|The Relative Generation©Page 2 of 4 (1, 2, 3, 4)|
|IShaved4This ... Ah yes! The 1966 GTO ... what a vehicle! I think you've described "her" and your passions and interfacing quite well. I enjoyed the read. You are welcomed here anytime. PC4U|
Posted: 8/28/2007 1:23:19 AM
|Maybe you can’t carry a tune in a bucket … but your son or daughter may sing like an angel.|
It’s possible you can’t draw a straight line with a ruler and pencil … but maybe one of your off-spring is a gifted artist.
It could be that anything you plant in the ground dies within hours … however your daughter, or maybe son, can grow beautiful trees on barren rock.
These seemingly unexplainable talents may not come from you, but rather through you. It’s quite possible, even probable, that one of your great-great grandparents possessed such talents – and their genes have been reawakened in your child.
We are nothing more than an accumulation of a vast seemingly endless supply of widely varied genes passed on to, and through, ourselves.
The genetic codes of eons still lay dormant, quietly buried in the framework of who we are, and who the members of our posterity will become.
We like to think of ourselves as “individuals”, but in reality, we are nothing more than a rearranging of traits and attributes of all those before us in our bloodline.
The cards in the deck are the same, but the resultant hands dealt are different with each game.
So, we mustn’t become too enamored with ourselves. All that we are, we didn’t create, someone else in our past has just allowed us to use what they helped form, and then passed it on to us – and we are expected to do the same for those generations yet to come.
If you want to show pride, thank your ancestors first – for they did the groundwork.
We may not be the talented ones … but we ARE the carriers.
Posted: 8/28/2007 6:04:00 AM
|Time is a cold, unemotional thing, completely void of compassion or caring.|
In a single Tick of Time, we can be transformed from living to … not. The very next Tick of Time doesn’t care.
While Time itself is endless, we who live through its’ passage have a finite association.
The word “time”, on an individual basis, could very well be an acronym for: This Is My Era, for once we are gone, does Time any longer exist for us?
|The Superior Animal©|
Posted: 8/28/2007 9:39:06 AM
|All that animals know is: They must eat, sleep, reproduce and forage. Generally speaking, anything else that occurs within their lives is happenstance.|
Their species survive year after year, eon after eon, unless subjected to some outside force beyond their control.
They do not know about: debt; economy; political intrigue; cheaters; liars; or religion. They don’t need any of those things to survive, multiply and exist.
Members of the human race are animals. We believe we are superior in all the animal kingdom.
Humans have, within their species, created: debt; economy; political intrigue; cheaters; liars; and religion … now …
… just how smart are we … really …?
|Where Would We Be©|
Posted: 8/31/2007 12:15:13 AM
|They are burdens that hang within us like so much leaded weight. They produce the sorrows of heart-ripping despair, and cast shadows over what could have been our times of joy. We cannot shake them or even lessen their presence, for we are only human. With time we’re told these burdens will eventually go away, but that’s not true. They never go away, we just become accustomed to living with them.|
It is when we’ve learned to cope with them, by integrating and relegating to the recesses of our unconscious being, that we begin to function again and take up once more the pursuit of our happiness.
Losses cannot be realized unless there was something there to lose. Had we never known of them, there would be no despair, but … neither would there have been memories of times before, and memories are the shrine we create, not to the loss, but to the being of what was.
The one saving grace is that those memories and recollections are of happier times, and it is those things which convey the despair into the fog covered recesses of our minds.
It is the happy memories that never leave us, and they are the golden lights that illuminate the past and help us shape our future. My … where would be without them?
Posted: 2/20/2008 7:12:51 PM
|There‘s Life before us:|
See its’ ebb and flow
Showing us those things
We’d otherwise never know
But you … you say you know me
Oh my! T’is naïve you are
There are things you must learn
Outside of your boudoir
While passion is a cornerstone
And loving is a need
Oh my dear, there’s other things
In your life to heed.
Watch a simple sunrise,
And then a falling star
See a leaf fall from a tree
They’re part of Life’s bazaar
Until we can embrace
All Life’s ebbs and flows
Our lives remain replete
We’re not the one who knows.
