Not Walton Mountain

Not Walton Mountain
O

outis

Registrant
Work is done and a meal too large sates my burgeoning belly. I recall Odysseus said in his wanderings that every man is a slave to his stomach. A colorful sunset paints the sky with hope for a bright day tomorrow.

Darkness settles around our home like a blanket of snow protecting animals in their quiet slumber. Darkness sends its bone chilling tendrils into my bedroom. Across a quarter century his hands reach for me, fingers so gentle on my skin like hammers on my soul. This man was slave to an evil hunger and my body was to provide his temporary relief. My very mind warped and buckled beneath the tremendous psychic torsion. Unfolding it is a lesson in suffering. Some creases will never fade.

The fire that gives no warmth sears my mind and chills my body, igniting fears wherever it goes. The old struggle begins anew. Light will come again, but first the life long reward of his temporary relief is mine to enjoy once more. This night, like so many, is long.

Hmmm, wouldn't it be simpler to say I'm afraid of the dark?

Good night,

Joe
 
Joe,

Simpler, maybe.

But then where would I go to find the transmutative power in the beauty of your words?

The images cast from the heart of your imagination do much more than simply say you are afraid of the dark.

They tell of your fear of the dark and then,

they illumine the darknening shadows of your life and of mine.

And that is a wonderfully marvelous thing for you to do, my friend.


Your brother,
 
Danny, I couldn't have said any better.

Joe,
This man was slave to an evil hunger and my body was to provide his temporary relief. My very mind warped and buckled beneath the tremendous psychic torsion. Unfolding it is a lesson in suffering. Some creases will never fade.
Click to expand...
The dark of night doesn't bother me. My enslavement to his evil hunger does.

I've suffered enough for this lifetime. It's my time live a little.

When do we say enough of this, the abuse won't rule my life any more?

I think my inner child is beginning to see that me, the man, can indeed stand up for himself. Freedom is a choice.

Thanks for your poetic words Joe and Danny.

Jer
 
Ya, you guys ARE good.

I'm afraid that when I try to wax poetic, it comes out:

"Roses are red.........."

Beautiful stuff, you two, keep it up, you're liable to culturize us up.

David
 
Joe
Our local city, Wolverhampton, has as it's motto -

"Out of darkness, cometh light."

Dave
 
Thanks again, guys. "If you keep paying attention, he'll just keep it up!"

Seriously, I told a friend recently how much I wish I could find myself driven to write about the beauty that I have received in my life instead of stuff like this. I have a burning desire to get this stuff out, described as vividly as I can. I expect to feel release, relief, when I get it on paper or online and for a short while, I do. But the pressure relentlessly builds again. I compared this recent spurt of posts to "siphoning a geyser dry through a straw."

Somehow I'm afraid that the straw won't be up to the task, and an eruption is in the offing. Maybe if I could spray tears I could get that relief. I could rest.

Thanks again. You really are too kind, but keep it up. :)

Joe
 
OK, I got back today and the van was not in the driveway. Immediately I began to worry about whether my family had been killed on the road today. I came inside to find the boys playing GameCube and a note from Susie about taking our daughter to the orthodontist.

I mention that because I think it might have been a trigger. I didn't get settled down. I ended up writing this, and it wasn't even dark outside:

These rumblings come from deep beneath the mantle of competence that I wear to deceive the outside world. They are the heralds of the seismic changes to come, precursors of the tectonic forces preparing to alter the map of my mind.

I am pulled in all directions as the weight of the years crushes me. Torn to smithereens. I am trapped in a foreign body with a mind I don't recognize as my own and the resounding echoes of that boy's silent scream drowning my attempts at coherence.

I want to run with the wind, releasing the pain with a shriek of madness. I want to shrink to insignificance and slip away, unnoticed and unremarked. I want to punch the wall. I want to kiss my children. I want to plunge into the fiery crimson ball of the setting sun, or drift into the long, cold, blue sleep of hypothermia. Images burst into my mind like explosions from some grand pyrotechnic celebration. Words leap unbidden from my pen to this paper.

I want to rest. I want to be still and feel peace. All emotion save this terrible urgency has been wrung out of my soul like dishwater from a dirty, wet rag. Like that rag I dry and grow stiff, immobile, but the urgency consumes me like a flame.


I could have left this on the paper where it probably belongs, but I didn't. Susie read this thread today, at my request. Then tonight she said she wondered what my definition of a good day was. I had thought that last Monday was.

Thanks for letting me vent,

Joe
 
Joe,

Vent? I think that you should read some of your stuff at the conference; ya, it's that good!!

You've got me hanging on for the forthcoming Vesuvius.

I suppose that it will feel like that to you.

After all, it's only your guts that you'll be spilling.

But realize, that while it may feel like your tearing your heart out, you'll actually be setting it free.

Free, Joe, like never before.

Free to love, to a depth that you've never thought possible.

Someone has had your heart, and he has been able to twist it any time he has wanted to.

But you're taking it back and you're going to set it free.

Encouraging and waiting to celebrate your freedom,

David
 
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