what it cost the Reaper to sow
There are lives that are charmed,
that fortune could hardly harm,
lives that from their beginning be
treasured beyond all esteem.
And few who live these dreams
wonder at what secures the seams,
what binds together the whole,
how blessed the favored soul.
But I endeavor to know
what it cost the Reaper to sow.
What lost the man by my side
to the affluence I pride?
Best Men Speak the Best Words
The sun, hearing of the coming birth of John, sent forth a ray of light specific for him, and when it had traversed the empty void of space, flashing in and out of existence from the speed it traveled, it alighted on the sweet cherub face of John, and as it did so, the melodious pulsing of existence gently lulled the new born babe to sleep.
Carrying the song of the universe within himself from that day forth, John has had only one desire, to continue his communion with those heavenly chords, for, through the songs sublime music, the scaffolding of existence and all its beauty is revealed to him.
Unbeknownst to John, only two months after the sun's ray had graced the smooth face of this bearded man who sits beside me now, who was a baby then, another ray, singular in its purpose, was sent to earth and there its purpose was fulfilled.
As Meghan came crying into this world, a ray of light caressed her angelic face, quieting her wails and softening her baby features into a sublime smile. No longer was there but one who understood the majesty of the song that holds together the fabric of space and time!
Here, on this day, we, who have been called to witness, have seen the union of these two people. And John, who carries the same song within his breast as Meghan, who from the moment of his birth
set out on a trajectory careening ever onward to this perfect moment, who will make beautiful babies, has finally realized his one desire. For, as we said earlier, it is to continue his communion with the heavenly chords. And here Meghan stands, the embodiment of those same chords!
Here is to them and their song!
to a divine, majestic and glorious communion with each other and through each other the intimations of God!
typing and deleting
i keep typing and deleting typing and deleting
i hate this cycle it goes on repeating
this constant typing and deleting
i wish to type a pure thought here
that will speak to my heart and sound true to my ear
but here I am and my thoughts disappear
open wide the vaults of the mind
and unleash the best and brightest kind
of thoughts that shine unrefined
but here I go again a-bleating
about the words I keep deleting
with rhymes I know I keep repeating
An incomplete space opera told in verse
"Flanders, it’s worse than ever before!"
said Lieutenant Kelly above the roar.
"If you want to live, remove the obstruction,
that turbine's moments from destruction."
Swallowing hard Gleb stepped to the portal,
on the other side waited the immortal.
Planet sized, beyond comprehension,
the turbines held it in suspension.
What Gleb saw drew out, “Hot damn!
I don't think I can--" BAM!
In a large conflagration, went
the turbine, the flames a short event.
The vacuum of space saw to that.
"Look out! That shrapnel will lay us flat!"
Screamed Kelly, running from the portal
of the space station, The Sleeping Immortal.
Gleb turned and ran from that hellish sight.
As turbine after turbine briefly ignite
then burst apart, a god is set free,
casting off its chains, deadly debris.
Taking its first breath,
it whispers, "Death."
They ran down corridor after corridor,
scanning comms that screeched new orders,
"Abandon ship! Prime objective lost!
Sleeper wakes, Execute: Code: Refrost!"
Gleb’s stomach lurched, as did the floor,
sending him headlong. Shrapnel tore
into the station, brief explosions
followed by howling winds. Visions
of Lieutenant Kelly sucked out
into space, passing with his last shout,
came to Gleb as he regained his feet.
Lieutenant Kelly, Navy elite,
blood running down from his head,
said as he rose, "Run or we are dead!
We have to get to the ship bay.
One ship has been ordered to delay."
"For us?" Gleb shouted, "Who's that crazy?"
"A pilot I know, names Grady."
They followed lines of red flashing light
A nightmare run, a desperate flight.
When they reached the ship bay's floor
they saw their ship by hangar's door.
Grady stood on the ship's entrance ramp
releasing the ship's magnetic clamp.
"Get your asses moving!" Grady yelled.
As the ship's clamp released what it held.
Grady raced up the ramp, out of sight,
as Kelly and Gleb did, the ship took flight.
"Holy Shit! I can't believe we made it!"
"Shut the hell up, we are still in transit!
Grady, how far along is the fleet?"
"What's left of it is in full retreat."
"My God! What of Code: Refrost?"