Posted: 2/22/2008 2:13:55 PM
|Oh, I know she owns me,|
That fact I do admit
And I can’t wait to greet her
While her memory’s in transit
Quietly does she linger there
In elegance and grace
On her exquisitely chiseled face
Time was when she and I
Were inseparable as one
Due to fate and circumstance
Our union became undone.
Now sands of the hourglass
Sift slowly then are mute
As memories of the past
They silently dilute
And anxiously do I wait
For recollections from our past
When once again, in memory
She visits me at last.
|Wake and Change©|
Posted: 2/22/2008 8:54:03 PM
|What’s that I see in me wake I’ve left behind?|
‘T is mere flotsam, an’ I’ll be payin’ it no mind.
No, laddie, ‘t is more me thinks – look again, and hard
Stop now, and analyze that which you discard …
I see there a wife … no, … two … or maybe it be three!
My goodness, laddie boy, with none could you agree?
And there I see be bottles, once were filled with wine
Looks as if to their content ye builded ye a shrine
And there be much of cursing and much profanity
Wallowing there in ye wake upon Life’s stormy sea
Smoke filled rooms of decadence and gamblers I see
Ye wages flowed like wine in betting activity
‘T is wasted Life laying here in ye worthless wake
And no redemption do I see, and n’ery a keepsake
But from this point, and forward, with ye sail set true
Ye remaining journey’s wake can bring comfort unto you
All females ye encounter … ye treat respectfully
Gamblin’; cursing; drinkin’ you’ll push away from thee
Self respect will be ye gain, and respect from others, too
Just some simple life changes will bring this all to you.
In ye Life must be a change, but I’ll no show you how
Only ye can change those things – the things you’re doing now
Then at ye journeys’ end, when ye look back at ye wake
Say: ‘T is been good, for me … and for all of me namesake.
|Jacob R. McGee©|
Posted: 2/23/2008 4:08:22 PM
|“Jake” was what they called him with respectfulness and awe|
Ever’ since he came up here from down in Arkansas
Never was no bullies who’d confront our family
Cause my Dad, was the big and bad Ol’ Jacob R. McGee
There’s stories told about him right up unto this day
Like when with just one hand he picked up a Chevrolet
Or the one about his knockin’ out ol’ Jerry Mason’s bull
But the story ‘bout ol’ Jack Savage - now that’s a big earful.
Ol’ Jack Savage was a nasty man, that no one could deny
With many scars upon his face and with evilness of eye
But Nasty Jack met a diamondback all people did agree
When he crossed the path and aftermath of Jacob R. McGee
No one knows just why they fought that August afternoon
But Jack lies in the ground within a coffinized cocoon.
And the face of ol’ Jack Savage it went unrecognized
It was ol’ Jacks’ scarred-up face that Jake had pulverized
All Jacks’ ribs were broken, and both his arms were too
The undertaker said, ol’ Jack’s neck was twisted and askew
The man who’d done the damage, and walked from the melee
People say it was my Dad, ol’ Jacob R. McGee
Jake passed on some years back and now there’s only me
And no one knows I kicked Jake’s butt when I was twenty three
I knocked him down to the ground, then tied him to a tree
So let me introduce myself: I’m Chainsaw R. McGee – ya’ want a piece of me?
|Jacob R. McGee©|
Posted: 2/24/2008 9:39:02 PM
|TNT_Dyno (The Black Knight) ...|
I'm glad you enjoyed them ... you're invited to post here anytime ... PC4U
Posted: 2/25/2008 2:16:29 PM
|There she stood, expressionless|
As I contemplated the paper mess
She handed me, on her counter there
And then, with the coldest glare:
“Fill out these forms ’n bring ‘em back”
(If she’d smile, her face would crack!)
And dutifully, with pen in hand
I complied with her command.
Name: Well, that’s easy - to myself I said
I wrote it down, and on I read
Address, birth date, I filled out, too,
For eye color, I wrote down: Blue
For “Height”, I put down: 5 feet ten
Then began to read again.
Some questions, they’d be hard
So, I had to be on guard!
Under “Salary” I wrote: Very bland
A number I’m sure they’d understand
And under Former Residence:
I wrote down: Musty basements
Under “Sex” I wrote: Only mentally
(I had started to write: Occasionally)
Then came the word: Experience
I wrote: Yes, but only once
“Please list your credit score:”
That’s easy: Zero and no more!
