Tuesday, June 30, 2015

The Axe and the Dawn.

The morning sky as work begins. 

I’m pretty good with an axe. It comes from very long years of chopping wood when I was a kid and then moving out into the woods where trees die of natural causes, fall down, and go boom. I do own a chainsaw and I can use it with reasonable proficiency but I intend to have some down time, some time alone, and this means no chainsaw. I have never cut myself with an axe, at least not badly, and honestly, I’ve never cut myself with a chainsaw. But I have seen what accidents with chainsaws look like, and trust me, you do not want to be the better part of an hour away from an Emergency Room with a cut from a chainsaw. I certainly don’t. Oh, and by the way, I just want to cut this tree up with an axe. 

I saw this coming, no pun intended, because the tree, even though it was really very green and bushy, had a black spot on it that meant there was some rot inside. All the rains we’ve had this year have meant fuller limbs, more leaves, more new growth, and some trees just cannot handle it. They break. They die. And this one broke in half with the top half crashing down in the fence and blocking the trail. But the thick part of the tree was still connected to the trunk so it left sort of a wooden Sword Of Damocles hanging over the dogs as they trod the trail. 


Tanya the Destroyer passes fearlessly under the Broken Tree!



This sort of thing is plenty weird. It may fall in five minutes or it may be there a year from now. I couldn’t tell what was keeping it connected but I couldn’t push it over either. It was time to break out the axe, the bush hook, two six inch pieces of PVC pipe and a couple of round fence posts.

Hey! I got this, relax!

The bushy stuff has to go first. I have to get down to the bare bones of the main limb by trimming away the branches. The bush hook is good for everything less than firewood size and it goes quickly. I have to cross the fence onto my neighbor’s property so I clear away some of the fenceline for him. I know how to keep a bush hook sharp so it goes quickly even in the heat. I haul all the bushy and springy stuff to the firepit and the pile grows. About half an hour later I’m down to one large branch that’s about ten feet long and the axe makes its first appearance. I know how to sharpen an axe, too, and the branch is separated from the main trunk very quickly. I end over end it to the firepit and then the real work has to begin.

Tanya inspects the firepit before the new arrivals


The photo above is the before shot of the firepit and the one below is the firepit after the first day of Axing. 

Lilith and Tanya inspect the work 


The first cut
I think one cut on the firewood sized main trunk will cause the rest of the tree to come down. I might, or might not, be right. I’ve learned to have patience with this sort of thing. I start the cut plenty wide and large chunks of woods vacate when the axe head hits. I’m impressed with my progress. I’m also impressed that the middle part of the tree is rotten and hollow. That makes my job so much easier. I hack away but much to my surprise, the piece I’m cutting doesn’t affect the arch. It breaks away, the end of the tree falls forward, but the end is still connected to the trunk. I have to make yet another cut to get the arch to fall! 






By that time, I’m getting spent. It’s ninety degrees out and the humidity is brutal. I’m panting. I’m sweating from every pore. And I am happy. This is the best work out ever! But the arch has to fall. This is a Quest. I must die if the arch does not fall!








The second cut on the main trunk

































I'm sweating gallons and I'm exhausted. Worse and worse, the branch shifts, turns, but doesn't break or fall. Finally, the cut is complete. After some huffing and puff the arch falls and the dogs are all safe! 
In the background, Tanya flees the fallen arch!


End Axe One, Scene One! 


Tuesday morning see one cut and a lot of hauling.  


I have to cut this piece in half to get it to move, but no worries. After that, everything gets put on the rollers and is rolled nearly without effort to the firepit. 





All the big stuff has been moved, all the little stuff has been moved, and all in all, everything that needs to be out into the firepit is there. All I needs was an axe, a bushhook, two pieces of PVC and two fence posts! 

And a lot of sweat. 

Take Care,
Mike




Monday, June 29, 2015

Someone Else's Dream




There’s a dream I’ve been having lately, reoccurring but spotty as hell. In the dream I’m walking down a field road and it’s overgrown and thick enough to slow me down but not overly so. It’s Spring and I can smell the plants growing and hear the birds singing. It’s a beautiful day, or it had been the two or three times I’ve had the dream. I’m walking along and there’s a slight rise in the land and as I top the rise I see a young man, maybe in his thirties, who is standing at the bottom of this slight hill, and he’s all sorts of out of sorts.

He’s has no idea where he is or for that matter, who he is, or why he’s here. He can speak English, certainly, but then it occurs to me that I am not aware of what language I speak until I pay attention to it. If Russian was suddenly my native tongue would I realize it? I have no idea what makes me think of this while I’m trying to help the young man, but I do.

Back to the very agitated young man.


He’s got longish hair but not overly so but he does keep brushing it back away from his eyes even when it isn’t there. His hair is jet black with no hint of grey yet and he’s got dark eyes. He’s wearing a long sleeve knitted sweater as if he’s dressed for much colder weather than what’s here, wherever here might be. I simplify things for him a bit; I show him the tracks my boots have made in the dirt going back uphill. He looks at the bottom of his shoes and then we search for which direction he came from. Nothing.

“You’re part of my dream” I tell him. That goes over really well.

So he tell me that he’s a real person and that I am part of his dream, but he has to admit that I left footprints and he didn’t. That’s one for the home team. I also remember who I am and I know where I am, kinda. And I’m dressed for the weather and he isn’t. I feel much better about all of this than the young man does. But then he asks me if I know I am dreaming why don’t I wake up? I rarely don’t know I’m dreaming, to some degree and rarely does this wake me up.

The young man turns and runs away, full gallop, trips, spins and then falls on his back, rolls up, and runs away some more. I stand there and watch all of this but soon enough he’s gone and out of sight. I keep walking, because now I am pretty sure I’m going to wake up. The dream feels less real and some of the background is fading away from me. The birds are gone and the scent of flowers is missing down.

“What if you’re wrong?” And there he is as if he never left.
“What if you’re part of my dream?” he asks and I have to admit I have no answers to his questions.

So we both sit down together and try to figure out which one of us doesn’t exist. The fact that he remembers nothing of who he is and I can remember my name says a lot. I run through common names for guys in America, and it is odd that I keep thinking he’s foreign, but nothing rings a bell. He asks me where I live and I tell him that we’re in a place called Hickory Head, in South Georgia, but he’s drawing a blank there. I ask him what he expects to see here and he’s lost at that question.

