Time passing as I sit motionless.

                               Time passing as I sit motionless.
                                      By Mark William Darus

　

      The scenery changes but only so with the passing of technology and those that enter my room.

      As I look down, bodies change on an almost daily basis. Sometimes the bed shifts, but only slightly so with the shifting of the one laying on it or as the nurses change their position.

      I’ve smelled it all over the years.

      The stench of infections surging through the afflicted, strong whiffs of fecal matter when bed-pan is not met in time as it blasts against sweaty skin and mates with cotton sheets. Sweet smells of fresh roses, carnations, and the myriad of flowers plucked from loved ones own gardens. I smell fresh oxygen, mild perfume aroma from care-takers and the stench of the feet of visitors.

      Between those that visit my space, the gross fragrance of floor cleaner/sanitizer greets me, giving me the knowledge I won’t be alone for long as those wielding mop sing to music heard through tiny plugs in their ears.

      Once, just once, I’d like to hear one of them sing well and hold a note most worthy.

       Yeah, I’ve heard it all.

       I’ve heard the whooshing of air and the pulsating sound as it is pressed into the human before me. Granted, most times it’s merely a steady, almost calming, ’hisssssss’ of white noise I do find tranquil. The amazing sound of ‘white noise’, though different than the bubbling sound of a fish tank in a dentists office yet having the same effect.

         Over my decades here, I have become an expert witness to the advances of technology brought into my tiny world. Once given the ‘clacking’, sometimes rhythmic sound of printers charting EEG’s and EKG’s that over time gave way to the ‘beeping and booping’. These tones telling people where the one on the bed before was at without words unspoken yet telling them much in regard.

Back to the smells that reach me. Why do so many wear so much heavily laden perfume, aftershave or cologne when they travel into my land? For crying out loud, do they not think this doesn’t gag the one fighting for life with 02 getting blasted into them? What are they afraid of? A urine bad letting go and splashing to floor, an unexpected bowel movement? The rich smell of iron, not much different than that of a woman's period, as a central line goes astray when white sheets go crimson?

      While we’re at it, besides me, there is one gross olfactory offense that never ever changes over time though I really wish it would. The food served here. Damn, if you want a gauge on how people are doing, just take a full inhale on what is given to those that can actually eat solid food. Just once I’d like to smell salt or garlic on a regular basis. Sure, they eat this because it’s all they can have unless a visitor smuggles them in a meatball sandwich or prime rib dinner. God how I love the smell of beef gravy at sunset. Smells like: happiness to the one laying before me, their smiles, wetness filling mouth with anticipation relishing the first bite. It also does me a world of good, let me tell you!

       Sometimes I witness the visitors praying, speaking in voices both sweet and hopeful. I see some cry to soon blow their noses afterward as they let out a sigh.

       Visitors giving idle small talk directed with significance to those unable to respond yet can hear things in their mind. Even those tranq’d in my room can still hear, their minds taking pieces of information. They hear the loved, cherished visitors speak words of love, hope and sheer whimsical nonsense.

       I also take in the tones of utter hatred and anger as they speak such hideous things to the one below me. “Damn, would you just die already.” “He did fill out a will, didn’t he?” “Fuck this, I’ve got a Tupperware party to prepare for…” C’mon, look at things from my perspective, will ‘ya? Is it wrong of me to wish them a well earned fall down a flight of stairs, a sudden heart attack miles from a hospital or a really good case of crotch-rot?

       I have seen so many die before me as I have seen so many come back to live further.

       I am not god.

       I am the one, as they come back and are completely bored, look up to as they gain consciousness.

        I have never been far from them as they visit my small place on this planet.

       I have seen it all.

       Never more than a  few feet from them.

       Time passes by as I sit motionless.

         I am a ceiling tile.

　

         Mark William Darus 0909102012

Authors note: Profound thanks to Gretchen. Hours before writing this I had asked what I should write about tonight. She gave me suggestions after I shared with her how I felt blank about tonight's writing. Light bulb, albeit that of a 10 watt, dimly illuminates my tired mind. I look at her and say: Imagine what a hospital room clock sees? The procession of people, smells and sounds as science changes but wall clocks never do….

Gretchen, I could not have written this without you!

To Carol Golias, for bringing memories back to me. Can’t wait to make you baked beans again!

Amazing Grace: Mark's prayer to Christ and God

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t4Af_TEN7Yc

                           Amazing Grace and a wretch like me.
                                   by Mark William Darus

            Christ almighty, you give me direction and guidance in the oddest of fashion. I only write what you wish, take photos of wondrous things you give to us and guide me to shoot.

            To you, my Christ, I will never doubt you and your father as you both shape me from the thin and watered down clay I am before you.

          As you spin the potters wheel, I in weak and fragile form spitting water from mixtures of mud, fecal matter and dirt, shedding past life created by me, you reform me.

         Knowing I will never call myself a 'born-again' you accept this and hold me fast in your arms. You both always take me as I am.

        I am the wretch sung about in Amazing Grace. Yet you and your father have never left me though many times i turned my back to you both. I cursed you, took your names in worst order as my jagged tongue spilled out blasphemy most loud.

         Yet you still gave and give me signs in the darkest of hour and give me a beauty to see and share with others.

 

         The both of you keep me positive and gentle in nature.

          You guide me and never give up.

         You had me begin to write again months ago and display it to the electric circus of the Internet. Reaching others on the Earth God gave us to live on.

        You give me the strength to continue this and preserver unfavorable comments.

        Christ and the Father of all: You made me and keep working me. I have little doubt you helped me trash my emotions so long ago for the benefit of others. I am sure you, Christ, like any father and son argue over what should be and how its done. I believe I to be some bastard son of you both, a joining of the Old Testament and the New. The lands where ones breaking down and wandering journeys <old testament> are granted total forgiveness and redemption <new testament from Christ>.

        Some question if I am being guided by Satan in current standing and beliefs.

        Does that really mean anything as i look up to you both?

 

        God and Christ: Amazing Grace.

        I am the wretch in that song.

        I thank you both for what you have shown me.

 

        Mark William Darus

 

Some thoughts on Immigration: by Ryn Cricket

                         Some thoughts on Immigration.
                                      by Ryn Cricket

I have taught about the Immigration Period in America for several years now. I know what the push and pull factors are as to why people immigrate, and I know the various stages that they and their later generations experience after immigration. In fact, I have not only taught this, I have researched this. Last month, however, was the beginning of my first-hand experience. I mean I lived in Thailand before, but it was temporary, and I was only responsible for myself. This is a HUGE jump from that.

Exactly one hundred years ago, from the same month I immigrated, my then seventeen year-old Great-grandmother and her mother boarded the Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse with a hundreds of other Bohemians fleeing ethnic cleansing, and took the14 day trip from Bremen, Germany to Ellis Island. She moved to Cleveland because her step-father was here, as was a very large Slovak-Catholic community. She knew eight languages, but English wasn’t one of them. One-hundred years later, I boarded a plane with my two very young daughters, and flew 26 hours to Bangkok and then moved on to Khon Kaen, because I had a teaching position at a university waiting, and friends all around –even in the same city.