Under “In Your Check Account:”
Again was zero for my amount.
For other questions on the form
Accurate entries I did perform
I checked the form: It was complete
All my entries: Bold and neat
I went again, to stand in line
To face the clerk: “Miss Serpentine”
And hand to her my forms complete
Then get the job, so I could eat!
At last the cold and chiseled face
Of “Miss Serpentine” was in place
Across the counter from where I stood
I saw her expression: It wasn’t good
She scanned my forms with eyes so cold
Then she turned and quickly strolled
To her desk some feet away
Then came back. I heard her say:
“Now that we’ve your application”,
She said to me with resignation,
“For approval we’ll just wait and see”.
I asked: “How long might that be?”
“Well, let’s see – this is two-thousand six
So why don’t you just hit the bricks
And when the calendar reads: Two thousand eight
Your application will have met its’ fate.
“But lady, I need to eat now!
Can’t you speed it up somehow?”
“Sorry, but it’s our policy
To research thoroughly”
So, resigned, I turned away
So much for McDonalds’ here today
Maybe there’d be less hell
If I’d applied at Taco Bell !
Posted: 2/25/2008 2:39:34 PM
|The attic trunk, dirty, and oh so old|
Had survived the many years untold
Sitting there amidst the quiet dust
The hasp and hinges brown with rust
In the young girls’ mind she was compelled
To see what it was the old trunk held
Her desire to glimpse into the past
Met with screeching protest from the hasp
Slowly, as the trunk lid opened wide,
The young girl could at last peer inside.
There before her, in disarray
Was her family’s history dossier
First her eyes, and then her hand
Touched that history’s wonderland:
A wedding dress; A photograph;
Were in themselves an epitaph
Of lives that lived so long ago
Placed in the trunk for her to know
That there were those preceding her
Whose life stories they did transfer
To her eyes, and mind and hand
To help the young girl understand
That life goes on, and what she thought “new”
Were really old and now in her view.
Within the yellowed wedding dress
Had been a woman of marriage blessed
No doubt joyous on her wedding day
But … who it was, who can say?
As the young girl looked into the depth
Where the history had so long slept
She learned of dates and names and more
The pieces of her own folklore.
She found some letters, tied in blue;
Military medals she found there too;
And a pillowcase, in pink crochet:
But, whose head had upon it lay?
Her thoughts were lost in fantasy
Of who they were … who could it be
That years before in reality
Had left these things for her to see.
Her thoughts envisioned hair of gold
And other attributes her mind cajoled:
Were eyes of brown … or were they blue?
Or perhaps of totally different hue?
With the military medals in her hand
Was invented a soldier in a foreign land
And while there thinking she did yield
Mental images of a battlefield
A photograph revealed a faded face
The image seemed so out of place
The person she did not recognize
And felt the need to apologize
For these persons had been alive
But all that’s left was this archive
Within this old and dusty trunk
Their lives condensed and to this shrunk
Tears appeared on her young cheeks
As she gazed down at the old antiques
There before her was the legacy
Left by them for posterity.
For some time she sat to ponder
And her thoughts of them grew fonder
The lives they lived she did perceive
Until at last, it was time to leave
By her hand the Trunk lid closed,
So grateful, for it had exposed:
A glimpse of her ancestral life
And of their living joys and strife.
And that was a hundred years ago
(Well, maybe not, but it feels so),
Maybe our ancestors will one day see
At a point in time – there was you … and me.
Posted: 2/25/2008 3:05:58 PM
|Sunshine shoots through the windows and fills the house with grace,|
Ricochets around the room and finds my weathered face.
Standing at a mirror I see refracted light
On wrinkles, lines and eyes of mine reflected to my sight.
The youth that once looked back at me
Has gone – I know not where – in vain I search the glass, and find: No … it isn’t there.
Instead I see the wrinkles – they are stress of many years
Produced by times of doubt and my unfounded fears.
My eyes see lines and furrows as they track across my face
Hard times are buried there as my eyes complete the trace.