"Scrubbed, when the Magistrate was lost."
"The capital ship is lost?" Gleb gasped.
"May she sail a deeper sky." Grady rasped.
"What's the plan Duke?" Grady asked.
Kelly shook his head, his face masked.
Gleb rose, stumbled to the ship's rear portal,
through which he saw the risen immortal.
"What holy ground have we not trod?
What fool thought he could chain a god?
Will man's arrogance ever find an end?
What foul depths, in order to ascend."
"Are you finished with your oration?"
Asked Kelly, "Sit down for the duration
of the jump to Sector 7.
We travel to The Gates of Heaven."
The faint patter of rain? Could be.
But Gleb was too busy to go see.
Sitting kicked back, in the co-pilot's seat,
in a closed hangar, boots off feet,
he was busy planning a way home,
after so long between the stars to roam.
With closed eyes, he made plans to be home.
But what's this? Metallic steps, squealing hinges.
Must be one of Grady's wild binges,
drinking away his despair and fear,
hiding his panic behind a drunken veneer.
Or maybe the lieutenant with bad news,
more dour words, "Time to pay the devil's due."
Cliche sayings, and always bad news.
The steps persist and then fade away.
Gleb’s thoughts drift returning to the day
of red flashing lights and a perilous flight,
when an ascendent woke with terrible might:
I stood staring out the rear portal,
our ship fleeing the risen immortal.
Unbidden, came a thought, "..and I a mere mortal."
I spoke then of the vanity of man,
of what ambition costs, of a fool’s plan.
"Are you finished with your oration?"
asked Kelly, "Sit down for the duration
of the jump to Sector 7.
We travel to the Gates of Heaven."
Of course, we never made it to Sector 7.
I turned from a vision of enormous scale
resolved to tell Kelly my sordid tale.
"Lt. Kelly, do you know the name...
Hethenbarg?" I could only whisper my shame.
Kelly's eyes narrow and he simply nods,
sharp features arranged to dare even the gods,
a man all his life fighting against the odds.
I said, "My name is not Gleb Flanders,
a name gave to me by your commanders.
I am Dr. David Hethenbarg,
responsible for the death of Earth.
In my pride, I challenged God.
What sacred ground have I not trod?
What foul depths to become a god..."
"With my knowledge, obtained by my pride,
millions of wives, husbands, sons, daughters-- died."
I turned and pointed out the rear portal,
"For this-- my son! The risen immortal."
With my tale told, I fell silent.
My body shook uncontrolled and violent.
Lt. Kelly sat watching, silent.
From the helm, Grady yelled, " Nearing jump point.
On your mark Duke, we'll burn this joint."
The ship's engines cut as we neared the range.
The pilot readied systems for the phase change.
"Lieutenant Kelly, we must find my ship,
Forget The Gates of Heaven. A doomed trip."
In Sector 11, I have an airstrip---"
Kelly interrupted, "Doctor,
we sail for the 7th sector.
There, at the Gates of Heaven, we will find
whether your story and truth are aligned."
Turning to Grady, he said,"Burn her down."
Phase changed with a tearing sound.
Kelly and I were cast to the ground.
Done with his musing, his plans complete,
rising from the co-pilot's seat,
Gleb went to find the stowaway.
“To pay the Devil's due," Kelly might say.
With sure steps, he went to set his snare,
across the hangar, down a flight of stairs,
to pay what's due to his houses heir.
From a view screen, he saw what passed as rain
falling down on a desolate plain
that girded the remote research station,
repurposed for their incarceration.
He thought of his desperate plan,
of the humble mouse, and dishonest man,
of the lies he tells himself his whole life's span:
"One last crime that I must indite.
One more sin to set my wrongs right...
One more epic I must compose,
and one last task before my final repose.
My son, I'm sorry for what I plan to do.
It was never my intention to hurt you.
But, you most of all, I must undo."
Lost in these thoughts, he made for the room
where the stowaway sat, his son, his doom.
An old rusted droid from a past age
bearing the memories of a man's rage
greeted him, "Father, do you remember
when, among men, you ruled, emperor?
Now, I've never seen you feebler. <Now, you look like an old geezer.>
Sitting on a nearby crate, Gleb said,
"It's true what they say, Time wastes away.
Even you, it will betray one day."
"Ahh, to hear the philosopher orate!