We sit in silence and I can smell things again and hear things again as well. Is this a younger version of myself? No, the hair is too thick. I was going bald in my twenties. Is this a younger version of someone I knew? He looks oddly familiar. But I would have remembered someone so agitated.

“So this is it?” he asks and I have no idea what he’s saying.
“No, really, if I am part of your dream is this the best you can do?” He stands up and looks around. “Your mind invents me and all it can do is have me lost in this goddamn field?”

Whoa.

I never thought about it. I never thought that maybe my dreams might demand more from me than whatever was going on. I start to apologize and wonder what I’m apologizing for. I’m sorry I’m not more creative when I’m asleep? Sorry Kate Upton isn’t here serving tea? (Truly!) Or that he and I aren’t on the space shuttle talking about existence while landing on the moon?


Believe it or not, I have had this discussion with myself. I’ve had sex dreams with women I’ve known, some of them with women who aren’t interested in me as far as I know, and it’s more than a little disconcerting to talk to a woman awake when I was naked with her in my sleep less than a day ago. I always feel a little strange waking up from those dreams as if it’s an invasion of their privacy.

Really, though, the young man has a point, if this is my dream is this the best I get? I could have any number of exciting dreams but I’m talking to a figment of my imagination who is have an existential meltdown. Does this seem right to you, Jubal Early?


The young man walks around hugging his arms around his sides. “I’ve got to go.” He tells me this as he walks off. “At least give me a damn name next time.”

I watch as he walks away, down the same path he ran earlier and I have no idea how he got back to where we were so quickly. I turn and walk away and hear the sounds of birds, smell the scent of wet dogs, and realize Tyger Linn has just leapt upon the bed and wanted breakfast.

The young man disappears and he is forever nameless.

Take Care,

Mike

Sunday, June 28, 2015

Windstream Minus Three Days




Someone from Windstream called me and they want to come out and look at the problem. I’m all for it but I’m not going to skip out on work for them to give me a four hour window of possible service so we agreed to meet Wednesday. I have mixed emotions about all of this because I think I can live without them but if I could get internet worth paying for I would. So we’re going to see what they can do Wednesday and if they can get me they promised it will be a done deal. If they cannot it will be equally as done.

I find myself losing my emotional connection to Facebook after just three days of sporadic use. When I can access the net there’s already a million things I want to do and with a limited amount of time there is just so little left over for trying to find out what someone ate for lunch today. I am also losing touch with people in Dog Rescue and that’s a bad thing. Social Media was born to serve those who serve the lives of dogs and other pets. I miss reading about those people who rescue to the point of being a borderline hoarding suspect. (You know who you are!)

I use to get about fifty notifications every morning in my inbox from people commenting on things I had liked or commented on and that’s down to less than a dozen in the last three days. The closest analogy I can think of for this is a man who counts his empty beer bottles and after slacking off realizes that he really was drinking too much.

There’s a couple of people I haven’t interacted with in three days and I miss reading those people. Of all the practical uses of the internet and social media, one of the fringe benefits is being able to interact with people from foreign countries like, England, Russia, and California. The Russians I have met have all been very fascinating people who are living in very interesting times in that country. If I had to comment on my English speaking friends in Canada I would tell you they are a thoughtful and kind group of people, but I could quite easily be speaking of the Russians who I suspect need Google to translate some of what I write as I need that service to speak to them. Yet I find the Russians a people very much worth the effort of trying to understand. I think we should all try harder to understand people in places very unlike where we live.

It’s an imperfect tool, Google Translate and I remember the first translation site I ever saw, Babel Fish, which was really imperfect, but it would get you into the ball park. GT does it a little better and I like to follow threads on FB where the Russians are talking about something or nothing. The alphabet is something called Cyrillic and so there’s no trying to piece together the words at all from experience with English. But there are some words in Cyrillic and therefore Russian I’m beginning to see reappear or reoccur and that’s a start.

Whatever else you can say about the internet the fact that it gives ordinary people access to how other ordinary people’s lives in astounding. I know people in nearly every state in America, quite a few in English speaking places, and a half dozen or so in places where English is a second language, at best. The idea that I can watch a home video filmed in California or Ohio or Moscow is an amazing thing if you think about it. I can see photos of people in their homes with their pets and kids, and I even know a lot of children and pets by their names. These kids are going to grow up knowing they have access to other people everywhere. That is truly amazing.

The idea of knowing people, reading about their lives, discovering that there are many different ways to live, is breathtaking. But we also now have the ways and means to listen to music made by people we might not have ever heard of before were it not for the net. We get to read fiction written by people we would have never discovered. We get to experience art in a medium that wasn’t even dreamed of twenty-five years ago. The human experience is now global in a way that ought to make us stop with wonder.

When we aren’t look at photos of cats with terrible English captions.


In my life I have had two dreams where I was at the very dawn of writing becoming a widespread medium. The first dream I was sitting next to a man who, despite the grave misgivings of other men he respected and maybe even revered, had planned to teach writing to as many people as he could. The next dream I was the person chosen to teach writing to others while it was still in its infancy. The thrill of expressing ideas to other human beings without those people even being able to see the person doing the thinking was truly incredible. I just wish I would have been able to invent the sarcasm font while I was at it.

So here’s the thing and there is really no getting around it; the internet rocks. At the same time, as we spread ourselves out into the ether we manage to ignore the here and now. We spend so much time at the keyboard interacting with people in faraway places our next door neighbors become invisible strangers.

I think having limited access to the net might be the best thing that has happened to me in a while. If they can’t or won’t give me what I want, I might just sit it out and try to figure out what I did with my time before some cute farmer’s daughter in Nebraska enthralled me with her stories about chopping ice so the cows could drink water in the dead of winter.

But you have to admit, after seeing photos of that, it’s hard to go back to being fascinated by what’s happening here.

Take Care,

Mike

Thursday, June 25, 2015

Windstream Minus One Day



So far it looks a lot like this:  If I want to get something done early in the day I have to get up in time to hit Starbucks before I go to work. If I want to get something done at the end of the day I have to get off work in time to get to the library before it closes. Those rare lunch hours that someone doesn’t want to monopolize my time I can hit Wendy’s. Oddly, after Day One of No Windstream, I find myself being more productive with what little time I have access to the internet.

The problems with Windstream were like having a leak in a hose on your car. It wasn’t really bad at first, just mildly annoying. Streaming video was the first part of the service to really bottom out and regular videos began spent more time “buffering” than playing. Okay, so I gave up on that. Then streaming music began to short out on a more and more regular basis and my internet music went the way of video. Then websites began to take dial-up times to load and that was about it. When photos started timing out I knew it was time to drop Windstream.