At the corners of my eyes I see a pair of old “crows feet”
They’re etched there forever from those times my life was sweet.
A lifetime full of memories comes bouncing off the glass
A memory consumes me - as I feel still more time pass.
In the Winter of a lifetime, ‘tis memories that come to stay
Oh, thank God I have them – pray they never go away.
I turn from my glass mirror – that used to be my friend
As thoughts of those reflections I try to comprehend.
My face it is my diary of experience I’ve had
And then I tell myself: “You know … those lines …
they really aren’t so bad.”
Posted: 2/25/2008 7:04:41 PM
|only writing makes us better writers..|
your journey in this thread makes that point..
heres one for us all.. and I wonder why we insist on killing each other
arguing over what happens when we die
and my version is better than yours... believe it ..or else
Is there more than just one place for all of us to go
have you found a dream that you can bear
When you leave the Flesh behind, is that all you know
Is there more to vision ,than seeing something there
You pay a price for learning what awaits behind the door
in a currency of consciousness and care
If life is full of questions,then death is nothing more
than answers that the silence cannot share
Posted: 2/25/2008 7:27:22 PM
|Transcend ... a philosophical entry with great depth and a perception of exceptional insight. Thank you for sharing. Come back any time, as you are always welcome. PC4U|
Posted: 3/14/2008 7:02:48 AM
|His face was wrinkled leather|
Scarred by Father Time
Furrowed deep by etchings
From widely varied clime
His hands were calloused hard
Evidence of work that strained
But it was his eyes that showed
A soul so deeply stained.
No one knew his origin
No one asked him where
He might have been before
He’d ended up … right there.
His stance? Over six foot ten;
With strength of many men
His chest? a redwood tree
His temper ran too violently
Anvil fists could kill or maim
Breakin’ railroad ties was just a game.
Had breath like kerosene
His name was: Nasty Mean
Then one day, the story goes, a female came to town
Seems no one had seen her there-abouts around
She weren’t that pretty, fact some say: it was Homely She
But Nasty Mean he liked ‘er – ‘n that’s how it was to be
Nasty come up to that gal, ‘n said: “Hey, I’d like a kiss”
Guess it was his words to her, that got her so damned pissed
She whirled around quick as lightenin’ an’ smacked Ol’ Nasty’s face
The air went deathly quiet … not a sound within the place.
Faster than a freight train, she quickly squatted down
And with a leg extended, she spun herself around
Nasty took a swing that whistled through the air
‘Cause that Homely She, wasn’t standin’ there
Her leg caught Nasty Mean just behind his knee
Then he hit the ground like the fallin’ of a tree
The ground shook like thunder - dust was ever’where
Nasty bellowed out - his hatred raw and bare.
Nasty began to rise - scramblin’ to his feet
Homely She moved in quick, and didn’t miss a beat
Her leg shot out – it was nothin’ but a blur
Nasty swung two times but both times missin’ her
Her kick caught Nasty on the right side of his head
When he fell so hard, we all thought he was dead
But Homely She wasn’t finished with Ol’ Nasty Mean
What she did next, put an end to what we’d seen
She bent down, and spread Nasty’s legs apart
Then delivered a mighty kick to Nasty’s private parts
Involuntary was Nasty’s passed-out groan
Homely She had provided pain that went down to the bone.
After pain she did impart, Homely She just walked away
Thinkin’ things were over, but … there’s more we have to say:
No one could believe it … Nasty Mean had met his match
And after that one moment, to her he was attached
If she was to go huntin’, well Nasty’d be right there
I’m sure she got tired of it … but he followed ever’where.
He even brought her flowers, what was that gal to do?
She couldn’t shake Nasty Mean, she was in an awful stew.
Then Nasty Mean asked her, for her hand to wed
Guess that did the trick, ‘cuz nothin’ more was said.
After that Ol’ Nasty Mean changed his devil ways
He don’t go out fightin’ or settin’ barns ablaze
Got themselves married, by the preacher from Wolverine
And now her name is: The Queen of Nasty Mean.