Do you speak of fate? So unlike you.
You do not sound like the father I knew.
How long I slept for this to have become of you.”
Father and son, once of the same blood,
met as strangers on a planet of mud,
and began a catastrophic talk
away from which neither would walk.
"This droid is a sort of message,
across the vast emptiness of space, a bridge,
from my eternal self to you in bondage."
"I have been to Sector Seven.
I destroyed the Gates of Heaven.
I went to Sol and saw the ruin of earth.
Father, you can not imagine my mirth.
Your greatest triumph, a greater failure.
Our once grand name, now a terrible slur.
The irony isn't lost on me, be you sure."
The old man flinched as he heard these words.
He felt sick as knots formed of his innards.
His son had matched his greatest shame,
to blackest deed they both lay claim.
A terrible rasp, "Time wastes away...
Even I, by the trek of time, decay.
I hope my death marks the dawn of better days."
"Father, you will not die. I have plans for you.
The fable of hell, I will make true.
I will cast you in their eternal fires.
You will burn where Time never expires.
You will find that Time does not waste away,
nor will your body decay,
and never will there dawn a better day."
"Magience?" asked Lt Kelly.
"Yup, science and magic mixed," said Grady.
"How else do you hijack a phase change
with a single repeater from long range?"
"Magience," solved Grady, "nothing's more clear."
Sitting up, he reached for another beer,
"This has been such a lousy year."
Kelly nodded his assent, "You're not wrong.
It feels like I've been running headlong
since the Senate voted for war.
Those bastards have a lot to answer for."
"Speaking of heinous crimes," Grady said,
"How do you think he keeps his head
being responsible for all those dead?
Kelly sat and thought for a time,
cracked a beer, tried to fathom the crime
of a man who had destroyed Earth.
He found the hollow feeling of dearth.
"The first time I killed a man, I cried.
All the rest, my eyes stayed dried,”
Said Kelly, looking sad, without pride.
Then suddenly, “Did you feel that, Grady?
Like something just sunk?” asked Kelly.
“Hell yeah,” said Grady, “felt like a phase change.
You ever feel that outside point range?”
“Never in my life. Where’s the old man?”
“The hangar. Said he needed time to plan.”
For the hangar both men ran.
In a storage room underground
An eternal tableau unwound:
An imperfect father judged by his son
to be worthy of hell for what he’d done,
An injured son in a terrible rage
committing the same sins, on a rampage.
In the end both deserving the same cage.
"Enough Father, I come to claim you."
"My turn to pay the Devil's due."
Beyond the fringes of the atmosphere
appeared the eternal celestial sphere
and with its coming came an end.
Below, the planet began to rend,
"Witness what it means to ascend!"
Oceans boiled and raged and seethed.
Entire mountain ranges were upheaved
into enormous sunderings.
Lighting ripped through earth and sky, thundering.
The immortal sent out a hand of light
that held the research station safe despite
the plant’s demise, for a god’s delight.
Dr. David Hethenbarg waited for
His son as a deafening roar
Filled the room where he sat in fear
As his end, his doom came ever near.
Inwardly, he wrestled with his last hope.
So foreign a thing toward which he groped.
Such a laughable thing toward which to grope.
And yet across the endless span of years,
That seemed so filled with other’s tears,
He had never known a fear like this,
So sweet and pure, a gentle kiss,
Nor a hope towards which to reach
That did not wholly seem to leech
The color out of life and others, each.
Could such a ridiculous thing,
deemed so worthless by many a king,
be what quells this devouring hate?
Love…? Could it change our fate?
Across an empty familial space
A father reached toward his son and grace,
hoping to fill that hollow, empty place.
A rising hope swelling in his breast,
A father rose up dispossessed
Of his tyrannical driving pride,
That all his life he allowed to preside,
And walked across the empty space,
To where his son sat in a metal case,
And there he took him in love’s embrace.
Grady and Kelly ran down the hall,
toward the hangar feeling very small.
They had seen a view screen of outside,
“How have we not already died,”
yelled Grady to Kelly who led.
Kelly kept quiet as he ran ahead,
keeping his dour thoughts unsaid.
They reached the hangar and searched the ship,
“No doctor, no time, start the fucking ship.”
“We just going to leave him?” asked Grady
sitting at the controls, “Engines ready.”