I’ve looked into Hughes Net but the customer reviews aren’t as happy as I would like. There seems to be a good sprinkling of positive reviews as well as an equal number of people, like myself, who would rather do without than pay for one more day of truly slow internet service. I’m going to take my time looking because believe it or not, losing my home internet service hasn’t been the end of the world as some might think it would be.

I miss my daily comics. There’s about fifteen that I follow, did follow that is, but it’s not like anyone ever died of “Pearls Before Swine” withdrawal. I do miss “Questionable Content” and “Overboard” but again, it isn’t lowering my quality of life. Face Book, that time suck that people love to hate and hate to love, isn’t totally gone but I have to watch my data plan and make sure liking someone’s cute dog photos doesn’t cost me my house.  So this is which way the pressure lies.

There’s a bit of research I must do when I write. I’ve started making lists of things I want to take the time to search for, hit a place with free wifi then find the most likely site that will help, cut the article out, past it into Word, and read it later, offline. It’s clunky but it’s free. This sucks but it is still better than poring through hardcovers like people used to have to do before the internet.

The upside is without the internet I am doing more writing, at least on Windstream, Minus One Day. And I still own a small library of reference material. I looked up a word in a real dictionary today and realized I missed doing that. I can still navigate the hardcover even if I can’t

Another downside is my devices, my Kindle, my phone, and my computer, aren’t synched anymore. If I read part of a book on my computer and then pick my Kindle up later I have to search manually for the right page number. That seems awfully small as I read it here now.


Another upside is that I am no longer spending as much time, or money, on Amazon. I’m pretty sure I won’t forget birthdays or things like that but not having instant access to shopping seems to be a good thing at this moment.


Right now, I would have to say that I’m feeling anger more than anything else. I spend more than a decade having landline service and internet with Windstream. Yet when they couldn’t provide the service I was paying for they seemed more than happy to simply cut the cord and walk away. They’re the longest running, they were the longest running, service provider that I had for any of my home utilities except electricity. Hell, having a land line out this far was a challenge there for a while, but their service department always came through, eventually. Even last December, when it was raining an inch an hour I still had fairly decent internet service most of the day. But the last month or so? Wow! Things have never sucked that bad before.

I just cannot shake the feeling this was Windstream’s way of getting rid of customers in out of the way places. It’s like home delivery of newspapers; back in the day when everyone read the newspaper, before the internet, the newspaper people would deliver to anywhere they could throw a paper, and I was part of that for a long time. I would hire people to throw routes and if a customer wanted a box next to their driveway we got it there the next day! But that was many years ago and now there are places papers don’t, and won’t deliver to anymore. I’m not sure if my theory is correct but I can see the infrastructure needed for the internet being more expensive to maintain for someone living in the woods versus feeding the web to an apartment complex in town. My journey to live further away from civilization may have inadvertently just become more successful thanks to Windstream.

Thanks, Guys!


At Windstream Minus One Day I cannot tell you that I feel a sense of loss. Of course, I’ll have to post this so you can read it at six tomorrow morning at Starbucks but I think they serve coffee there. I’m thinking about getting a hotspot so I can have some access but I have no idea about cost versus value of the product at this point or whether or not it would work way out here. The journey continues. It’s going to be interesting to see if other internet providers begin backing away from the countryside in the name of the bottom line.

Take Care,
Mike



Tuesday, June 23, 2015

Pulling The Plug On Windstream




In the days to come you’re going to see a lot less of me that you’ve been seeing, at least on Facebook. Tagging me isn’t going to attract my attention like it has and sending me messages isn’t going to elicit an immediate response. For better or worse and ever it may bring, I am going off the grid for a while, maybe longer.

It’s been a problem getting internet service out here ever since dial-up was installed. In rainy weather the dial up would stop working, they would show up three days later when the sun was shining and tell me nothing was wrong. When they went over to DSL it was heaven on earth, except in rainy weather, and here more recently, all the time. It’s always been a bit spotty and there have always been certain times of the day and on weekends when everything has been really slow but I could always count on that time before five in the morning as being decent enough to, at least, read my email. For the last week or so it’s been a real struggle to get anything at all done and I’ve pretty much had enough.

I have this deep seated suspicion that Windstream would rather me not be a customer than keep me. After all, I am the last person on the last line in the entire state and just to get to where I am they have to hope the driveway is passable, which it is as long as you are not in a hurry. I suspect they’ve done the math and they figure they’re going to lose more time trying to find a way to pipe the internet to my house than to keep it sputtering along until I give up.

So…I give up.

The things that I spent a lot of my time doing on the Internet aren’t exactly my more productive hours. I have a weekly column I write at Bits and Pieces every Friday that would take about two minutes to send off. I like to keep in touch with Dog Rescue in this area but that should devour an hour a day. All in all, the internet is for me, in its present state, a waste of time and money. I have to plan to be able to go somewhere there is free wi-fi, like Starbucks or the local library, if I really have to get anything done. I spend more time calling customer service, unplugging, waiting two minutes, plugging it back in, waiting to see if there is an outage in my area and seeing what the chicken bones scattered across a tabletop tells them than I do getting things done.

I did manage to get in ten minutes yesterday watching the world’s largest line of dominoes fall.

See the problem?

So as much as I’m going to miss FB and keeping up with who is pissed off about what and keeping tabs on what part of the world Taylor Swift has taken over recently, I’m cutting the cord when I get home today. They said they’d go out there, again, and look at my connection, again, but we’ve been down this road before, Neo, and you know where it ends.

I remember the first time I got internet service in my first house way back in 1997. It was one of the most amazing things I had ever seen in my life. But I never knew how totally weird it would get, how totally awesome some of the things I have seen would be, some of the people I would meet, or how much time could go into the net, even when it’s not working. I’ve spent more time trying to get it to work than it’s spent working. It’s like watching a bird go back to an empty feeder day after day after day and wondering how stupid that bird can be.

I have to admit that I am going to miss my daily comic strips.

The upside to this is I’m not going to spend as much time playing on the internet when I’m at home. This usually translates into more writing. The Story of the Murderous Banker intrigues me greatly. It may sound to you a bit odd but I have no idea how the story ends. I have to work on that. I know how the murder occurs and when the murder occurs, and even who goes to prison for the murder but I had no idea what happens after that and maybe nothing has to happen after that, you know?