I find it so interesting what Americans think of immigration, and how they truly don’t understand it. I find it interesting that they get mad that immigrants are there, that they don’t speak English, that they “take our jobs” (that one always makes me laugh), that they aren’t Christian, and that they wear their clothes and eat their food. I think so many forget that they are products of immigrants.

I had always read that immigrants are the brave risk-takers. That is who almost all of us are descendants of –brave risk-takers. What happened to that? When did we not become accepting of that, and why? It’s not easy to learn another language. Most second generation and third generations Americans don’t know more than one language. Studying 2 years in high school doesn’t count, because you don’t use it daily; you don’t dream in it; it’s not the same.

I picked Thailand because I used to be fluent in Thai. Notice, I said “used to be.” I used to have entire 3-day workshops, in Thai. But after ten years, I find myself asking students, “What the word for ‘see’ again?” No one here gets mad or frustrated with me when I can’t speak Thai. No one says, “Wait, you live and work here, why don’t you speak Thai?” In fact, if I say “hello” or some other phrase, I get praised for what I know. When I taught in America, a lot of my students, who were studying English full-time, would get bothered and harassed for not knowing English.

As far as taking jobs, I can guarantee that no Mexican fruit picker, no Chinese scientist and no Indian doctor is taking any jobs from any Americans. In fact, in the professional world, they have to jump through hoops to have the privilege of working in the U.S. On the other hand, in Asia, being a native-speaker, almost assures you of a teaching position. I don’t know any Americans who come to Asia to be doctors, scientist, or manual laborers. If they did, they would probably get that position easily too. Accountants –maybe not.

Which leads me to an even bigger point. So many Americans want to put these big walls up. Place military and police around our borders to stop people from coming in, and yet, they have become blind to people who are leaving. Foreigners know about the “brain drain.” I had never heard of it. I thought I had this brilliant idea on how to take care of my family. Turns out, 16 of my friends had this idea first. They are all teachers.

So why are so many teachers fleeing to Asia and the Middle-East for jobs? Well, you can live on what you make. As a single mother, and as a highly-evaluated teacher with 20 years experience, I still qualified for government assistance. It’s understood that teachers certainly don’t get into to the field for the money. They don’t expect to drive BMWs, or eat steak everyday. They do expect, and should expect to be able to feed their families and own a car. They shouldn’t have to make a choice between paying for that used car or buying groceries. I’ve had friends with higher qualifications than me, working part time so they could stay in the system, because if they got out of the system, they would have to make those choices. When you need daycare until a child is 12, and 50% of your income goes to that, how do you survive? By the way, contrary to popular belief, it is most often not the single mother’s fault she is a single mother. She is the responsible one trying to take care of her kids and doing what she has to do. Just a reminder there.

But also, in the rest of the world, teachers are highly-respected. I don’t know how or when teachers became the bad guys in America in the past few decades, and specifically in the past year, but that alone is not worth the very little pay you receive. Yes, there are bad teachers. There are bad EVERYTHING. People often forget that. There are bad doctors, engineers, mothers, politicians. There are amazing teachers too. If you close your eyes right now, you can think of that one teacher who just really changed your life. Maybe they showed you something you didn’t think was possible, maybe they explained things in a way you could finally understand, maybe they prompted an epiphany, maybe they inspired you to do something you hadn’t even thought of. You know right now who that teacher is. In fact, you might have more than one. What other profession has that effect on people –that is why the rest of the world respects them so much, as they would their own parents. Oh, wait, we have a problem with that too. Ahh, now I see the connection.

But as for immigrants not “Becoming American,” eating our food, dressing the same, and all of that, many first-generations do. And to a much greater extent than an American would. If I want to find an American here, all I have to do is go to the nearest KFC. They are the ones who ordered mashed potatoes with their chicken. I won’t find them at the corner noodle stand. If I go to their house, I might find soy sauce, but probably not fish sauce. Their eggs will be in the refrigerator with the bread, and the rice cooker will be put away in a cupboard to be used once in a while. (I say this because in Asia, people leave their eggs out, they don’t often eat bread, and the rice cooker is always out and on). And yet the host country residents are usually very interested in what we are eating, how we made it, and can they try.
Nor will I find foreigners wearing silk on Tuesday, denim on Friday, or padded bras on any day. Children will wear uniforms, but foreign children are not expected to have uniform hair cuts like the nationals. In fact, there are a lot of “rules” we just don’t have to follow. There are other “rules” we have to be constantly aware of, so I guess it balances out.

And then Christmas comes around, and you think, “What do you mean I have to work on Christmas?” Christmas is not a holiday in a Buddhist country, just like Eid and Chinese New Years are not holidays in our country. It was a process for our forefathers to create our holidays, and an even bigger process for our mass media outlets to blow them completely out of proportion. America is made up of Eastern Europeans, who, as a culture, think 3 Kings Day is just as important as Christmas, and people from the UK who like Boxing day even more than Christmas. How did those two days get left out? And then when you think that there are more Irish in America than in Ireland, why do they not know that Saint Patrick’s day is quiet saints day that involves going to church and having dinner with your family, not drinking green beer at 5am?

I think the biggest difference is communication. Yes, the world is becoming more globalized and therefore much smaller. But also, with the internet, skype, and cell phones, we can talk to our loved ones anytime. There are no letters that take weeks anymore, there are no final good-byes. My great-grandmother got to go back and visit her home village 62 years after she immigrated. Who was even left? The whole world is becoming Western. Maybe it’s not so bad to try to hold on to your culture a bit before the KFCs take over the world. And maybe it’s not so bad if I try to have the most American house in Khon Kaen.

by Ryn Cricket 12072011

Value of lacking emotions. How it can give others peace.

                                   The value of lacking emotion
                                        by Mark William Darus

　

Mack got the call from Greta about five minutes after he arrived at the Brookgate Lanes.

“Hi, Greta. How’s your mom?” he asked, sounding positive as ever.



Greta’s mom had spent the last two days in the hospital. She had had congestive heart failure. This woman of eighty years old had a history of bad hips, failing knees and a host of other debilitating ailments. He’d just seen her last weekend and she seemed herself, though now needing her walker to simply get around her house.

“Mack, she’s on a vent, “ Greta’s voice quivering with sadness, the verge of tears and in utter pain.

“You want me there?” he said with even voice.

“Do you have enough gas to get here?” Not thinking of herself and what she was going through. This woman has grown so very much in the last three years that sometimes Mack had hardly recognized her at times.

“Of course I’ll get there. Just let me hang a minute here for Sean or one of the other guys so I can give them my bowling money.”

“Thu-thank you,” Her shaky sound wobbling like a tiny acorn on a fence as winds begin to pick up to knock her down.

“You’ve always been there for me. Always. Hold tight and I will be there.”

“I love you….”

“I know you do, Greta. I’ll be with you in no time.”

Conversation ended with the dry closing of the cellphone.

Evan, Mack’s teammate arrived and he met him by his Explorer.

“Evan, I gotta go, man.” He told him about his girlfriend's mom and her failing situation.

“GO! Get out of here,” Evan said as Mack gave him his bowling money.



Climbing back into his Trailblazer, syncing his phone to his GPS to hands-free inbound calls, he fires up the engine. Setting it into gear, he drives from the bowling alley.