Posted: 3/14/2008 8:03:28 AM
|Well, Hamazing ... I'm glad you liked it ... and thank you for your kind words. Your brief synopsis of an era of your past indicates you did the right thing in your life - I'm glad, and trust you'll have happiness as your companion forever more. You are welcome here anytime ... PC4U|
Posted: 3/20/2008 11:22:13 AM
|The discovery is like a physical blow without the touch.|
Shock instantly engulfs you, so severe is it, it becomes impossible for you to speak. Breathing is labored and irregular.
Those involuntary muscle spasms in your chest, are the forerunners of sobs, but they can’t come yet, because the shock is still paramount and controlling your mind and vision.
The initial shock phase passes, replaced by rage, or disbelief, or the healing rush of uncontrolled sobs and tears, or all of those emotional explosions.
For the next few days or weeks or even months, you’ll revisit that initial shocking discovery millions upon millions of times within your mind. The event is permanently burned and branded into your being, and you’ll never, ever forget it as long as you live. The pain seers within you at each re-visitation of your thoughts. With each recollection, the event is reborn all over again, in living screaming color.
For most persons the next phase following the discovery phase is the denial phase. You can not and will not accept that whatever has befallen you really happened. If you do, you justify it by some invented excuse or outside influence, and grapple with every conceivable alteration or reiteration of what transpired, so as to make it acceptable. But, in reality, it isn’t. The denial phase can be the longest one. Some people never exit the denial stage, simply because they can’t withstand the pain were they to do so. Forever after, embracing denial is their method of coping with unwanted discovery.
Acceptance is the next to last phase, and it is within this phase that peace of mind begins to slowly make its’ presence known. True friends, comforting family members, clergymen and self-assessment are all avenues to acceptance. Without acceptance being absorbed into your being, the next phase can never be achieved either.
Finally you get to the healing phase. This is where you can re-visit the original discovery, and not emotionally break down. This is the phase where you can objectively look at the true causes of the original discovery. This is the phase where you can plan to never get into situations that would cause a repeat of the original discovery. This is the phase where you can say, it’s over, it’s done and I can move on with my life.
And … you do.
Posted: 3/20/2008 12:11:41 PM
|And that’s the way it’s always been,|
An’ I guess will always be
But that don’t mean those things are right
They could be contrary
So if you go to Johnson’s Woods
An’ start “stirrin’ up this stew”,
There’s some things you need to know
An’ I’m remindin’ you:
That Billy Ray Thompson boy
You know he’s out there yet
You goin’ out to find him
Might be somethin’ you’ll regret
You can talk about those eerie screams
An’ what their source might be
But, if I was you, I’d turn blue
‘Fore I’d go out to see.
Marv LaMesa you recall
Showed them bleached-white bones
An’ said they was all ‘twas left
Of our Reverend Jones
An’ don’t forget that knife they found
Out near Willow Creek
Of such decadence decent
Folks won’t speak
Just last night ‘round my house
Was tracks so deep and wide
Three-toed tracks with claws
Hell …I went back inside
Now you can go on lookin’
I won’t stop your search
But I’m goin’ to the creek
An’ fish me up some perch.
I don’t think that you should go
Into Johnson’s Woods
I’m thinkin’ what is in there
Just couldn’t be too good.
Yep, you can have adventure
An’ your opinions too,
But if you don’t come out of there
I’ll not look for you.
And that’s the way it’s always been,
An’ I guess will always be
But that don’t mean those things are right
Johnson’s Woods … they ain’t for me!
Posted: 3/20/2008 1:34:00 PM
|(this is a "darker" entry)|
I am not your friend,
I am not your foe
But I am not the person to
For comfort you should go
But if you listen carefully
As winds begin to blow
And moonbeams on mountain tops
Begin their eerie glow
I’ll tell you of wicked things
Of curses old and new
But these things aren’t free
There’s a price I’ll take from you.
So sit there very quietly
And do not make a sound
Within your head and mind
Your thoughts will all be bound
‘Tis your belief
In my words all written here
Controlling of your mind
To summon up your fear
So, please … relax …
And when you think it’s safe
Your mind I will attack,
As words begin their strafe.
Now fly with me o’er the hilltops
And through the mists below
As we journey back
To centuries long ago
Below we see “The Plague”
Just now taking hold
We know of the outcome
But ‘tis today, not “days of old”.