It’s easy to get caught up catching up with what’s happening online. In Dog Rescue, there is always a dog that’s missing, escaped, needs a home, needs a foster, and never a day goes by I’m not tagged in a FB post that involves dogs. Not that I mind at all but at the same time, just stopping to look at tags causes stopping to look at other things as well. SQUIRREL!

I’ve had an internet connection in my house since I’ve lived here and it’s going to be strange not to have one. True enough, I can still do email, text, and that kind of stuff, but my phone is small and my eyes are weak. The email address I have with my service is the only one some people have ever known me by. It’s going to be odd to let that go, too.

This is the age of letting go and moving on, it would seem. This is the Year of Loss. But there is never anything really lost for we never own anything but the current moment that we live, and that too, very soon ends, whether we like it or not.

The money I save on not paying for internet may mean more money for tattoos and that is always a good thing. It’s time to be inked again. If I go under the needle soon I will let you know.

Take Care,

Mike

Saturday, June 20, 2015

The Hot Walk and the Murdering Banker.



I know better than to set off alone in this sort of heat, at this time of day, and to top it all off, to do so on a path I know is a little more than dangerous. I get outside and it’s pushed up to 93 degrees with humidity way past the point of pleasure. There’s something to be said for doing things other people tell you not to do because it’s dangerous. I’m going to do the better part of seven miles in the heat and I’m going to do it in less than two hours. It’s a quarter ‘til one in the afternoon.

There’s a short story forming in my head and I like it. I have no idea what it is, mind you, but I know it’s a good one, like the package that arrived yesterday with the Savannah Mug inside. The Savannah Mug was sent by my older sister and it holds enough coffee to get me through a good short story, but I have no idea who this one is, yet. It’s forming, forming, forming…


My entire body begins to sweat as the heat soaks through my clothes. It’s hard to breathe in the heat but that’s normal at first. The body has to adjust to the idea of the environment being nearly as hot as the body. The body orders sweat to be pumped out of the pores and I can feel it begin. There is no breeze. There is no shade. I can feel the heat soaking into my clothes and I’m glad for the protection.


Hamilton. Howard Hamilton. As a kid his father was a banker and he wanted to grow up to be a banker. He liked being Howard Hamilton II. No, wait, it’s Hamilton Howard, yes, that’s better. Because as much as he is a part of his father’s world, even as a kid, his own world, as a kid, is pretty wretched. Hamilton is nothing if not a long range planner, even as a kid. He makes friends with much larger kids and buys them candy so they’ll protect him from the school bully, Travis Peacock. Travis hates Hamilton because he’s rich and makes fun of him. He calls him “Hamster” and regrettably, it catches on.

There’s a ditch running across the path at the first mile mark and he gives me the choice of trying to cross it or going around it. It’s choked with briars and thorny vines so I pick a path dead through the middle of it. It’s far too early in this walk to be dodging hard tasks. The idea of forging ahead appeals to me in a very strong way. One down and six to go, and the heat is holding steady at 93 degrees. I can feel the sweat now; it is the lubrication for hard work and hard walks.


Hamilton falls in love in the third grade with Nancy Pauline Stanton. She’s pretty, shy, and unfortunately for Hamilton, lives on the same road as Travis. In an event that defines the relationship of two boys, Hamilton pays two much older kids to beat Travis senseless. Undaunted even after the beating, Travis punches Hamilton in the lunchroom and gets expelled. The rivalry begins.

There’s a part of the trail that’s covered in ruts and knee deep weeds. The weeds hold heat close to the ground and as I walk through them they release it. There’s a strong botanical smell to the walk now as if a lawn in hell was being mowed. The noxious insects, the gnats, the stinging flies, the six legged creatures who really like the tastes of salty flesh, yes, they are all there waiting for me. I have to slog through all of that to get to a clearer part of the trail but mile two falls behind me. My feet hurt from the unevenness of the trail and I know my knees will speak with me about this matter tomorrow morning. There’s a certain amount of weirdness next as there is a farmer who uses this part of the trail to move his equipment to one field to another. It’s going to be very rough and very uneven.


In High School, the gap between Hamilton’s wealth and Travis’ poverty is beginning to become even more clear. Nancy Pauline likes both boys but she also like riding to school in a car rather than taking the bus or walking. Hamilton picks her up and smirks as he passes Travis waiting in the cold at the bus stop with the other kids. The first date arrives with Hamilton’s family and Nancy Pauline’s family all awash in joy. Their little kids are growing up. Nancy Pauline’s father sees a great future ahead for his little girl. He’s worked at the mill all his life and he see his retirement in the relationship.


Now the trail opens up, at mile four, and I can get some time in, but the open area allows the sun to really beat down on me. I can feel it. I can feel the thermocline between the top of my hat and my head. I can feel the heat soaked into the sleeves of my shirt. I can feel the heat in my boots as if I have waded in it like a creek. I can feel in on my breath and taste it in my mouth. I know better than to wipe my eyes because the sweat will be smeared into my vision and not away from it. I blink the wetness away and keep walking. My hands are getting a little numb.

The final chapter in the rivalry, in as much as there really is one, is written in the senior year. Hamilton has a firm grip on Nancy Pauline’s affection and her family’s. All Travis has is his one change to get out and get ahead, as the High School quarterback. On the last play of the last game a defender hits Travis hard and his right knee is shattered. Hamilton see this as a sign from the Gods that he has won, and why shouldn’t he?

College goes as planned, there is the wedding, there is the first child, and life is very good. The next child arrives on time, Hamilton steps up and into his father’s old office and they have but to life out the dream, raise their kids to be the next Gods, and…something is wrong.

Hamilton has tracking software on every device he and Nancy Pauline own. He’s going through the files of where she has gone and discovers a trip to Travis’ trailer. Then another. And then another. The visits begin lasting longer and longer. Hamilton knows full well that a divorce and the charge of adultery will sully his name. No, better that he have them both killed.


The next mile hits an old road bed, the asphalt long since cracked and abandoned. But the heat coming off of it is fresh and brand new. Here is sure footing but this is an oven. Nearly a mile of this goes on and I can hardly stand it. Wave after wave after wave of heat slams into me.  But after this one the trail goes back into more wooly territory and as bad as it may seem, the last miles will be cooler.

