Thursday, September 13, 2012

100 entries. What is human?

                       If it wasn't for the subtle words, hugs and shoves, I would not have hit 100 posts. Of the globe, Gretchen, I bow to you!

               Look at all the lonely people: Where do they all come from?

                                             by Mark William Darus.

             This is a milestone in my life on the many areas I wish to explore both from mental and physical senses as I hope to gain further understanding. Humanity is so cluttered and merely blinded with what we perceive as the worst and best of intentions as we trundle about our lives.

       We weigh the odds, doing this from expressions read from those just lately known against those that have spent decades with us, disregarding their, unthreatening sincerest of glances given to us. We do this as we do. We disregard all else and do this for the sake of love.

        One must ask: Why do we continually do this?

           Simple: Humans do not wish to feel that sense of alone-ness for more than a few minutes in today’s age. God forbid, they in their forties and such, aging faster, feeling plastered walls closing fastly around them, gripping on them, closing in…

           Settling in, like colonists finding a pastures opening near a stream. A land hopefully bearing plentiful vegetables. They stake their place, build homes cut from nearby trees and bare children as they work the lands creating HOME.

             Modern humans do what they do.

`                             Humanities past did things a bit different.

                 Since my first entry on Psychopathy: Another Life.

               I have studied history from so many aspects it gets a tad blurry at times. The history of humanity going back to the Crusades to modern day military attitudes. I have seen the rise and fall of political figures when popular scandal flared like a fourth of July skyrocket and trashed them. I’ve seen things written with such passion and those with total cruelness to my email address.

             I have seen, heard, read and spoken with enough that this one hundredth entry will write itself if I can stay the course.

             First of all let me thank you, the readers and contributors to Psychopathy: Another Life. This entry would not have been possible without all of you from around the globe!


             Give me some freedom here.

       I was granted stories of Nonviolent Psychopaths as they used others. Granted the flipside as many were so horribly used by predators. Propelled faster and running forth, diving into other areas that delved into bleaker and less explored areas of the darkest points of humanity, I ran with it.

        I still continue to do so.

                Welcome to my One Hundredth Entry to P:SA.


             After a usual day leaving work, shedding sweat drenched clothing behind her, cranking up the shower before her. Entering it, lifting her face to the heavens with the hope this flowing water showers off all the bullshit she’s had to deal with this day.

         Driving home, as traffic lights create pause, thinking of him. What would he like for dinner, she ponders.

            This woman cannot stand one of her mans family. This bothers her to no end. Not so many years ago she’d suggested her sister to gain closeness to this parasite full throttle. This man loves his daughter, go figure. This man has hope.

            A hope the woman driving home, while thinking of him, has no concept of.

              “What would you like for dinner? “ her voice giving him the most positive of vibes, hiding her depths shedding a day like so many before her.

            “Hi’ya! Anythings fine. You want to do Eat-n-Park?” He of chirper voice, at peace with himself, speaking to her.

           “I got a pork loin from DrugMark I can cook for us.”

              “That’ll be fine. See you then.”

            Clack of the impersonal as connection gets cut with the cold closing of high-tech plastic.

             Her blood nephew has a concert in two days, though she gracefully keeps her distance and won’t attend.

        Over the decades, she has separated herself from her nieces lives as well.

          “I had to maintain objectivity….” she’d say over the decades.

        Objectivity? What does this mean as a parent explains your lack of wanting a part in their life?

       Objectivity in relationships to those of blood lineage. Be cold, objective, shedding emotion to maintain your normalcy.

         Call me nuts, but this has a firm place in the land of psychopathic behavior.

Authors Note: I learned a great deal from this.

There must be some more psychopathic than me. I am elated by this!


                                                    Part two.


             Fall leafed fill embankment to her right, casting colours of orange and reds against dying browns. The enthusiastic cries of horny males yell about as Karen walks from her car, standing erect.

          Totally naked like some deer standing proud amidst a concrete jungle most defiant , she gives little bother. Eyes set, wanting reaction, on all fours, she romps about madly.

          “What the fuck is that?” a gay male proclaims in the best falsetto sounding like Frankie Avalon.

                  “ Shit!” a long haired redhead cries as she lowers her head, not wanting to to see what comes next.

                SCREEEEEEEEEEEECH! As the six wheeled conveyance reaches halt with blue-white smoke rising from wheel-wells from burning rubber filling the sky.



                  Karen’s head, fully leaned over hits to side of the bus.

                  Constellations display worlds to her as she gains microscopic grip to a world she gave up on days ago. Flashing images of lights and darks, wanting water, taking each breath into her like it was her last.