Hitting the steel wall Kelly growled, “Damn it!
One last place to check, stay in the cockpit
Set the phase change, when I’m back we split.”
At a wild sprint he left the ship
Alright Kelly lets make this a quick trip.
Across the hangar, down a flight of stairs,
raced Lt. Kelly unawares
of the stowaway, its identity,
how it was a god-like entity.
Kelly ran muttering obscenities.
Bursting through the storeroom door
Kelly saw the doctor knelt before
A rusted droid propped against the wall
And watch the following befall:
The droid reached for the doctors face
And struck it with a fist like a mace,
Knocking the old man back a pace.
Kar’thun Dur
In the heart of the city of Dhunlok, on a promontory along the shear banks of the river Ki, stood the Temple of Order and of Death. Rising from the surface of the calm river, came a fog, churning over the banks into the twisting cobbled streets and broad avenues surrounding the deserted temple. Yarrow shambled up the grand stairs to the Sanctuary of the Dead and there beside him, mounted on a steed of desiccated flesh and exposed bones, rode a witch of haughty power, dressed in fine dark riding leathers and a simple white blouse. She wore a cape thrown over one shoulder that was clasped at the nape of her neck by a burnt gold pendant. Together they topped the wide stairway and entered into a large open chamber with a lofty vaulted ceiling and moonlight streaming in through yawning panes of glass set high in the wall opposite them. The clip-clop of the risen steeds hooves on the cool polished marble echoed mutely off the surrounding pillars and high walls of the inner temple. At the center of the chamber, where the silver light of the waning moon lay illuminating, Death’s altar of rough hewn stone supported the final rest of Yarroc a’Mon, King of the Kimens and Lord over the lands of Dhunlok.
At the foot of the altar, slumped against its uneven, stained side, slumbered a man wrapped in the robes of the dead. A low indistinct sound came from the priest, softly echoing through the chamber, bouncing off the walls where others lay, long entombed, disciples of Order and of Death.
“The lout sleeps through his vigil,” said the haughty witch atop her steed, “what’s more, his oafish snores fill this hallowed hall. Wake him up at once,” she said, turning to Yarrow with a glare, “and do not be gentle.”
With a staggered gait, Yarrow walked to the stone altar and kicked the slumbering man. The heel of his boot struck the priest’s shoulder and sent him to the marble floor where he lay sprawled, half his body illuminated by the waning light of the moon, the other half cast in the shadows of a dead temple. As the man slowly rose to his hands and knees, glistening red wine spilled from an unstoppered wineskin at his hip and pooled at his knees. With a gauntleted fist, Yarrow took hold of the sodden priest and threw him against the altar. There the beaten man lay collapsed.
“Bartholomew,” tisked the fair lady with vexation, “I hope all has been prepared.”
“I have done what was required of me, Ahredel,” came a pained slurring of words from the man named Bartholomew, “The Last Rite has been revoked,” he reached for the wineskin, “the blood sacrifice,” he raised the skin and drank deeply of the wine, “has been made ready. I wait only on the instrument of our Lord, the means by which He may sunder and make two whole.”
“Then your vigil is at an end priest,” said the stiff backed Ahredel, “Good Prince Yarrow carries with him the means, the instrument, by which we my offerup the sacrifice-- sunder and by sundering make whole.” And then with a cruel smile that twisted her fair face into an ugly leer, the witch of haughty power sat forward and said, “I hope you slept fitfully there against that blood soaked carving stone. Perhaps you sought one final rest, a last gasping breath to remember?” Ahredel laughed scornfully, “How sentimental,” she spat.
Bartholomew grunted as he rose to sit his back against the rough hewn stone of the altar. His red, watery eyes met the witches, holding in their depth a feverish intensity, “Let me see the blade,” he rasped, “It is time, yes? All is prepared. You say he carries the sword.” His voice betrayed him, growing hysteria mingled with his every slurred word, “show it to me,” he begged.
Ahredel, Second born of witches three, from atop her hollow, risen steed, dispassionately waved a delicate hand toward the skeletal figure of Yarrow, “Show him,” she commanded.
Tarnished armor groaned, as Yarrow a’Mon, First Sword of the River King, Eldest son of Yarroc a’Mon, Fallen King of Dhunlok, drew forth the ancestral sword of the a’Mon line. And as the blade escaped its scabbard, a different light seemed to cast itself from the moon lit steel, one that filled the hall with a warmth that oddly repelled those present.