Hamilton realizes Nancy Pauline is taking wine with her on her trysts with Travis so he spikes the bottles with some of Nancy Pauline’s sleep meds and reseals them with fresh corks. He stays off the tracking software and instead trusts to time as to when they’ll be out. He has to walk through the heat to get to Travis trailer and it feels just like my walk to him.

Hamilton takes Travis belt and strangles Nancy Pauline with it. After she’s dead he puts her in the back or Travis’ truck and dumps the body at the back of Travis’ property, making sure to leave her cell phone in his truck. Hamilton returns home, waits for a few hours, then starts calling people looking for his wife, who is long overdue.

He’s disabled the tracking software but the telephone company pings her phone and the police arrive to arrest the still drunken Travis for murder. Hamilton gets to keep the kids and collects the insurance money.

The last mile is easy. It’s open space but I know now I can call it a day in about fifteen minutes. I call someone to pick me up and take me back to my truck and when I get back into an air conditioned vehicle I realize how overheated I’ve become. AC is of the Gods right now.


There’s a twist in the tale of the Murdering Banker. I like this tale.




Take Care,

Mike

Tuesday, June 16, 2015

Drown It In Sweat





“But there is no bargain: what is, is what must be.”  From the novel, Watership Down, by Richard Adams.

It’s hot, insanely so, the upper nineties, but I have to move. A bushhook is one of the three things I can think of that won’t be stolen if left in the back of a truck; post holers, a bushhook, and a live Cottonmouth. You have to want to work to use either post holers or a bushhook. I want to work. I have to work. I seek the solace found in exhaustion. It’s the only place short of a bottle there is to hide right now. I despise that sort of drunk. Reality is rendered down by sweat and heat and I need it.


The vines in my happy little 80% of a hectare are going to suffer today. Oaks will be stripped of their parasitical botanical kindred and I will tire myself out. Only Tanya, the Destroyer joins me, Velcro dog that she is. It’s hard not to make the comparison. I try not to and I fail.

A couple of years ago, someone gave me one of those high powered gas operated weed eaters. I’ve recently restrung it and I have a full tank of gas in it. I crank it up and go. Each breath is heat, deep heat, the kind of heat that matters, and that is what I need right now. My chest hurts with the heart. The Center trail in the woods gets a couple of feet on either side widened. Tanya stays a hundred feet away and sits, watching, and waiting, and wondering.


I remember the first time I saw a weed eater. It looked like a cross between something the Jetson’s would have and something Rube Goldberg might have built. The first models had metal tips on the end of the twine and they had to be replaced fairly often. I didn’t see how one of the things would work but it did. It was amazing, really, but the first weed eater I ever saw was a pull in so I could only go as far as the extension cord. The place where I worked had one and I stole it to use at home but brought it back the next day. I loved that thing! It was fun, but the fun wore off after a while.


This isn’t fun nor is it supposed to be. This is me trying to rearrange the emotions in my heart and the thoughts in my head. I pick an area between two trees and wade into the vines. Safety glasses are a must and not a full minute into cutting does a piece of a limb spring out and slam into the glasses. No pause for this sort of thing at all because it’s not enough yet. Wild grape vines that produce little fruit along with the green thorny vines all go down quickly. A skink leaps to safety and I do pause for that. The trail opens up. I back up and start another section of the path. Back up and open up another section and round the corner.

My mind keeps jumping back and forth from here, right now, to the past, fifteen months, six thousand years ago, yesterday, tomorrow, but it’s all the same, isn’t it? The guy who built the Great Pyramid; it’s not a monument to his life or what he could get done, or what a people can do when they try hard enough, no, well, yes, but at the same time, it failed. It failed utterly. No matter what you offer the Gods, or what you pray about or who you pray to, Death is just as final tomorrow as it was when the first block was dragged into place.

But Death isn’t the same. A person who loses a child has a Pyramid of Grief and the rest of us tiny little huts in comparison. Yet if all you ever had was a tiny little hut when that’s gone the loss still cuts hard enough to stagger. Work won’t cure this. There is no bargain with sweat either. But I have to keep going.

Next I get over the fence and slice my way through the thick stuff near the fenceline. Tarzan vines, as thick as my wrist have to be taken down with the bushhook but that is why I brought it. The hat I bought a couple of weeks ago covers my face except where I have safety glasses. I feel the heat in my face and the sting of sweat in my eyes. So what? I blink away the salt water and use sense of touch to cut. Up, over to one side, up over to the other side, back and forth and back and forth, and the area before me opens up just as surely as if I am using a flamethrower.


There are no words, no human language to express what I am feeling right now. It’s blind rage and confusion. My brain keeps telling me that this has to be something else because it shouldn’t be like this. My heart tells me to keep going. My heart tells me to keep going and if I keep going I can keep going. Vines wrap around the head of the weed eater and I retreat to get the bushhook again. Nothing withstands this instrument. I hack through ten meters of thickness along the fenceline, stabbing, slashing, swinging hard and true. A tree limb has fallen after the storm Saturday and it comes apart into pieces after just a few whacks. I hit each section with raw energy, passion, and years of practice with the bushhook.


I can feel the sweat in my gloves. I can feel it in my boots. I can feel it running down my back and inside my jeans. My shirt is soaked and my eyes burn. More. There is more. There must be more. I travel the fenceline and see Tanya in the woods watching me. She doesn’t get near the weedeater and won’t get near me as long as that device is out of the shed. But I think she senses something here. I go over the fence and back into my space and she retreats a few steps. But she does not leave me, that one. One pull and the weedeater roars to life.

The thickest part of the woods is where I go now. I’ve never cut this part before but now I create a new trail. The spinning cords cut through vines that are as plentiful as they are thick. Up and down, back and forth, cut and cut and cut and cut and cut. The owls are going to love this. The hawks are going to be happy. The machine sputters and coughs. It’s been nearly an hour and the gas tank is empty. I use the bushhook and open this trail up until it meets the other one in the center.


I drop the bushhook near the weedeater and take my gloves off. My hands are shaking. My body is trembling with effort. Tanya comes over and sits and looks at me. “Come here” and she’s snuffling me. Dude, what the hell is this?

It’s grief.  It’s heart rending, soul shaking, screaming loss. Time heals not a damn thing.


Take Care,

Mike

Sunday, June 14, 2015

I Fought the Lawn and the Lawn Won. 6/14/15



Tanya has discovered how to open her crate door even after it’s locked so last night I wound up with Tanya curled up beside me. She sleeps easily, curled up and formed to my body, like Lucas used to do, and I cannot stop that comparison between the two dogs. But I have to get up before the sun does today and I cannot sleep in. Tanya’s occupation of the bed, much to the dismay of the resident dogs, only lasts a few hours. After breakfast we all take a walk in the predawn darkness and observe the damage left by the storm; there are limbs down, lots of Spanish moss on the ground, and everything is very wet. Now is a very good time to begin mowing.

