or be for none

and she cries at night for every time he brushed away her tears
she says she only longs for his embrace
she looks upon the land and waits for his strong hand
a teardrop rolls softly down her face

and she cries at night for every time he brushed away her tears
she says she only longs for his soft touch
she looks upon the land and waits for his strong hand
a teardrop, that’s all, it isn’t much

© 2010 Brent David Fraser, all rights reserved

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