“Concord,” wheezed Bartholomew, eyes widening as he gazed upon the sword in Yarrow’s raised hand. He took another long pull from the wineskin, emptying its last sour drops into his red stained mouth. “I am shaking, trembling with expectation,” he said, a deranged smile spreading across his haggard features, intensifying the throbbing madness in his eyes. “Tell me, Prince Yarrow, did it hurt much when it finally came? Do you remember? The fear and agony…” he paused, struggling with the last, “the final surrender? I admit to...,” he licked his stained lips, his whole body ridged with anticipation, “to not looking forward to this next bit.”
Still with Concord raised before him, Yarrow looked down on the mad priest of the dead, and with a voice of grating stone said, “Fear? Agony? Yes. I remember.” The warm light of the two handed sword seemed to give new life to his dead features. “The final surrender? That has yet to come.”
Ahredel sneered down at the terrified man, “How does one ascend if not by pain and suffering? Here we strive, pawns in the war between Order and Chaos. This Balance, our very existence, is the terrible friction of their eternal encounter. Pain, suffering, agony--they are sparks flung from the flames of Ascendancy.” A heavy, low hanging fog began to creep into the Sanctuary of the Dead, swirling in the shadows among the pillars, filling the chamber except for where the light of the moon touched the stone. “Tonight, Bartholomew, you shed the humiliating role of pawn. Tonight you will become a devouring flame. And your flame will set the whole of existence ablaze.”
The priest of Death cried out in mad exultation at the words of the witch, “Set me ablaze!” Ahredel smiled down with disdain from her haughty, stiff backed perch, and with a strained, almost reverent, voice said, “Yarrow, set him ablaze. Tonight a new god is born.”
The desiccated warrior shambled out from fog and shadow with radiant Concord held before him, and plunged the blade through tender breast of man and rough stone of altar alike. Where sword met stone a sundering occured, cleaving the altar in two halves of a whole. A deafening crash filled the sanctuary, echoing through the vaulted spaces briefly before silence returned. Bartholomew sat holding the blade that skewered him, the frenzied energy that had racked him moments before slowly dissipating,”...a new born,” he gasped, “taking its first breath,” and then was still. Into the sundered altar fell drops of blood from the wine soaked sacrifice, and there on its broad flat top rose up Yarroc a’Mon clad in the ceremonial armor of kings.
“My Lord,” said Ahredel, bowing her head, “I am at your serves, Kar’thun Dur.”
This Devouring Hate
Dr. David Hethenbarg waited for
His son as a deafening roar
filled the room where he sat in fear
as his end, his doom came ever near.
Inwardly, he wrestled with his last hope.
So foreign a thing toward which he groped.
Such a laughable thing toward which to grope.
And yet across the endless span of years,
That seemed so filled with other’s tears,
He had never known a fear like this,
So sweet and pure, a gentle kiss,
Nor a hope towards which to reach
That did not wholly seem to leech
The color out of life and others, each.
Could such a ridiculous thing,
deemed so worthless by many a king,
be what quells this devouring hate?
Love…? Could it change our fate?
Across an empty familial space
A father reached toward his son and grace,
hoping to fill that hollow, empty place.
A rising hope swelling in his breast,
A father rose up dispossessed
Of his tyrannical driving pride,
That all his life he allowed to preside,
And walked across the empty space,
To where his son sat in a metal case,
And there he took him in love’s embrace.
Grady and Kelly ran down the hall,
toward the hangar feeling very small.
They had seen a view screen of outside,
“How have we not already died,”
yelled Grady to Kelly who led.
Kelly kept quiet as he ran ahead,
keeping his dour thoughts unsaid.
They reached the hangar and searched the ship,
“No doctor, no time, start the fucking ship.”
“We just going to leave him?” asked Grady
sitting at the controls, “Engines ready.”
Hitting the steel wall Kelly growled, “Damn it!
One last place to check, stay in the cockpit
Set the phase change, when I’m back we split.”
At a wild sprint he left the ship
“Alright Kelly lets make this a quick trip.”
Across the hangar, down a flight of stairs,
raced Lt. Kelly unawares
of the stowaway, its identity,
how it was a god-like entity.