I hate mowing. I’ve hated it since I was a kid and I’ve learned to hate it just slightly less as an adult.This is the middle of June and mowing season will only last about two more months. I may have to mow about ten more times, but the grass will get thicker and thicker until last August. I’ve let it go for about a week now and the Deep End of the yard, where the grass is fullest, is going to be a problem. I’m also going to expand the mowing and push the borders out from the yard, to make sure the clear zones stay clear. I think I can get this all done in about three hours with a push mower.

There a tendency for me to give up on the back yard and let it go when I’m tired so I begin it first. The sun is just getting up and poking through the trees as I hit the halfway mark. The area where Tyger Linn tried to face down another Cottonmouth is a little too overgrown for my liking. I try to imagine how the snake got from where it was to where we found it and it would seem an unlikely adventure for the animal to undertake. It had to pass through a clear zone to get into a place where there was only high grass for cover. But there is no telling why it was going from one place to another and could have been trying to get away from a larger predator, which doesn’t soothe me overmuch.


I refuel even though the tank isn’t empty as I head towards the front yard. I’ll take a break in a  few minutes and then take another when I run out of fuel, and by the time I’m done with front, yes, it will be time. The break is for ten minutes and one Monster energy drink. I feel the buzz begin after just a few moments. Yes, yes, we have fuel!

The Deep End is really deep and I have to mow slowly even though the caffeine is flailing me like a chemical whip. Push it, push it, keep moving, keep going, and with each pass the area I have to mow grows somewhat smaller. Through the years the yard has evolves, morphed and changed into something much different than it was fourteen years ago. Since I declared war on the vines in the trees at the fence line to the west of the house, the trees have grown taller and much fuller. There is more shade now and in a place where there was once lush grass it is now scraggly and nearly bare. But because a large Oak died the area where it once stood now has a lot more grass than it did. I miss that tree. I miss having to mow around it. I miss its shade and its huge limbs casting a shadow over the front lawn like an umbrella. I miss the sound of its leaves in the wind. Human life is terribly, terribly, short for we cannot see our trees grown into giants. But human life is also horribly long because we outlive our dogs, again and again. This thought causes me to pause and consider what I am doing and why; there is so very much of human activity that is more or less pointlessly repetitive, and futile.

The front yard is done and I stop long enough to drink water and refuel again. Two hours have passed now, and I’m going to go for another hour and stop. The back yard is more shaded, less full, and it has more than its share of Spanish moss lying in grey mounds, like some odd sleeping mammals. That kicks off the idea of writing a story where people live with huge beasts, each larger than one hundred elephants. They would be like land dwelling whales that sucked up earth and spit out everything that wasn’t part of their diet, which humans would be. How would civilization form under such conditions? How would we be able to find a way to prosper? I like the story and imagine I would have to set parameters of how deep the creatures fed and how often and how many of them there would be.

Along with having to avoid being eaten, you know people would find a way to ride these creatures. Imagine climbing in fur so thick and long you would never fear falling. The ascent to the top would take a day or so but in one day the creature would travel hundreds of miles, easily.

The back yard slowly dissolves into think about the Moss Monsters story and I like it. But I have to start paying attention again when I begin to push the wild stuff back at the edges. I open up more and more area where the dogs usually go and now there is less and less area that is wooly, like a mammoth!

Three hours deep into the adventure I have done all I have come here to do. The yard is a much different place than it was at dawn. The wildness I hold so dear has been trimmed back in the name of security and Tyger Linn. I cannot imagine what she will be like in ten years.


Take Care,

Mike

Thursday, June 11, 2015

Sumer Dreams




This is based on a dream I had last night. It seems to be part of a dream I had a while back. 



I watched the shadows of the bluffs grow deeper in some places and lighter in others as we took the trail between the two great formations. It was here I remembered most from my childhood, that winding path down from the mountains that led to the plains. I had waited for this moment since we had left the temple, childish of me, I know, but if my memory served me correctly we would round one more sharp turn and there would be the structure I waited for. There! At last! It was an odd looking thing, for it looked as if the gods had piled stone upon stone, each giant and flat and terrible, one upon another, until they reached halfway up the bluff’s side. Even though my face was covered I felt like the entire caravan could feel my grinning. I held my arms out and threw my head back and began to sing a song for praise to the gods of allowing me to see this sight again. It was against the rules of the caravan, surely, to make such a noise this close to the hills, but no brigand or untamed tribe from the wilds would dare to attack us, or so I felt. The caravan master held out his hands in supplication and he too, sang. Everyone joined in the song and we could hear our chorus echoing behind is from the walls of the bluffs.

How is it, I wondered, that the flower of a common lily could be plucked from the muddy waters of a slow mountain stream and be placed into the hair of a princess of all to see? I saw this happen, you know, I saw the princess from the Great City, whose name we were not allowed to utter, pass through our village, and she stepped into the stream for the flower. Her guards were dismayed that she would do such a thing, but she did not seem to notice them. Her brother, who was not yet a prince but would be by the time I made my second journey, was there also. I had no idea that they were there because of me and because of what we had begun in my tiny village, nor did I know that they had come to have me killed. I was something that was not supposed to have happened at all, something that could not have happened but I, and three more like myself, had learned to read.


This may sound odd to you, as someone who is reading my story, but the truth is that for many years there were two forms of writing. The first was the earliest form of writing which was no more than a system of accounting. It worked well because all the shipments of trade into the Great City could be kept outside of human memory. Each trader was given a symbol and each quantity was given a symbol of its own as well. But soon the language of the merchants began to evolve into something quite different. Now, collections of smaller symbols could be interchanged and their meaning modified as they were grouped. The priests in the temple began using these symbols to help them remember the holy chants but soon they began to use them in very ordinary ways.

It was quite by accident that I happened upon one of the priests who regularly visited our village as the Order required. He was explaining to our resident priest how writing worked and how it could be used. He bid me to watch and to learn also and so I did. For many hours and for quite a number of days he stayed and taught us, but it was mainly I who learned. The symbols we etched in wet clay were to be nothing short of a gift from the gods themselves.