An’ in the midst of chaos
Where Death lurks everywhere
This is why I’ve brought you,
And I’m taking you … in there.
The rat infested cottages,
The ravaged dirt-floored huts
Prolific rodent feces
And flies eat chicken guts
The stench is overpowering
For people here don’t bathe
Disease is in the air
Everything is in a scathe
Come lay down where
A dead body’s been removed
It is now your resting place
The one that I’ve approved.
There. Go ahead and rest
Feeling diseases as they do infest
Fleas and ticks climb thru’ your nose …
Within the week, comes Death throes.
First will come the open sores
While draining blood and pus
Then will come delirium
High fever on you thrust
You will crave for water
And scream that it be so
But no water’s to be had
‘Tis only pain that you will know.
Your agony’s exotic
Your ravages so sweet
Oh I so enjoy them
As I stand here at your feet
But I interrupt my ecstasy
As my duty calls
Torturing lost souls you see
Of my life enthralls.
The price that I eluded to
When was first we met
Payment … if you make it
Then out of here you’ll get
Your price is but one soul
The one that you possess
Just paying that to me
Will take you from this mess
What’s that you say?
Was the word you spoke a “yes”?
Wonderful! Now just wait …
I’ll relieve you from your stress.
See, how simple?
How well we do combine!
You with a soul-less life
Me? I own your mind.
So forward ‘tis we go
Toward your century
You think you’ll be okay now
But there’s no harmony
For now without your soul
You’ll not know happiness
Before you lies a life
All filled with hate and stress
And I? I will go on looking
For another soul
Then when I’ve found them
Through other centuries will I stroll
And you, my naïve reader,
With Temptation do you dance
You can’t keep it up forever …
Soon, I’ll have my chance.
Posted: 3/21/2008 10:29:06 AM
|There’s a filter on my water,|
I filter my room’s air
The FDA watches things I eat
If not …I wouldn’t dare!
There’s “filters” for the airwaves
that sift obscenities
But the commentator windbags
They still say what they please.
With all this censored “filter-ship”
I just can’t understand
Why there’s still corruption
In governance of our Land.
An’ why there’s geed and avarice
We all agree is bad
When hungry kids are in our streets
And in ragged clothes are clad
Why is it our businesses send
Jobs out overseas
Why indeed would they do that,
Don’t the hear our workers’ pleas?
Why’s the American Dollar
Worth less each passing day
What is it our government
About that facts’ to say?
Outrageous price of gasoline
And heating oil too
With our jobs and houses gone
What’s America to do?
Everyday there is a wreath
Upon a neighbors door
We’ve lost another serviceman
I fear there will be more.
Yes, we can place our filters
And initiate new laws
But first I think we do indeed
Need repair existing flaws.
|Fight He Can©|
Posted: 3/21/2008 4:22:31 PM
|He walked into the barroom|
He was standin’ proud’n tall
Didn’t say too much I see,
‘fact, he didn’t speak at all.
Wasn’t dressed like “normal”
No cowboy hat, or boots
An’ didn’t even take one
Of offered bar cheroots
He ordered him a draft
And began to suck his suds
Twas then he was approached
By some local “studs”
“We don’t want you in here”,
One of the locals spit,
“We don’t like your looks,
Besides, you smell like sh*t”.
Quietly his beer sat down
The Stranger slowly turned
And deep inside him
His rage began to burn
As he faced them,
With shoulders wide and stout
His rage was building to a peak
Soon, he’d let it out
On his face a scar…
Across one eye and down a cheek
He looked them all up and down,
But still … he didn’t speak
“Get you’re a** out of here!”,
The local speaker said
“’Cuz if you don’t I’m tellin’ ya’
You’re gonna wish that you was dead!”
The Stranger at the bar there
Only moved his eyes
‘Twas these kinds of a**holes
He really did despise.
Then a local rushed the Stranger
And felt his cheekbone break
When he hit the floor
No longer was he awake
The second local right behind
Heard his sternum snap
As most his ribs
Turned instantly to scrap
Martial art was tried
Of karate kick
Both legs were broke
Bones through his pants did stick
Finally the “speaker” screamed
As a fist he threw
A broken arm at the socket
The arm twisted and askew.