Kelly ran muttering obscenities.
Bursting through the storeroom door
Kelly saw the doctor knelt before
A rusted droid propped against the wall
And watched the following befall:
The droid reached for the doctors face
and struck it with a fist like a mace,
knocking the old man back a pace.
The Roads to Chaos
Tig stepped into a twilight land with a deep, static charge humming in the atmosphere, and where the stones he tread upon were stones of madness. Before him, seated on the center throne among three, was a witch of power who emanated waves of energy that seemed to stress the fragile One of existence. Beside Tig, Con ra’Dor appeared, his dark presence seemed to further the nauseating sense of time and space on the verge of shattering, and when Tig looked at him, the daemon prince seemed to be shifting, on the brink of changing into another self, a thing of darker shadows that remained obscured behind a thin veil.
“What have you stumbled upon, witch,” said the Chained One who walked from the green glowing portal that had brought them hither from the freehold. “What foul thing have you unleashed?” His steps took him to the foot of the dais and there he waited on the witch’s answer.
“I foresaw your coming,” said the witch from her seat of power, “an ever pending possibility. And now in this place between,” a smile snaked its way across her sculpted features as she gestured broadly, “an absolute.”
“Henwin, what has become of your sisters? Where is Ahredel?” yelled Tig a’Mon, youngest son of Yarroc a’Mon, River King of the Kimens and Lord over the lands of Dhunlok.
“My prince you have come but a day too late. Ahredel has left for the City, to pay her respects to your father. But have no fear young wizard, she travels in good company. Your brother, Prince Yarrow, rides at her side.” The witch spoke sweetly, swiftly, her ridgid form outlined with shimmering madness. “As for Lohredel, she is picking flowers out in the surrounding fields.”
Where the dais rose from the smooth stone floor, Con ra’Dor glowered, “Witch, I sense madness in you that reeks of Chaos. What roads have you been walking? What is this presence that-” the daemon sniffed at the shifting, fragile air, “-waits? What waits beyond the rift?”
Henwin, eldest sister of the witches three, stood with a serpents grace, and circled around to wrap her arms about, and lay her head to rest, on the tall, stern back of her throne. “I saw you…” she sang softly sweet, “in a hall of black gold,” her eyes changed to black sightless opals and gazed into empty space before her, “there, you knelt before another, beaten, broken…,” the serpentine smile appeared cruel upon her thin lips, “chained,” she nearly hissed. “Tell your master this, slave, Madness creeps into the Strife, the Scales are tipping and soon there will be no Balance at all. Even the Holds will be forced to pick sides.” Henwin’s sightless eyes fixed on Con ra’Dor, and in each formed a smoldering vertical slit of ghastly jade light, “Soon the Roads to Chaos will be closed to any who resist the Madness.”
As if called by a nature alike to its own, the darker self of Con ra’Dor, the thing of deeper shadows behind the veil of brittle, shifting existence, began to pull and veer away from The Prince in Chains, and to Tig’s eyes took on a horrid bestial form, more akin to the pulsing winds of madness emanating from the whorling rift above than that of the elements of Life.
Unperturbed by his reaching, second self, Con ra’Dor spoke, “Since the Descent from One, the eternal roads have denied all those seeking to claim for themselves its dominion. Many are the roads to Chaos that are lined with pits into which those fools were flung. What is this Madness that persuades you of some other end?”
Henwin’s arms squeezed tightly about her throne of power as she lifted her draconic eyes up to the raging rent in the sky above, “Kar’thun Dur,” she whispered in fearful glee, “he does not wait, he comes.” The shimmering edges of her form began to veer rapidly outwards, her sculpted body elongated, broadened into a crouching long necked beast of black opaline scales. Her arms, still wrapped about the throne, shifted into huge branching, leathery wings, that hid from the two onlookers the remaining transformation of the veering witch. “He does not wait, he comes,” came a different voice from behind the massive black wings, seductive, hungry. A single smoldering eye peered out from the depths of unnatural shadows that engulfed the dias. “I think…,” hissed the ravenous eye, “that you should go. This…. Power,” she nearly purred, “it hungers...I hunger.”