Each time the priest returned he and I would sit and speak of this new tool and I had already began to record some of the learnings we were taught. He thought it just less than a miracle I had absorbed the art so quickly and he vowed to tell the High Priest of the Great City of me. That led to members of the royal family, minor that they were at the time, to come to order my execution, and perhaps destroy the village itself and everyone in it. But before they could carry out the order a messenger arrived with a single word upon his lips, “Stop!”



There were two forces at work whose existence I knew nothing about. First, the princess was opposed to my destruction and that of the village. Hers was a simple and very moral objection and nothing more. A gentle creature who cared little of the workings of religion or for that matter, little else, was there to offer her death to be accepted with ours. It was a gamble that might have, or might not have worked, but the other force was that of her cousin, who cared nothing for her at all, but when he heard of me and what was happening, urged that the order be rescinded. His occupation was that of Major-General of the Army. He saw in writing an idea.


Of course, I knew nothing of this at all. I thought the gods had favored me and my journey to the Great City was their blessings upon me. I knew my ability to both read and write had something to do with all this, but after all, was not writing of the gods themselves? Later, much later in my life, I realized I had been, at least twice, very close to a horrible death. But my faith as well as my ignorance carried me forward. I often wondered why these two seemed to be the same.


We sang as we left the shadows of the mountains behind us and even as the sun began to heat the earth until the air shimmered we sang still. Some rested while others lifted their voices and even the camels seemed to enjoy the sound. I certainly did. My camel was a mild creature who was less noisome than the others. Its eyes seemed half closed in pleasure of the song. As the heat grew more intense the braided cords around my neck became itchy but I cared not at all for this. Before I left three such small ropes were wound around my neck and then liquid wax was poured over the ropes. The wax had been infused with the scent of some tree I had never smelled before but it was exceedingly agreeable to the nose. This, I was told, was the seal of the Great City, and I was not to touch the wax nor allow anyone else to at all. There was a man, covered from head to toe in bright red cloth who carried the standard of red with him at all times. With this one at the head of the caravan there was none who knew its value who would approach us. A dozen or so heavily armed men, each carrying a red shield and a heavy club, traveled with us and when one sang they all sang together. Loud and strong their voices were! The songs of praise were lifted higher when these dozen carried the words! But the heat made me drowsy and I nearly slept upon the saddle when all voices ceased and the caravan halted. In front of us, shimmering in the heat, lay the Great City.

Now we sat in silence and now we did not move. My memory was not sufficient for this sight. Lo! There was a vast wall rising out of the earth brilliantly white and nearly impossible to look at directly. There were the towers on the wall and before the city lay a collection of roads and building that could have swallowed my world a hundred times over and a thousand times more than that! We sat still and I wondered why we waited but then out of the city came horsemen, riding fast and sure. There were so many of them I could not count, but they circled around us and led us forward. Now a great song was sung by these men and now our guard sang with them and I realized this was to announce to everyone in the city we had arrived at Sumer.

Sumer had grown even more than I had in a decade. It was much larger than I remembered as if the walls and building themselves had become adults and were childish as I were long ago. There were many more people lining the streets and there were colorful banners; some in the same style of red which I bore at my neck. People sang and shouted and the camels seemed unaware of the din. I was brought to a tunnel and I was ordered to dismount. A man in red came and herded me away from all the others and led me down a stairway that was hidden behind a thick door. Down, down, down, into darkness we went and he guided me as if he knew my steps before I did. Soon we came to a room that was dimly lit by torch light. There was a man dressed only in a loincloth there, bald and decorated in paint of many colors and it seemed to me his skin was truly those colors. Later I learned that the man had been pierced many times with a small blade and the tones on his skin would never leave him. He put his face to my neck and inhaled deeply. Thrice he circled me and took in the scent of the cords around my neck. Another man who looked as if he were the twin of the first came out of the shadows. He examined the rope and the wax his finger moving along the wax as if he were a blind man in dark searching for a lost coin. They both retreated and as I wondered what would happen next the man who had led me down the steps unsheathed his knife and before I could blink cut the cord from around my neck with one swing. I did not flinch, I am happy to tell you, but it was more because of fear than the lack of it.

I was led to a room with a bath and two women bathed me. The man who led me down the stairs never left the room and he never took his eyes off of me. The dressed me in the clothing that I had seen priests from the city, and here I was allowed to utter its name, Sumer, and I was brought to a man in a room with nothing in it at all, except two windows. He bid me to sit across from him in the middle of the room.

“Has he spoken to anyone since he arrived?” the man asked my escort.
“He has not spoken at all,” my escort replied. “My Lord, he is a silent one.”
“That will be all.” The man said and he dismissed my escort from the room.
“You understand what I say when I ask you if you can write?” the man asked.
“Yes.” I replied.
“And you were taught this by one of our own priests?” he asked.
“Yes”
“And there are three others in your village who have an understanding of this writing, but you understand it better than they do?” the man asked but his tone changed and was sharper.
“Yes” I replied and offered nothing more for there was no more than I knew.
He clapped his hands three times and instantly a servant girl brought out a clay vessel, the type that held wine. On its side was marking very similar to the writing I knew but no words formed and no meaning was held there.

“Read this writing” the man commanded.
“I cannot.” I said and I felt as if I might be thrown from the window now.
“Oh?” the man asked, “and why is this?”
“I do not understand it. There is no meaning in this writing.” I felt no fear, oddly, even though I sensed I may have failed him.
“Oh?” the man clapped his hands again and once again a girl brought out a clay vessel. “Then read this.”

After the first vessel I feared that somehow the gods had forsaken me and my understanding was lost. But as I turned the vessel in my hand I could read it and then I understood even more what this man wanted and who he was. My mind went into a state of turmoil for I knew what I was being asked to do now.
What was I to do? My gift from the gods was surely meant to serve the city of Sumer, whose very existence was blessed by the gods. It was here there was a great temple to the gods and it was here the priest came and was sent from, and it was here and only here, that the gods spoke to those who would hear.
“There is a place by the river, where they keep forty horses and forty men,” I read aloud, “and these men sleep without guard at night for they do not fear attack.”

“It is true.” The man whispered. “By the gods this is a magic I have never expected.” He stood up.
“I am not convinced entirely.” And with that he shouted and two men came into the room leading a young man who was clothed as I.
“Have you ever met this boy?” the man demanded of the young man.
“No” the young man answered.
“Never?”
“Never”
“Show him your writing!” the man demanded and two women came into the room carrying two tablets.