All four locals lay whimpering
Lying on the floor
The Stranger drank his beer
Then headed for the door
But just before he left
I heard myself inquire:
“I’ve seen quick fightin’
But … how did you acquire …?”
He stopped in his tracks,
And faced me man to man
“Those skills I’ve used in Iraq,
But I hope not in Iran …”
“All fightin’ should be avoided
At least that’s how I feel …
But if I’m forced to fight … I can,
See … I’m a Navy Seal.”
|Did It Matter?©|
Posted: 4/2/2008 9:31:07 PM
|Did it matter? …I mean, we get on the merry-go-round, watch the sights as they go by, interact with a few people along the way, then we get off at the end of the ride. It’s over.|
Other than having children and starting them out on their merry-go-round ride, what does the average person accomplish in the period between birth and death? (The significance on a tombstone (1851 – 1901) is the “dash” between the two dates, because that’s where all the life was consumed, and it seems to me that “dash” should be a lot bigger and a lot longer).
Looking back at the dusty trail that is our lifetime, what did we leave of importance to our posterity along the roadside?
Each of us must answer that question, at least unto ourselves, sometime before we die.
|A Gentle Friend©|
Posted: 4/13/2008 7:59:06 PM
|It only takes about five solitary minutes, if there are no disturbances from doorbells, cell phones, or television sets; For it to happen, there must be nothing but a single source of uninterrupted music.|
The music must be that which you, personally, have selected to be reproduced. It should be a mix of slow and up-beat tunes, inter-disbursed one with the other. The tunes, however, must be those that have special meaning for just you – they must trigger memories of specific moments in your life the instant you hear them.
It doesn’t have to be in a darkened room, but, it’s better if it is.
It is imperative that you be totally relaxed, and lying down.
Turn on the device that will reproduce the music for you.
Close your eyes.
As the notes of that first tune invade your mind your journey begins …
The melodies erase more and more years as they tap on the Doors of Memories … and as those doors crack open, cherished faces and familiar places lift out of the lessening fog as bided …
Recalled laughter and smiles begin to intermix with the misty melody, and the two become inseparable … the touch of hands … a warm, soft caress … a dance … a stolen kiss …
The music beckons more memories …
There’s a walk in the moonlight … a soiled shirt, from a spilled drink … a broken heel off her shoe … again, there’s laughter
The graduation dance … the first fraternity or sorority party …
The military … the homecomings … Mom and Dad, sis and brother …
A magical courtship … a wedding day and reception … the honeymoon …
A child’s birth … followed by a birthday party … and a graduation day …
That memorable vacation … a tragedy of loss … a recovery …
These and so many more wonders, glide effortlessly across the musical stair-steps that take you up and down their twisting path … then … you seamlessly slide into restful sleep and pursue the pleasantries the music brings to you …
Music. A gentle friend of us all.
|Build, destroy, rebuild|
Posted: 4/13/2008 10:58:06 PM
|We build our defenses against the emotional rapists, and huddle behind the ramparts protected by the moat of painfully remembered, but dead, floating relationships – which remain our proof and justifications to never go there again. Beware, indeed, and rightfully so. |
Facades of humor, or aloofness, or pseudo work further our defensive stances, and forbid entry by another.
But the loving infant boy or girl in each of us longs to trust, and provide - and receive -love. Living behind a moat protected rampart, does nothing to re-enforce the belief that we can ever trust again. It serves only to prolong our emotional self-preservation.
In our future, so great will the basic human need to trust and be trusted, to love and in return be loved, that first a window will be allowed, then, after a period of observation, so will there be a door constructed in our ramparts … and a drawbridge of faith extended across our moat. All this will occur because man is not meant to be an island unto himself, and the deep ancestral need to commune and interact with societal peers, in the end, will prevail.
Our caution will be heightened and honed to a high degree, and our antenna, (searching for betrayal), will be hooked to our alarm system, activating our retreat mechanisms at the slightest justification.
The final result will be: Another life; Another love; and more enduring trust, but the cost of the trip to find them will have been high, i.e., heart ache, tears, pain, irreplaceable loss of precious time, and needless self-evaluation – because the emotional rapist we dealt with was not of our doing, but theirs.