Calmly driving toward a hospital to aide someone in need, clearing mind of no longer important thoughts. Onward to yet another hospital never known, another ICU he‘d never visited, comforted by his ability to do what he does best.

25 minutes later, pulling into one of the many University Hospital campuses in Northeast Ohio, the delicate sound of thunder begins to pound from darkened clouds to his south. Pausing, looking at them, staring with both fascination and learned behavior, no longer needing to make himself numb. Numbness became his steadfast companion so very long ago.

Not knowing if the music he was hearing was the result of a passing car on Harvard avenue or coming from his inside his brain. “IIIIIII have become, comfortably numb…“ he sang aloud to humid air as the boomers and flashes to his south droned on.

Memory rising within him and the end stages of his mother as she reached her passing and how he’d played that song over and over during her process of dying. Louder and louder he’d played it, hammering nails soundly into a coffin that would hold any and all emotion far away from him.

Forever.

Looking to the sky above him, sensing his dead parents and grand parents were watching him, knowing how he’d handle this. They’d be neither proud nor disapproving. He knew they would never pass judgment.

“What can’t be cured, must be endured,” he’d heard his mother’s mantra a thousand times in his earlier years. He chuckled at that and how it played so firmly in his life.

Walking through a huge revolving door, he is greeted by a well dressed woman who was eager to aide him needing directions.

“First we need to sign in right here.” Walking to a large reception desk of solid mahogany, he signs the book with both name and time placed in military numbers.

“Military time, very good.”

“I never served a day in my life.”

No matter how many hospitals he’d entered, regardless of all the plants and flowers they displayed, they all smelled the same.

After thanking her for directions to the ICU, he walked to the bank of elevators down the hallway to his right.

Mind totally cleared, free of garbage of things pressing, entering the pregnant dumb-waiter, he presses the button marked 4.

Exiting the up and down box of travel, going to his right, he hears his name called by Greta’s brother. Turning, he takes in the troubled, pained looks of Greta’s family. He says hello to them as some greet him while others don’t.

Standing speechless for a moment, he looks through the wall of glass to the outside world.

“Now that is a view!” he says evening with a hint of excitement, causing their heads to turn with what he believed was a needed distraction for them. As he sits on the oddest set of chairs and couches he has ever seen. The center of the couches had no back areas and were not against a wall.

Greta taps him on the shoulder and he immediately rises to grasp her with tight embrace.

Wearing the prettiest, brightest dress he has ever seen her in the over ten years he’d known her, she looked very bad. She looked utterly miserable in all aspects, eyes puffy, nasal tones as she spoke, her clutching him harder than ever before.

She is lost in the dark place, he thought. A place where those with failing parents descend as the growing knowledge there is little they can do to help the ones that gave them life and cared for them so diligently over the decades.

Helpless, as emotions course through every inch of their bodies and minds. Her family, shifting from place to place in the waiting area of the ICU, handling their unease through movement. Remembering his childhood and early adult life, he had done the same to keep from climbing out of his skin and exploding.

Greta sits next to Mack slowly and he cautions her not to lean backward. She turns to see why he’d said this, noting there is no backrest. She absently cocks her head, understanding.

“Granted, if you had fallen backward and split your head open, I can’t think of better place for that to happen,” he said with a flat dryness he knew would make her smile.

Smiling as he placed his arms around her, she said “you goof!” Giving out a tiny chuckle, he drew his arms from her.

With unsure feet, she quickly arose and said she was thirsty. He walked with her to the vending machines hidden from sight behind a wall. Fumbling through her purse, her muttering about a lack of change, he hands her enough for her to get a Lipton Green Tea.

He thinks: My god, she is so much like a child asking for a drink of water…

Mack takes her hands into his. Looking into her almost tearing eyes, she says, “ I love you…”

“I know you do, Greta!.” he says with enthusiasm as his sends his eyes attention deeper into hers. “I never doubted that about you, honey.”

They go back to the human parking lot where the worried families await to see loved ones hooked up to ‘pinging’ machines with massive multicolored read-outs.

Mere moment in time to him, probably an eternity to family, a doctor greets them.

“you can see her now, “ he speaks with a smile that matched his eyes and calming face.

At once, everyone stands. Heading toward room 435, passing the nurses station and its huge monitored arena, Mack hears them taking gulps of air as they get closer and closer to their mothers room.

As they enter, taking in the ghastly sight of their mother with a tube down her throat to keep her breathing, finding temporary stations around her. Speechless, on foreign grounds being strangers here.

Greta, not unfamiliar to lands like this through a lifetime of nursing, takes a suction tube in hand to clear the fluid that constantly fills her mothers mouth, giving her some ease. Giving comfort as she knows how, slowly taking her fragile mothers hand into hers, she speaks to her.

“we’re all here, mom…” her voice so calm and reassuring. Soft expression crossing her face, looking down at the elderly woman on the bed before her.

Mack gazes at the monitor. O2 fluctuating between 95 and a hundred. BP holding at 106 over 102, pulse at an even 61. He watches Greta’s mothers eyes open and close slowly in sporadic intervals, wondering as well as remembering his past and what they must think/feel as they cannot speak and so wish to do so. The hell of a Never-world, being unable to respond except through sedated eyes.

As Time passes and Greta’s family peal off and leave, Greta stands fast by her mothers side, periodically relieving the fluid from her mothers mouth.

A half hour further, being totally exhausted, Greta asks her mother if she’d like the TV on? She knows the comfort TV brings to her with its ‘cookwear for sale programs and reruns of shows shes seen a thousand times. Perhaps thinking about how her big screen, rear projection box of enjoyment failed her a slender few days before and how her and Mack checked the stores she’d requested for its replacement.

Eyes darting about, her mother slowly motions her head to the right and left, not wanting TV.

She asks her mother, unlike the others, if she’d like her to leave.

Once again, the frail woman looks upward with uncertain eyes. Head moving from right to left while raising her left hand as she begins to draw letters in the air.

Communication. Contact. She begins to spell words.

Deciphering letters, Greta begins to understand.

Mack looks at her on the bed, saying with to her with peaceful and positive voice, “When you bust out of here, I’m gonna make some baked beans like you’ve never had!” She so loved his beans and all the odd forms they’d taken over the years. She smiled at him as best she could with a tube set into her mouth. He’d made contact, hopefully giving her some amount of comfort.



Minutes tick away as life sustaining machines, lacking a metronome for rhythm, go on.

Rubbing her back with right hand softly placed, he tells her how exhausted her looks and needs sleep.

Greta kisses her mother gently on the forehead just before her and Mack exited room 435.

Going to the nurses station, innocently asking the lead RN if her mother would remember her leaving.

“She won’t remember anything with the meds we’re giving her, “ the slender brunette in green said.

As they walked to parking lot, she asked him for a lighter. Just a few feet from the monstrous revolving door, he suggests they wait til the get to her car.

“Wow, the humidity is gone, “ he says with the keenest of flat voice.

“You’re right. It’s gone. Huh!”

She opens to passenger side door of her Kia Soul and grabs a Bic. Flame meeting long menthol cigarette, inhaling deeply like seldom before, finally exhaling with a sigh, standing on firmer ground.

They share idle small talk most needed after such an event, Mack takes her into his arms.