I read:  “I, Major General of the city of Sumer, demand that you write my words as I speak them. If you fail me in this I will have you burned alive and the false prophet who claims that he can read the words. The day is the first day of the new season of heat and the last day of planting. No one else is in this room so no one else can know these words.”

“We cannot be stopped now.” The Major-General whispered. “We will rule over them all.


end


Thursday, June 4, 2015

The Hickory Head Hunters





I will always wonder what happened to Abbi Gale the Cat from Hell, but the truth is this; Abbi died doing what she loved doing which was hunting. Abbi was a seven pound house cat with the heart of a seven hundred pound jungle cat. Whatever happened to Abbi had already happened to dozens upon dozens of rodents who dared lived within Abbi’s sphere of influence. I hated losing that little girl but she always wanted to live wild and free and lacking that, to die that way. There are many humans who never get their pulse rate up any higher than when they discover they’ve locked themselves out of their cars and that’s a damn shame. There are lessons to be learned from the hunters, you know.

Lucas was just plain stupid. He had both Bert and Sam teaching him how to stay out of the bite range of a Cottonmouth but he had something to prove and he got nailed doing it. People shake their heads at me because I didn’t kill the snake but we, Lucas and I, invaded snake territory. I didn’t move into the woods to declare war on nature and I still will not. I am not going to start killing snakes just because Tyger Linn is hunting them, and hunting them she is, too.

Save your words. No not bother telling me I’m crazy because I have heard it before and I’m going to hear it again. I will not, repeat, will not, kill venomous snakes on my property, off my property, in my house, or anywhere else for that matter. They have just as much right to live there as I do. Okay, maybe not in the house.  The dogs are another matter. Lucas was being Lucas and picked one up. Tyger Linn hunts. It’s not a fair fight because she’s faster and she’s a large animal, but every once in a while she’s going to get tagged.

Yeah, I can accept that. Mainly because there isn’t much I can do about it.


What I am unwilling to do is kill another living creature simply because it is where it is. I cannot do it and I will not do it. I took the time to relocate the Cottonmouth that bit Lucas to across the fence line before taking the Loki Mutt to the vet. I doubt if that snake survived the chomp Lucas put on him. If I find a Cottonmouth with one hell of a scar on its back I will know it’s the one.

What I am willing to do is clear away the vegetation they use as cover and open things up a bit around the house. That means a lot of hard work. That means a lot of hot and hard work. But I figure that opening things up a bit will let the owls and hawks have a chance to pop a few of the snakes that are out prowling around in the underbrush. It will open things up so I can see who is there and what is there.

I didn’t adopt Abbi or find her as a stray or take her in off the streets, no; I was stuck with her. I had a girlfriend who basically dumped Abbi on me because Abbi was a terror. I took Abbi to the vet’s one day and asked them how much it would take to spay her and when I found out I asked them how much to have her put down, no, I asked them how much they would charge me to kill her. That’s what I wanted. I wanted that cat dead. But I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t kill an animal just because she wasn’t behaving in my environment the way I wished her to behave. I couldn’t kill her because her life was an inconvenience to me. I wound up keeping her and loving her and one day I put her four paws on the green grass in my lawn and she yowled with pleasure. I put her in a tree and she damn near died of excitement. To that point Abbi had never been outside of an apartment.

Abbi made up for lost time when she started hunting. She tore a hole in the small mammal population on earth and had she weighed fifty pounds grown men would have ran screaming from her. That’s what I let live. And I do not regret it for one moment.



You think that snakebite is a terrible thing for a dog to endure and you’re right. But what about all of those dogs sitting safely indoors without a moment to run free and wild? Lucas was tagged but he lived. He lived to die at my side on a cold morning going to see a vet. There were no snakes, no wild animals, no hunting, nothing, he just fucking died and there was no explanation for it.

Abbi was a year older than Lucas when she went missing.

Wilson (about the nine year old who will die in a year): "She enjoys life more than you do."
House: "Right."
Wilson: "She stole that kiss from Chase. What have done lately?"
House: "I'm pacing myself; unlike her I have the luxury of time."
Wilson: "She could outlive you."




You want surety? Life grants you no tomorrow. It gives you not another hour or another minute or another second. You either get it or you die. You die in safety or you die in danger, but rest assured my friend, you’re going to be just as dead in your bed as you would be lying on the jungle floor. The only difference is whether or not you ever really lived.


You cannot ever imagine how it felt to see Lucas that close to that Cottonmouth. You’ll never know how terrified I was at that moment. It was a couple of steps up from locking my keys up in my car. But the day he died Lucas was wrapped in a blanket, warm and safe and dry and he was fucking dead when I got there.


I can’t kill the Cottonmouth because they are part of where I live. They are of my world. I can’t stop Tyger Linn from hunting because it is part of her soul. If I have to live with loss then I have to live with it anyway, do I not?


You will too. 

Virginia Woolf: “You cannot find peace by avoiding life, Leonard”  from the movie, “The Hours”


Take Care,

Mike

The Hunters




Abbi was a cat, of purely feline prowess.
Condemned to solitary confinement for her
First two years, then with me, she sought no
Solace.

I remember when her paws touched earth
For the first time in her life
She yowled not in happiness
But regret for those who might have died.

The woods were filled with shadows and webs
Tiny fliers who sting, and whose wings sing
But those with fur walked as greased
And those with smooth skin feel an unease.

We brought them in with bowls and sofas
So that they might die was we die and
So we might not live as they might have lived
Without our weakness.
We grow fat together and face the same aged woes,
But Abbi cat sharpened her claws and hunted the night
Silently
Abbi
Hunted the night.
They knew her, the lesser folk
And they knew they must be still
No breath could escape
Too terrified to release urine
Homage to the stealth of the Grey.
Honor her if you dare and challenge her if you may.
Abbi kept her eyes away from the stars
Lest a glint of green betray
For those on wings and feather flew
Looking for the dismay
The elder fly slower
And hunt in the headlights
There they die smashed to bits
But hunting by all rights.

So Abbbi’s gone and Sam is buried
The hunters I have known
And Striped Girl has strapped on
The mantle of those gone.
Headlong battle ends in blood and let’s see whose is spilt.
For here’s a dog that’s still a wolf
Who rests upon a quilt.
The dagger driven deep inside her throat they are not fatal
And lessons learned there will be none,
To She Death is a fable.
My hunters line up in front of graves that yawn for you and me.

We live our lives in safety so life we’ll never see. 

end