Monkey infinitum

…wherever she’s going I hope she makes it safely…

God awaits

in potential

in hope

We must not crush that hope

that potential

For then we forsake Him

and hope is lost.

Standing in the forest

The scrubby brush nearby nearly engulfs me, surrounds me, wants to pull me down

The arms of the trees reach upwards, always upwards

Too close, the gases choke my breath, some perfuméd, some sick with death

…

We wait

…

The doors open

much jostling, not a word

the trees move onward, outward, rushing ever rushing upwards

to make room for more

rebuilding the forest under the ground

There is hope here, and beauty as well.

There must be – I can’t believe otherwise.

I must believe better things are here.

I must.

I observe the hard-felt faces

of those pressed ’round my plight

They see nought of what I was

just that which they can take.

My dashéd hopes return with nothing

as if nought had ever been.

When was that moment

that sliver of time

that deciding breakpoint

when we, as narrator above this all,

would say

“This, my friends“

(as we would say in hushéd tone)

…was the moment it all fell down“

Floods of people

spilling over the smelly grimy greasy ground.

Gingerly stepping ’round the rubbish

left behind by fellow travellers.

How to see beauty in all this?

This path sickens me.

Yet here I must remain

a drop in the flood of men.

This pain is new;

the fire still stings my heart.

Where then shall I go?

The ones who should listen will not hear me

My grief echoes theirs; building up their dull tormént.

Hear then, mine ear, my cry, my fall –

my release, if but a while.

Scrambled egg

2 Sausage Links

2 Fried Tomato Halves

Cup of water

£2.76

Their eyes are all I see

All else, reverts to black

And then, not even then

would I peer into those holes.

My gaze averts to dirt and ground

to halt a breach of peace.

From above, a booming, thunderous crash

– the thump-thump-thump of hell

What, perchance?

Missiles, war, angry angels?

No –

’tis the ungainly strides

of the looming folk o’erhead.

My sleep – it is unwell.

For to ask of those in higher places

to tread less heavily

I fear their wrath to chase.

Nay, tonight my sleep shall break anew

Whilst above, large feet will tread.

We all can hear the train

it calls

The rails sing its approach

it calls

The crowd, it moves to see

it calls

…the train come out to feed

it calls

It cries for me to leap

it calls

O not today, o train, I say

it calls it calls it calls

An early morning journey led me down a new path.

It was new to me but not new to the erosion of time.

It was on this path that I glanced down to see the rat.

It wasn’t a particularly engaging rat; he (or she, as it may have been) appeared rather largish, but otherwise was most ordinary in rat-like respects.

The thing that jumped out at me was that this rat, unlike others I’ve heard in the walls at night, was dead.

Dead and bleached to a whitish-grey colour with time and exposure.

“Now,” I said to myself, as I was alone (with the exception of the dead, decaying rat, and one does not speak in public to such things, for fear of being labelled as a lunatic) “now why would no one clean up this rat?”

Then I looked about more closely, and saw that the rat fit in well with the decor of the rest of the neighbourhood.

It will be a long time before I pass that way again, I pray.

My Heart is gone.

• somewhere

Is it safe?  Will I find it again?

• somewhere

If my Heart makes its way back to me, will I recognise it?

• somewhere

I pray to God to Whom we pledged our Hearts would beat as One

• somewhere

…that we would be made whole again.

• somewhere

It was an absolutely stunning morning in sunny Bournemouth, England. Then again, most of them are.

This was just one particularly memorable day.

It wasn’t because of the brisk morning clear air. Nor was it because of the unique scent of sea breeze rushing past, carrying with it the omnipresent gulls and occasional songbird.

No, it wasn’t because of the sight of brick buildings that make England o so England, nor the windy, curvy, hilly streets that barely equal the width of a sidewalk in downtown Houston, Texas.

Neither was it the smells of the food wafting from the open shop doors as I walked my way past them to the work shuttle waiting area.

It certainly was not because of the sounds of people quietly but busily murmuring in many many different languages as they selected their breakfasts and the occasional biscuit or packet of cigarettes, and as they picked up one or two of many many many options with regards to printed news.

Those were just the wonderfully ordinary, usual experiences one would encounter on a normal morning in Bournemouth.

What captured my attention was something that was out of place in this calm but bustling place.

Something that seemed to stop time for a spell, and blotted out all sounds save one, while thoughts raced through my head…

Shouting. Girl.

Young girl running.

Hair flailing in the wind, arms raised

Panic.

Man. Large man

Man running after the girl.

My heart beats in time with her panic

Help her

But I’m a foreigner in a strange land

Confrontation. Deportation.

Me with no income? My kids with no money.

Girl shouts again.

Man still running

Girl running quickly. Not as fast as man.

What will happen when he catches her?

Decision. Make it now.

I have kids to take care of.

Ugh.

If this were MY kid being chased, what would I do?

Who would help then?

Ugh.

Decision made.

I run.

Wait, I see more.

I stop.

I laugh.

Heart pounds, then calms… but the chuckle and laughter continues for awhile. Other sounds of the world slowly fade back into focus. Color comes back to a momentarily-bleached background of people, buildings, trees, and birds.
That particular morning was very very memorable not so much of the man chasing the girl, nor even the girl herself really. What stands out in my mind was what I didn’t see from my original viewpoint.

Viewpoints are important. They kind of define what we think, since we use the input from our various senses to help make decisions.

In this case, after my viewpoint was adjusted a little when I stepped forward to help what seemed to be a dire situation, I could see the full picture.

The man was indeed running.

The girl was indeed running.

The girl was indeed shouting in a panic.

She was not shouting because she feared the man.

The man was probably not even aware of the girl.

They were both running because of what I didn’t see.

I didn’t see the bus they were both chasing, and for which she was shouting.

It was indeed a memorable day in Bournemouth.

Well here we are again.

Bournemouth, this time!