He lights his L&M and gazes to the bluest of skies.

Greta’s eyes begin to leak tears, yet no sobs be heard or heavings from stomach as her overly tired frame rests on the passenger seat.

Mack, knowing tissue would be needed, pulls them from his left front pocket and wipes her cheeks and eyes. Looking down at her, feeling far too familiar with such things, he puts his right hand under her chin, lifting it ever so slowly. His eyes ready to meet hers as tears run freely.

“Greta, it’s in gods hands. God does what god does.”

“She-she’s my m-m-mother…”

“I know, honey. I know.”

“I’m so tired, Mack.”

He tells her to call him when she returns home.

“I love you!”

“I know you do, Greta. I do what I can.”

She stares at him with trashed eyes and trembling face.

He mouths the three words she so desperately wants to hear.

She looks a bit more peaceful as she drives off.

As she pulls away, he takes photographs of the hospital as the angry grey/white clouds in the background threaten the deep blue sky.

As Greta drives to her home, he travels to his dwelling.

Stopping at the Giant Eagle on Transportation blvd for needed food, he notices some volting thunderheads to the southwest. He sets his tripod up and places camera firmly in its grasp. Snapping shots in rapid succession he finally catches a bolt of lightening.


For him, this a first most welcome on an evening that takes him backward. A memory so completely set that would lead him to where he has been for decades.

He looks to a hostile sky and thanks god.

Speaking aloud: “Thank you, Jesus, for the value of lacking emotion and how it helps others in pain.”



Mark William Darus: 0906072012

A Comfortably Numb production.

Huge thanks to Ryn Cricket for editing this as she read it, correcting my errors via Facebook chat.

 

Wisdom. by Ryn Cricket

                                            Wisdom
                                        by Ryn Cricket

“Mom, you have to see this. Come on!” Jeremy said urgently.

I wiped my hands on the dish towel hanging from my apron string and followed him out the back door. He led me over to the chicken pen. Some of the chickens were squawking hysterically, but there on the side of the chicken coop, the rooster sat sleeping with a black, pig-nosed snake curled up next to him.

What does this mean? I said to no one in particular. And then I turned to Jeremy, “Is one of them dead?” He shook his head, but he knew that disturbing them to show me could prove fatal.

“What do you think we should do?”

“Let them sleep.” He said.

Children are wise like that.

by Ryn Cricket 01232010

Untreatable? Six months of writing Psychopathy: Another Life.

 

                              6 Months of writing without stopping.
             Throwing my thoughts out there for all to see and interpret.
      Never knowing who would read them, nor where they would travel.

                                                  Untreatable?




                                                   Six Months.
                                           by Mark William Darus.

　

           Psychopathy: Another Life was started on 3 March 2012 on a warmer than normal Saturday afternoon. Visually starting with a solid black background and white standard font lettering. On its first entry I gave a basic definition of psychopathy and how some believed there to be a nonviolent aspect of it that went much further than serial killers, serial rapists, thrill killers and the run of the mill homicidal maniacs that make headlines. Those gifted Psychologists believed, as did I reading through their work , there were elements of historical significance, modern day events and strong beliefs that some nonviolent psychopaths reach areas in society that are not only accepted, but applauded by the masses.

         On the Title Screen I gave a brief explanation and how people could reach me.

　

          I went on to state theories that I hoped to prove as to why some people do the things they do without guilt, remorse or conscience, inflicting pain in a myriad of forms on others.

　

          I delved into nonviolent psychopathic areas of childhood, dating, relationships with parents, their schools and early work worlds as they learned to become better predators. Taking a shot at adult sexual and parasitic relationships and how to spot those that would use, abuse and trash lives for their own guiltless gain. Eventually diving into Corporate America, the military as well as some in the medical and psychological professions. I found areas of that I would believe total and complete forms of the type of psychopathy that never hit the mainstream public. In short, areas that never make the 6 or 11 o’clock news, yet their prey get nailed many times in their lives as a result of either falling into their line-of-sight or innocently being employed by them.



         Going to possible factors where nonviolent psychopaths are made to be such. Factors of which upbringing, circumstances such as recurring family illnesses, constant emotional upheaval at young developmental stages and areas where their systematically killing their emotions became more a survival mechanism than born sense to trash and devour others.

　

        Often playing the Iron Maiden song: Can I Play With Madness via Youtube, I would write about observations I had witnessed over time. I would catch glimmering thoughts in respects as I’d known and those of friends and family that had shared with me. I found myself to looking backward at memories and rethinking them in the here-and-now. Perhaps growing from age, maturity and dare I say, patience, I looked at things from a totally different aspect and more and more things began to make sense to me. I felt the desire to go into those areas further, dig deeper, probe farther and ask more questions of others.



        I was given a diagnosis that went far and beyond the initial bipolar issue I became medicated for. This ’other’ diagnosis is untreatable. Most in the psychological community refuse to treat those like me. These psychological <mind-helpers if you will> professionals, either from personal experience or the knowledge of colleagues passed to them, decline strolling a road descending to remorseless areas of the pure animalistic aspects of humanity where the patient is not behind the safety of iron bar shielded incarceration for killing someone but out and about in the general public.

　

       In all honesty, I cannot find myself to blame them for their views, fears, or so say the least, them following their animal instinct fears of a predator. They either learn what happens when their swimming abilities fail and they become sucked into a whirlpools vortex and drown, or they don’t. Oddly, perhaps through sheer curiosity or ego, many choose to embrace the world of such psychopaths and lose all perspective as they do not possess the skills learned over years, decades of those they attempt to treat.

　

        Over weeks and months, P:SA took on different colours and backgrounds. Text fonts changed, and the Pink Floyd-ish The Wall background took form. Having been told back-when the style of font used looked girl-ish and not caring I left it as is.

　

       Receiving email feedback thrust at me like an unseen freight train on a dark night, its engine lacking a Mars light. I stood on the tracks and was soundly nailed by a sweeping mass of thoughtful and written weight. Launching me in ways not uncomfortable, I went with its flow that has taken me to places I never imagined possible.

　

        Getting braver and being innocent to this area, I tossed my F-Book name to the P:SA summary. From that event, my F-Book world exploded by readers friending me from other countries. They connected with me through my writing.

　

        Time passing faster and faster, seasons changing a third time, I learning to place my photographs and music links to entries.

　



               In conclusion please allow me to say these thoughts:

If current statistics are remotely correct, 4 percent of our population are psychopathic in nature. The biggest segment of that pie chart of that 4 percent are not violent. They are not rapists, pedophiles or homicidal maniacs.

Psychopaths: To act without a sense of guilt, remorse or emotion for the single-minded self gratitude for their desire to get what they can when they can.

There are approximately 330 million people in America. That means over 12-13 million either possess the strong ability to be or are psychopathic.

Imagine that same 4 percent statistic globally.

I firmly believe this can also can be said: What of the impressionable young learning to be psychopathic, this being reinforced by our totally self centered view to attain what we can at all costs. This reinforcement coming from ignorant parents, the mass media or simply corporate America and how we place success by all means necessary over failure.

Untreatable? Can such a thing be so boldly stated in our enlightened age of mental awareness and expansion? Less than a century and a half ago, many died of fever before penicillin was found. Did mankind not find a cure for polio, syphilis, small pox?