Con ra’Dor was already striding past Tig, back across the stone floor, away from the dais, to the glowing green portal that had brought them hither, his dark presence radiating nausea that sent the wizard stumbling into a pillar to wretch. “Tig a’Mon, we have what we came here for. Heed the witch's warning, leave this place of Madness.” Then he was gone through the portal.
A good man
Is my life to be spent sitting at a desk dreaming of words I will never write? Will I spend my few hours of life comparing other’s words to my intellect and nothing else? What have I created? What have I achieved? What have I seen or done? Will I content myself with the meek existence of an inconsequential life?
"The meek will inherit the earth."
It does not appear to me to be true. My discontent blinds me from the truth. I look about myself and see a proud race of man that dominates the globe. Ignorant of its ignoble origins and its endless record of crimes. It seems that history has made its purpose the recording of every unsavory, murderous man. Shall I spend my life watching and reading of these atrocities?
What errant thought has escaped me that would have otherwise stimulated me to action? What is it that I wait for? What is it that I live for? Not why. How. What can I do with 'why'? What can't I do by asking how?
Is it my lot to keep my head down? Am I to 'suck it up and take it?' And yet what other forms of living do I desire? What other mode of living is available to me without having to degrade it and myself by running the rat's race. I do not wish to condemn man. I think by his actions he does that for himself. I only look for a way to live that does not drown me in theirs and my refuse.
The world is full of false names. So many that we no longer know each other. What is a Neoliberal? And how can I know one from another from the hundred millions? Shall I call them by their first or last? And what do the proletariat work for? Do they work for me? "Put down your shovel and your ax, your hammer, your sickle put down all your tools. I do not want your labor." Why do they work so hard? How do they work so hard? To what lash are they answerable? Why do you answer so civilly to five lashes, to ten, to any lashes at all? How do you answer civilly to any lashes at all? Put down your tools. I do not want your labor. Millionaires, with millions of dollars, have you thought about what you have or only on how to make more, or perhaps only how to keep from losing all you have? Have you thought about who money draws to you? I haven't a million to my name (and no it is not Neoliberal, it is Jon Stave), though I know myself to be rich in dollars compared to most of the world. I do not care for the people that come to call on me or rather on my money. I do not care for my money. I wish that I could give it up. It burdens me. I would gladly give it up if I knew that I would see the last of it, but it surrounds me. Everything has a price. I too have a price. I currently go for $9.25 an hour. I dissipate my life at $9.25 an hour. What is this strange paper that I spend my life for? The dollars full name is A-means-to-an End. But for what end should we spend our lives? Are not our ends, to the last of us, death. Would it not be better to find another means to that end? To be sure that end is assured and has no need of green paper rectangles.
Achievements? Pride, the atrocities of history, names, money, the means and ends of man? I, who have been blessed with more than most, condemn what I have been given. What unthankful heart! Discontentment, leave me be. What shallow hole within me do you reside? How have I allowed you to take up residency here? By this means then I go to my end, I will root you out Discontentment. You are not welcome. Whatever vacancy you occupy I evict you from. I save that apartment for another more worthy than you. What noble virtue could have found shelter there had it not been for you? What purer hope could have rested here? What would in the cesspool you leave behind? How do I reconsecrate these halls?
Step by step. Action by action. Thought by thought. It is the great gift of life that life's end can be achieved step by step. There is no need for dollars. There is no need for new names. There is no need to qualify each step or thought. What bad man has thought such? Step by step, thought by thought.
I do not think that I am inherently bad. If there is any sin that is inherent to me it is either my ignorance or my imperfect memory. Often I have thought, "The only sin is to forget." If I have hurt you, it is only because I did not know. What malice I found in me is only from my ignorance. A common prayer I give to the wind, "God, take from me my ignorance, make perfect my memory."
How evil man becomes in his virtues. Often our virtue blinds us from the slow creep of vice into our souls. The virtue becomes our vice. How focused we are, nay, how blind! How prudent, or is that your fear? What work ethic, or is that unrestrained ambition?
A common prayer I send aloft, "God, do not hollow out in me the capacity for greatness without first finding me good." A great man is not a good man. Greatness does not hold any moral affiliation. A great man does great good and great evil both. Often it is his greatness that blinds him from his vice. And should my capacity for greatness be but little, then I will content myself with the knowledge that I was never afforded the possibility of ever doing any great evil.
What a great burden lifted to be simply a good man.