            “BP, Dropping!” hearing, watching the statistics of humanity, the hired help do what they can. Concerned glances through eyes alone above the greenish masks on face to prevent infection.

                Over shredded fragments of time, mans machinery gives birth to a solid:


                              “Call the time of death, doctor,”\

                                    “NONSENSE! CLEAR! “


                       Again.,… THUMP resounds as the flesh and blood on a cotton covered bed respond from voltage alone, writhing about frantically on the single bed they inhabit.

            To many, the dead through either dedication or those of disbelief will not let happen on their watch: CLEAR!

                  “ doctor, she’d dead.” tired short haired blond nurse shares with the doctor.

                      “FUCK YOU! Get clear,,, CLEAR!!”


                      “time of death: 17:05 Monday the  seventh…..”




                   Karen’s physically wasted body lays on a blood and piss soaked bed.


                   Karen looks down at herself and those around what was the containment vessel holding her.

                New nurses, training in an Operating Room , wondering how things occur speak idly about.

            Attending doctor: “It happens, trust me. I’ve seen th-..+

               “Oh!” an RN of twenty years experience, cutting him off, speaks confidently “ And how many times have you seen this, doctor. Please educate and share this with us.”

              Looking at the firm RN and her words his eyes begin to swell tears.

                His mind thrusting backward, his education, his long sleepless days as an intern. He is used to treating burns, accidental cuts from chainsaws, child and spousal abuse. Oddly, so far away from the death before him is his here-and-now.

                His freely weeping eyes meet the RN’s. His mask getting darker to the right and left and that not from sweat so much as those feeling the sincerest sense of loss.

               Knowing where this doctor is at, the RN: “ Doctor! You’ve announced the time of death. We’ve got this. Can we, someone, please play Mozart?!?!”

              Doctor leaves the operating theatre, head down and slump shouldered.

            “Cover me!” The lead nurse says to those before her. She is second in command in the warfare of singular humanity. Pulling useless mask off open-bodied possible infection from her, angrily throwing it to her right.


              “Have you not been trained? Keep this in mind and never far from it: you
ARE being taped.” Curt voice mixing emotions she’s share with the doctor of this event.

          Karen, seeing lands she’d known many times, spiraling to poles she’s never been graced with before, traveling, free.

            Sobbing, not yet lacking emotion, a highly educated doctor lays on cold industrial tiled flooring. Laying flat, arms and legs quivering, head bobbing about madly.

                Flat voice speaks to him as he lays on the floor. “ Would you like a Starbucks, Doctor?”

               Knowing the difference when one should stand, and one should accept.

“Love t-t-too, Nurse.”

Full body, a place where the educated and grave digger hold common  ground, that being death,

“Decaf or Reg,” pulling doctor up, lifting him up, as only the best surgical nurses could read this with confidence.

Faces squared, noses less than an inch away. Arms surrounding one another.

“Did you think you were god”

Pulling away from her, staring up to the RN. “Yeah, I kind of thought that way. I failed!”

“Failed? Nope, not at all. C’mon, we got us a good 30 minutes before a bowel retraction, doctor. I’m slated with you.”

“Really,, “

“yes, sir….”

Her school band plays louie loiiue and final countdown.


Karen: I see my family. Wow, my high school football team.

Coursing through hallways, passing cronies, colours blurred with the turn of the head, memories of the dying.


I met the bus as it met me.

I’m glad to be dead.\

Cancer is such a fucked up way to die at 21

When we meet again,






                   In the Heart and Soul of my writing and studies, I stay to a course so hard to alienate ones so close to me. Their hurt is most real yet I cannot feel it. I can hug you as life signs fail, share your discontent as your stocks go south, embrace you as those closest to you aim toward heaven. As they die, I can give you sound reason for their earning such a place. I never give up hope since my ex-wife thirty years ago was given a 6 months sentence and still lives on.

                   In my life, I have seen the best and the worst and was given sound mind to describe such.

                 What I have witnessed, in the l;ast 100 entries:

                As my word count goes over 151.000 words

                   I have reached over 63 countries

                     Total page count: 396.…


Good god in Heaven. All things considered, this is a book!



By Mark William Darus

NOTE worthy of mention.
At the corner where the westside market go to the north.
I saw a woman in a wheelchair fail trying to get on a bus. Being in SUV looking left, i saw a dark haired on a tenspeed see her fail the side of the bus.

          Light going green, kid dropping bike.
          Pause in rushhour once again.
          Lady lifted to bus.
         Black haired white kid om front of the Westside market.

             Seeing this kid do this, made me believe what is Human.

                               by Mark William Darus 09123023