Do you mean to tell me there can not be a holistic cure for something that makes up four percent of our population?

I unequivocally state this: I started my study a half a year ago with finding an explanation for what made me as I am. However, from written, vocal and physical encounters with nonviolent psychopaths has lead me to reach this conclusion. My findings being that many of them know no other way of life or have simply forgotten the ability to allow themselves feeling, emotion and consequences others face by their actions.

Based on my limited, though expanding scope, I cannot believe there is no cure for nonviolent psychopathy. I find this totally inconceivable in a day and age where we hand out Social Security Disability checks to the growing number of the under 25 year old set that didn’t even work twelve months in their entire lives.

To the twelve to thirteen million like me that share a single area of life-connection, isn’t it time our voice gets heard? Doesn’t America love minorities? Doesn’t America embrace underdogs?

Untreatable?

To you that would proclaim that: Where’d you give up hope with your massive educations and your sense of hope for humanity? What caused you to stop trying? Was it some repressed childhood memory brought back with perverse clarity from treating others in your later years that caused you to jet? Perhaps a sense of self-preservation and your lack of staying the course and holding objectivity in the highest of regards to your patients wellbeing that causes you to think this way?

Untreatable?

I do not believe this.

I will continue to fight this thought process.

6 months now, going strong, forward.

Mark William Darus

　
There is one constant that remains with Psychopathy: Another Life that still lives on from its inception: The want of a steadfast editor. Perhaps one will step forward in earnest the next six months. God knows, I really need an editor.

Getting Terminated by Progressive Insurance

                   Where I am now: Let the games begin. Through written
                                          word alone, going Ballistic.

                         Disposable Humans II. Mark William Darus
                  Life since getting terminated from Progressive Insurance.

                     And yes, I request an audience with Peter B. Lewis
                                            by Mark William Darus.

　

　

Mark awakens this moon shedding, sun light rising morning as his AC comforts him with its 66 degree temperature as yet another humid Northeastern Ohio day threatens to climb high. He throws the Monet’-type print comforter from his embrace to back of his couch. Again, on autopilot like every single day since his unjust termination some two and a half weeks ago, going through motions of uncertainty, in areas of Lake Erie seas unknown.

Where did Mark place signature to any warning before in ten years of service?

Sure, there were warnings of attendance issues, to which he freely signed, agreeing with their reason of origin.

A mere year and a quarter ago <perhaps off on this figure by a month or two> , at the suggestion from the manager he had then, looked toward FMLA.

The Family Medical Leave Act. The United States government gives job protection to those seeking, medical or psychological leave with documented help for areas that present themselves as life changes present themselves. Without forthcoming knowledge or with, for requesting their leave for immediate family aide by the employee for <those being either children, their spawn being a result of their giving birth to or the result of male impregnating and creating a child/children in need , mother or father, grand parent or siblings of biological nature> or to for the employee.

Be it alcoholism, depression, a family member needing a kidney, a cherished loved one dying of cancer desperately needing immediate physical aid , or the employees self with living and adjusting to meds of either psychological need or physically related, imbalanced in nature with side effects of from either causing issue.

A mere five days before, he received a correspondence by an HR representative about a further possible need for him to file an FMLA claim for the previous week, this being sent to HR by his manager in regards to his absence of several days. He even responded with concern to this via his managers personal <cellphone voice mail>. Her words and it source are recorded. He responded with what was going on with him and how he held a doctors note in regards. When eventually seeing her, he freely shared with her what was going on with him. This event occurring after her lack of physical presence a mere number of days after he made a human error on Monday August Six Two Thousand and Twelve in regards to his time card.

Thinking a single documented case of singular human error should not create such upheaval in a decade of giving to an American Company that they should fire him. Working many a Christmas, Thanksgiving, Memorial or Labor day he could have shared with his family and receiving emotional, verbal flack from them in that process. Working untold hours of overtime based on Progressive Scheduling need either through their schedule system several days in advance or their ROCCs COBOX top of monitor display asking for such on sudden need. Weighing the pros and cons, against thoughts of time spent with friends and family, Mark did this many times, not for time and a half, but to keep Progressive staffed by his sacrifice of manning phones.

Mind unsettled, memory reeling backward like some eight-track tape replaying prior shards of music as it goes to the next channel. Bumpy, without lack of balance. Stumbling about as some insane Bela Lugosi voice in Glen or Glenda screams: “PULL THE STRINGS! PULL THE STRINGS!”

The aroma of his Eight O’clock coffee meets him firmly. Letting Frodo and Nuq back in. Feeding them as dog food dwindles.

Unemployment denied.

Online: looking as his checking account.

16 dollars left.

Looking back on how so many others of standing were so easily disregarded by Progressive Insurance after grand numbers of years, how so easily they were either terminated or given the option of sizable pay cuts if they stayed,  or pay-offs if they left.

The music stopped suddenly, Mark having no chair to sit on, eliminated.

Like a kite with tether cut...

Mark has nothing to lose.

Mark William Darus August 31 to September 1 2012

Red Dust by Ryn Cricket

                                             Red Dust
                                         by Ryn Cricket

“A rooster can eat a snake, you know.” Li told the older boy in the school yard.

“No, it can’t.” The boy countered. “The snake would kill it before it could even try.”

“Each animal has its own strength.” She insisted. “And if the rooster were provoked. It would kill a snake.”

“I don’t believe you.” The boy taunted.

“Alright, you go get a snake, and I’ll get my rooster.”

The boy ran off into the trees behind the school and Li crossed the dry, red, dirt road to her house on the other side. Her parents weren’t home, so they wouldn’t know that she had taken “Sawan,” her father’s prized rooster. She had to be right.

They met back up in the dusty school yard within minutes. “Alright,” the boy said. “When I count to three, we will both drop them in front of us. Ready? One…two…three.” And the boy almost threw the snake on the ground and it started to slither until Li released Sawan.

Sawan started squawking as if he had already been caught. He ruffled his feathers and flapped his wings in a frenzy. The snake just watched quietly and hissed; watching and waiting. Sawan almost caused himself a heart attack in his noisy display, but he must have known that if he ran away, he could be swiftly attacked.

“Come on, Sawan! Eat him!” Li half-cheered and half-pleaded. Sawan started to calm down. The snake was not attacking him. Maybe he was safe. And in that very moment, the snake lunged, biting Sawan perfectly on the neck. The rooster collapsed almost immediately into a mound of flesh and feathers.

Li fell on her knees in the dry dirt next to the bird and her little mind began to connect the dots.

They found her body floating in the river hours later because she understood that she would always be the victim of snakes.

by Ryn Cricket 07152010

Neverending Story: Transitions.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zqKaIt-qwtc

 

                                           A Never-ending Story.
                                          by Mark William Darus.


                                     89 posts in less than six months.

             From myself and freely given to me by others across our planet.

　

                                                                 

　

Such a small space and time we have. We are born and soon learn to crawl. Suckling on mothers tit or taking in rubber nipples to gain sustenance. As babes in Toyland, we begin to grow and change so quickly the first two years.

In that time, we learn to say words repeatedly given to us by mother and father, grandma and grandpa’s and hosts of others. ‘Muhhhhh-ma, dahhh-da, grrr’n muh, fuuuuu’kn hooe, ‘ Babies learn quicker than we’d give them credit for.



Time passing quickly, steadily, progressing.

We learn to crawl about the dwelling. Occasionally hitting a corner, stopping us. Bumping nose, we cry. Tiny minds, yet sucking in like a parched sponge given rainfall, filling them. Endless curiosity tweaked, flat on our bellies, moving unsure arms, placing hands to a wall. Pressing onward and upward. Small hands ascending, one after another, left-right, left-right, raising small frame to learn to stand triumphant, saying proudly through action: Here I am!

Standing, failing. Standing and falling less. Wobbly legs giving way with increasing balance. Standing tall. Taking tiny steps, tumbling. Eyes filled with fire, striving once again to get it right. Hours, days, fly by. Getting it right to only go on.

Learning to climb.

Be it climbing up a couch, on a chair to a kitchen table or every parents fear: ascending up an entertainment center. Falling with first attempts, figuring the error and going higher with each failure. Bouncing babes with limber bones, never breaking anything on impact, yet causing blood pressure to soar to heights unknown as mom and dad see our falling is slow motion, unable to reach out and catch us in time.

Now running.



More parental fear rising, especially in the busy parking lots of popular stores. Stern words as their arms yank us back to safety, if you were lucky to have those aware and concerned teach us what is wrong. We learn. Learn to look both ways. To stop and be aware before chasing a ball into a street. Taking in the sound knowledge of caution.

Time and years scream by as we approach the teenage years. It is then we realize the mistakes we’ve made bare consequence to others, as we hurt others by our naive decisions. This is the beginnings of parental insecurity as they wonder where they failed in their teachings. Ignorance is ours during this time in the purest of fashion as we go toward adulthood.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------



If time frames mean anything at all, I have to consider Psychopathy: Another Life to be in its teenage years. Hopefully learning from ignorant errors of early attempts, hurting many, enlightening others as well as entertaining. I hope it is growing to areas of making sense to others as it goes through its ‘growing pains.’ of teenage life.

This will be P:SA’s Ninetieth entry. Ninety entries. Personally, I didn’t think I had this in me. This did not come without many set-backs and a great amount of frustration.

I could have done this without: Abigail Sommers, Irina Spektor, Tabitha Henson, and Ryn Cricket as contributors.

I could not have done this without the wondrous response of those sending me emails and their comments across the world.

With most humble of thanks given to David T, for his reading my words and him taking the time to give comments and enthusiasm long before I started P:SA and his continued support of P:SA.

David, you are truly one of the few, perhaps the only one, that physically know me to share your thoughts.

Psychopathy: Another Life: Mark William Darus’ Neverending Story.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GRCibVAslZ4 



                      Mark William Darus 08282012

Snake Charmer by Ryn Cricket

                                      Snake Charmer
                                      by Ryn Cricket


        She was born in the year of the Cock –though she preferred to say Rooster. They sat there playing chess in the dark because the storm had knocked out the electricity and neither could be bothered to get up and light a candle. She moved her queen’s pawn two spaces forward.

       "I got offered a promotion today.” She said after officially letting go of her piece.

        He didn’t lift his head, but his fingers went back and forth between his bishop and his rook. “Did you now?” He finally chose the rook.

        “Yes, but they want me to move to Portland.” She said as she brought her bishop out to stand watch on his king.

        “I can’t move to Portland.” He said still not looking up as he captured her pawn.

         “I know,” she said. Slowly she slid her queen out to guard the other side. His queen was gone. He had no protection.

         “I’m going by myself.”
         
         She couldn’t see his face in the dark. He knew she wanted to scream at him. Maybe she wanted to say she knew about the girls. Maybe she knew what he did to them. But she moved her queen quietly forward, and simply said, “Checkmate” before she got up from the table to pack.

        “I’ll help you.”

        He was born in the year of the Snake; a natural predator.

by Ryn Cricket 02212010

Neil Armstrong: A hero of my childhood.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gte3BoXKwP0The
Why i chose the above music link: It has a different title, but what I have always heard was the chorus :  <the video i give no regard to> Take me away.
I find this song's vocal and words most fitting for this entry.


To the Heavens and Moon 1969: Returning to the Heavens with his passing August 25 2012.

                         An original Rocket Man: Neil Armstrong.

                                       By Mark William Darus

　

I had a few real life hero’s when I was very young. These great men did things unbelievable and against all odds. They threw their asses out there to accomplish things unheard of and thought impossible. They were the adrenalin junkies of their time, what we’d now call X-Games players. Pushing themselves to break limits and boundaries, and dare is say: To go where no man has gone before.

My first childhood hero was Chuck Yeager born Charles Elwood Yeager, Myra West Virginia 1923. An ACE of WWII, he came a test pilot soon after the war..



On 14 October 1947, piloting the Bell X-1, he is the first man to break the sound barrier and successfully land the plane.

Reading about him in a book series my parents bought called Above and Beyond, I found this mans sheer grit elevating to my boyhood mind.



Decades later when I saw the movie The Right Stuff, hearing his voice on the commentary track and the special features showing him as the films technical advisor, I relived my childhood fascinations once again. Sure, the movie was about the beginnings of the Astronaut program in the United States and how the Russians were the first to place a satellite into outer space: Sputnik.

The first part of this movie you might as well say is a tribute to Chuck Yeager.

In my humble opinion: One of the greatest of mankind on this Earth.

　

Second major hero: Alan Shepard. Born Nov 18 1923 in Derry New Hampshire , passing July 21 1998. The first American in space. On January 31 1971, piloting Apollo 14, he landed the lunar module the closest point of destination of all the Apollo missions. He was also the first man to drive a golf ball on the surface of the moon, thus making the longest drive in history.

I vividly remember watching Apollo 14 splashing down on the black and white television my parents owned. Huge parachutes above it as it crashed into the ocean, the capsule bobbing about.

Screaming in the joy of the 9 year old I was as they exited the helicopter. Watching him stepping to the flight deck of the aircraft carrier, unshaven face, unsteady legs as gravity nailing him once again after 9 days of weightless life in outer space. Smiling as he and his crew waved to cameras filming.

A truly amazing man with a huge sense of humor: Golf balls fired from the moon. How amazingly cool is that? Utterly ridiculous in a time when serious science held most high. I think maybe his actions played an enormous part in my life. My unusual mind embraces things done for the sheer sense of fun and the nontraditional.



Alan Shepard: When I earn my place in Heaven, I would be most happy to hit a driving range with you and my father.

　

Neil Armstrong born August 5 1930 in Wapakoneta Ohio, passing August 25 2012.

My third and last childhood Hero.

Apollo 11.

2:51 UTC on July 21 1969 <Giving credit where credit is due, the time and date stated is in Earth time. God only knows what that translates to on the surface of the moon.> Stepping down the ladder of the lunar Lander Eagle, hopping from its last leg, he touches down.



His sure, steady voice speaking, static crackling in with each word spoken, Neil Armstrong proclaimed: “That’s small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”

Watching Walter Cronkite, his voice quivering as he freely wiped tears from his face. “Neil Armstrong, on the Moon.”

So absorbed in the moment, eyes and mind focused in complete tunnel vision on the TV, I cannot say what my parents or sisters said or how they watched this.

My eyes, tears running from them. Smiling as my head descends toward my knees. I began to cry. So glad to see such a monumental event.

I did not remember seeing the splashdown.

Neil Armstrong left this Earth yesterday, August 25 2012.

Into the Heavens he traveled back when.

Into the Heavens he now and forever soars.

As I write this, my eyes begin to leak clear fluid once again. Different now than I was many decades ago, I can still maintain some sense of loss.

Dropping down on my left, and highly pale knee, lowering my head in respect to you.



Saluting.

Neil, you were the last real Hero in my life.

Can’t wait to meet you in the here-after!

Mark William Darus 0825-262012

Sidenote: It was my friend Michelle Kenton to point this out to me: "Wow, Mark. You just started taking pictures of the moon yesterday <08-24-2012>. I guess you jinxed him." Knowing her well over the last 19 years, her sharing the dry humor I possess, we both laugh.
Still, what made me start taking Moon photos two days ago?

Breaking the set by Ryn Cricket

                                      Breaking the set
                                       by Ryn Cricket

     Katie and David were sitting on the couch while their mother paced back and forth in front of them. She looked like a lawyer about to give her final argument, but they didn’t know what it was. Both of them were doing well in school, in soccer, in everything. They didn’t hang out with the “wrong kids.” They had no idea why they why they were summoned to the couch.

     “I have something to tell you.” She began. Minds were racing –death, disease, moving…
     “Your father and I are getting a divorce.” That wasn’t even an idea in either of their heads. Nothing they had braced for or imagined. By the look of shock on their faces, she felt she must continue.
    
      “I really want you two to understand something. I know most kids think it’s their fault when this happens, and most parents try to explain that it isn’t –because it isn’t. But somehow, the kids never believe them. But here’s the thing, your father and I stayed together so long because of you –not for you, but because of you. What I mean is, as the four of us, we are awesome, aren’t we? I mean dad coaches the soccer team, you guys play, I’m the team mom who bakes cookies, and we all go out for pizza. We have fun. We are a great family. –But the two of us are just horrible. And when you two aren’t around, it’s miserable. When you start dating and hanging out outside without us, and go to college, we might resort to killing each other –that’s a joke…” she laughed nervously. “You’re getting close to that age, and we can’t face it together. I know this sucks. I know. It sucks for me too. I LOVE the four of us, but the two of us, just aren’t working.”

         Katie and David just sat there stunned. You could see their minds reeling through moments. Did they miss something? How did they not see it? Were all of their great times fake? There was just nothing they could say. They didn’t talk at dinner. Since their father didn’t come home that night, it was a very quiet house. Both of them left the table after dinner mumbling something about homework. And that was it.

        Their mother was left sitting by herself on the couch all night, hoping, praying they understood, hoping they didn’t hate her or resent her, hoping she could do this.

         The next morning passed without a word. Both Katie and David woke up and got ready without any prodding. They had their usual toast with cinnamon sugar and orange juice. And they grabbed their packed lunch, without a word, without looking in their mother’s eyes, without looking at anything.
 
         It wasn’t 30 minutes before the phone rang. The voice on the other side said, “Is this Mrs. Haley?”

         “Yes, who is this?” she answered wondering if she should change that after the proceedings, or should she keep it to be the same as her children.

           “This is the police, ma’am.” And he paused for a long time. Long enough to wonder what kind off trouble her husband –soon to be ex-husband was in. Or no, maybe David skipped school and he was picked up somewhere…

         “You have a son, David, and a daughter Katie?”

         “Yes.” She said almost quietly. David would cut school, but Katie, never. “What is this about?”

          “Their school bus was in an accident this morning, and I’m sorry, but…”

by Ryn Cricket 02212010

Eating once again at a Cracker Barrel: My soul is prepared, how’s yours?

  
              http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eWgphYPf0PA
                   <music fitting to this entry. Open second window and hear it                                   as you read.>

      Eating once again at a Cracker Barrel: My soul is prepared, how’s yours?

                                      By Mark William Darus

          Walking into this restaurant, not the same location as the killings I wrote about in my April 4 2012 entry. Odd sense coursing through veins, bizarre tingling of wonderment as Cracker Barrel restaurants share the same layout, architecture through out the USA.



           Gazing about as my party and I are walked to a table accommodating us, sitting. My eyes taking in old mid to late 1800’s photographs of sour, stern faces in black and white, signs of Sinclair gas with its dinosaur prominent, tree saws amongst wasted banjos and trashed brass instruments. Fire heaving open flame in the big center hearth, enhancing old world home sensations most of us never knew except for memories of Little House on the Prairie or the Waltons television shows. Adding Smokey flavor to everything brought to table, playing the triangle peg game some challenge, servers refill coffee cups, refilling water glasses, bringing more bisquits or cornbread, adding jellies at request.



           Prices have risen since my last visit. Go figure. There must be at least 15 lawsuits arisen from the Brooklyn Ohio incident. This is the sad and desperate hunger of humanity. Not grateful they were spared a raging soon-to-be ex-husbands stray bullet. Suing because their dinner was interrupted and they face irreparable mental damage with their irrational beliefs that no restaurant is safe.

`

          Looking about, watching those around the restaurant in close proximity, I wonder what might trigger a response most human in awareness, memory or feeling.



          Excusing myself from the table, heading for the mens room, I quip most aloud: “I hope no one is celebrating a birthday here tonight!” Yeah, I am a cold bastard. Someone has to gauge reaction in relation to those so far self absorbed they are oblivious to their surroundings.

         My words and its voice that carries, as subtle as a chainsaw performing an abortion, chime out.



           The snaps of a few heads, to me keenly audible like that of a Bruce Lee movie where every action gives a ‘whooshing’ sound, aim alarmed eyes squarely at me. These are those people most aware of their sense of the here-and-now. Statistics would show that at least half the people in Ohio visiting this restaurant chain wish to see a copycat shooting with the same glee as would those creating a gawkers block on a freeway, seeing a body halfway leaving the windshield with blood spattered head, lifeless, resting on the hood.



           Returning to table, my Uncle Herschels breakfast waiting. Ham, hash brown casserole, biscuits and gravy and grits with requested butter and coffee cream. Mixing the scrambled eggs with pieces of ham and hash brown casserole, relishing taste dancing about my tongue. Swallowing fondly, taking into me, yet still thinking in areas most ignored by most.



            Everyone at my table getting what they ordered and liking it. Fondly, slowly, taking forks of their culinary cravings, smiling, talking, sharing.



         While eating, my mind working thru scenarios of darker mental landscapes. Placing butter into the center of my grits and covering it to have it melt. Moments soon after, adding three sugar packets to it, a minute or so later adding coffee cream over it. To me, grit’s the way I like is both a comfort food as well as a sweet, fulfilling desert.



         Looking at the party of four sharing this table with me, I begin to wonder, my mind doing what it does. What would happen: If the music of Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash and Dolly Parton were overtaken by gunshots. If the comforting smells of a wood fire and food were defiled with the profound fumes of discharged gunpowder. Smiles 180’ing to those of pure fear and horror.



        What would my girlfriends mother do if shots rang out? Possessing fragile knees of the aged, slow response as muscles weakened over time. Would she duck under the table for safety? Could she even perform such a feat?



        My girlfriends son, going toward his senior year at college, would he duck and cover? Cover his grandmother or mom in self sacrifice?



        Little doubt in my mind on this: My girlfriend would throw herself toward her son and protect him. Giving her credit, she did stand over a dying woman a mere house away from the place we shared. Witnessing this: Watching blood leaving this woman, brightest of street lights encompassing as it turned a puffy December evenings tranquil bluish snowfall into a horrid, iron stench snow cone on the ground.



        Gunshot to the heart, my girlfriend, a nurse, taking in the last fading breath as the woman before her expires. This dying woman, victim of a store hold-up gone south as she ran and was shot in the back, just small months before gave birth to her first child.

        I was getting tires at the Firestone near the place I worked at the corner of Richmond and Wilson Mills road. Winter bonus hitting checking account, having enough to purchase the tires, lacking a cell phone then, blind to horrors his woman experienced.



         What would I do? I’d like to think I would throw myself toward the shooter. It’s not that I am suicidal so much as I believe it is the right thing to do.

              Knowing this and my beliefs.

              My soul is prepared.

              How’s yours?

Mark William Darus 0824-25-2012

Happy Places Revisted: Coming Home

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IwKIvX8VIgQ

                             Happy places revisited: Coming home.

                                      By Mark William Darus



Photography

Such a wondrous place to live and learn

Each days treasure hiding to find

From idle glance treating eyes to sights unseen

Great smells of cooking from several houses away

Laughter from something not painful to anyone

Looking to heavens and Earth

Camera in hand and ready

or

Tripod to hold things steady

A world once known well

Recaptured

Now digital

Costing much less than decades before

Missing as little as possible

Words

Once again put into coherent fashion

Making sense to others in ways never known

Lack of booze but having great pills

Like a river strong and flowing

Passing over rocks and flying over falls

Moving in whatever direction they course

Not knowing from where they come from

Not knowing where they’ll lead

Not knowing

Wondrous place to be as mind churns on

With undertows and whitecaps

Moving

Creativity

Marriage of ability

Talent

Sheer dumb luck

Embracing all senses with heart full open

Smell fragrant rose over exhaust fumes

Hear laughter killing the screams of the insane

Witnessing the splendor of this Earth as trees climb

factories descending into the minerals of their creation

Wind caressing exposed flesh

Air pushing hair about haphazardly

To chill or to heat the body

Warmth of the sun after a long winter

To feel what your life has to take in

Complete exposure

Arms extended wide

Mind growing with each moment experienced

Bad or good

Something to be learned always

Every aspect of being

A never closed or locked door

Exposing self with no regard toward judgment

Contented place in this world

Hope

Given by those well known

Those taking the chance to meet via Electric Circus

Globally

Being greeted

Being accepted

Reaching and being connected

To feel once more
Happiness

               Mark William Darus 0823-242012

Recreating by Ryn Cricket

                                               Recreating
                                            by Ryn Cricket


             I’m going to tell you something that I have learned to keep a secret for a very long time now. In 1997, I was in a college class called, “Personal Transformation.” (Probably the best class ever invented) and we were talking about our childhoods –specifically overcoming things and letting go.          The question was, “When was the first time you remember someone ‘raining on your parade?” This was eventually followed with horrible stories of abuse, neglect, pain and problems that made me want to hide under my desk and crawl out of the room. Even though I was 27 years old, each story seemed unimaginable to me.
          The only thing I could think of was in fifth grade when it came time to separate our music class into band, choir and general music, I wanted to play the drums. I wanted to play them so bad, but my parents wouldn’t let me and I had to chose choir. This was the worst thing I could think of. This is when I learned to keep my ideal childhood a secret. Of course things weren’t perfect. I’m sure some things were unfair and mistakes were made.            I remember my dad lost his temper with me once. But my childhood kind of resembled The Wonderyears. I had good friends, we played outside a lot, my family took big vacations, and we always ate dinner together at 6pm.
          But, the most memorable part of my childhood was our cottage. We had a little cottage up on the shores of Lake Erie, and it is where we spent practically every day of our summer vacation. I swam everyday, played in the sand, rowed the rowboat, had lots of kids to play with, climbed trees, explored, had picnics and bon fires, it was just pure fun for a kid. In the same little cove as us, were aunts and uncles, great-aunts and great-uncles, my grandparents, and neighbors who had been there forever.
       My little brother was known for eating breakfast at our house, then going to my grandma’s and eating there, and then going to my great-uncle’s, and then starting all over for lunch. Sometimes the men would go fishing, the women would make potato salad, corn on the cob and deviled eggs. Then they would take the picnic tables and actually line them up on the little road between the cottages and we would all eat together. Sometimes, my dad would get out the ice cream maker. All the kids would take turns turning until we thought our arms would fall off.
           There was no phone. We never watched TV. My grandparent’s might have their small black and white on an Indians game but that was the extent of it –background noise to their card playing. When we slept the adults would gather outside and talk, drink a little, play cards, whatever. It was soothing to listen to. If my parents had to go home, they could leave us behind if we begged, because there were 10 other adults around and it was really no big deal.
        Now, as Bill Cosby would say, “I told you that story, to tell you this one.” I had such an amazing day yesterday that I actually got chills.
          Yesterday, I asked my neighbor Fred if he happened to go to the store any time this whole weekend, could he take us. I didn’t realize I was out of bread and jelly. I had just been to the store, but didn’t know. I had read Rumi and Raine a Frances book about bread and jam and I guess Rumi took it seriously all week, because I had two loaves of bread on Monday.                 Anyway, I thought if he were free at anytime, just let me know. He IMed back, “I’ll be there in 5 minutes.”
T         hen, when he gets there his friend Pierre (also from Norway) comes out of the car. He says, “I’m back! –For good. I’m going to be your neighbor!” Yeah! Then we go do a little shopping. We go out for pizza, and since we had just had pizza, the girls and I decide to split some spaghetti and salad. Well, they were out of meatballs so Fred talks us into Carbonara.        I had never had it before –he has a way of getting me to try new things that I end up loving and craving –this is definitely on the list. Then we talk about all these things, having barbeques, hanging out, they’ll watch the girls if I want “me time.” My head starts swimming with possibilities.
         After dinner, we all had a few groceries to pick up, and let me tell you, 5 adults to 2 children is the most amazing ratio! I never had it so easy in a grocery store! Both men pushed the carts, so the girls just thought that was awesome, because they knew how to play and make them giggle, and race around. Fred’s girlfriend Boo is the one who takes the girls swimming everyday, and she did my laundry when my nanny was gone. Well she’s also a masseuse, and when I was getting the beginnings of a migraine last night, she came over with Pierre’s girlfriend and they gave me a massage, during which, I seriously began to wonder and question how did my life get so good?
        And then this morning I realized, this is kind of like my cottage summers, except my house is the a supreme cottage, but the sense of community, exploration, comfortableness, perpetual summer…I’m kind of reliving it as an adult, and giving such an amazing gift to my girls.

By Ryn Cricket04012012