Grave Addiction

                                                Grave Addiction.
                            Riverside Cemetery, Cleveland, Ohio USA
                                         By Mark William Darus.

　

      I spent the early evening at Riverside Cemetery to take photos. I had a few thoughts crop up as I fired shot after shot. Mostly taken in Black and White, I meandered about the lengthy grounds. Interesting internal vides and sensations filling my body, those mixing with an odd feeling of being watched as I strolled amongst the headstones and statues of the monuments to the dead.

                                                          

      About halfway through the shoot, I made an observation: The statues had two distinct stances. The statue faces would either look nearly angry or almost sad as they looked to the heavens. The ones that peered downward toward the deceased conveyed peaceful, contented expressions.

 

 

          I cannot imagine the incredible talent of those that carved these monuments. The time, effort and inspiration to create such lasting beauty in a time so far and away from power tools and a century before computers. They must have possessed well callused hands as they chiseled bodies, pillars and highly detailed faces that would last well over a century of North Eastern Ohio’s drastic weather changes. These carvers probably didn’t use gloves of any sort, making me wonder what their wives must have felt as their rough skinned hands, during tender filled moments of intimacy, traversed their bodies with both passion and love.

                                                             

      Riverside Cemetery was founded in 1876, just ten years after the end of the American Civil War. A more innocent time, perhaps, when the only beer around was Yuengling, and penicillin was not known until some 52 years later. Many of its residents passed well before 1928 from infections that penicillin and tetanus (vaccine created in 1924) could have cured.

                                                          

      Today, we’d almost laugh at such death by infection. If you ever want to view the value of growing modern medicine over the decades, just take a stroll through a cemetery that is older than 100 years. Look at the life spans in comparison then to the contrast of now.

                                                             

                                                         
                                                            

      Think about this: How many of you in the over 45 yr old crowd had grandparents placed with the cause of death being that of ‘old age.” Nowadays, there is no such thing as dying of old age unless you are over 100 years old and some coroner decides to be gracious.

      Riverside Cemetery has an area called: Gods Little Acre. I did not photograph this area for reasons I will keep to myself. Its residents are those of children that died at very young ages, mostly from Polio outbreaks and lack of medications we take for granted today that are a normal part of pediatric vaccinations to protect them. This area of time, many small children passed so very young that, to me, is almost haunting. I cannot imagine the utter grief and anguish of the parent watching their child expire before their very eyes. I believe the worst fear of any parent to be this: To outlive their own children.

                                                 

      This cemetery is unusually quiet given its locations. A mere 100 yards from a major freeway, I-71, and about a quarter mile from Cleveland Metro General Hospital ER that seems to have an endless amount of Emergency traffic from both land and air. It is incredibly serene.

      As I mentioned before, I sensed I was being watched. I don’t acknowledge paranoia with myself, but there was something there. Fine, I was walking over the resting areas of the dead, but I did get goose bumps which covered my arms. I heard one thing connect with my mind: “just do this right.”

　

       It is my hopes you enjoy this entry. Visit a placed of those passed and meet them. Look deeper toward the monuments created for the deceased by loved ones. You’d be amazed with what you might find.

      Today, I actually saw a woman hand feed a deer. She even told the deer to ’give paw’ and it did! Out of courtesy to her after sharing surprised and happy thoughts with her, I did not publish photographs of her except for her hand as she fed it.

                                                   

                                                   

      It is no longer enough to take time and smell the roses. One must embrace all things given to us as we have so little time to share those experiences with others.

                                                       

Mark William Darus 09172012

Authors Note: My parents: Ted and Marion (that's Marion with an 'O' as she'd so often tell others) and my grandparents remains reside in Riverside Cemetery. I dedicate this entry to them.

Tara: The room of 9 Chairs

                                Tara Part: The Room of 9 Chairs
                                        By Mark William Darus

　

　

          Rigid, chiseled facial features greet Tara in the mirror with the mildew covered shower curtain behind her. Her nose accustomed to the stench of a neglected cat-box, eyes no longer watering, stomach failing to respond with heaving motions.

       The shower emits steam, hissing with the sounds of splashing water.

        Lowering her head she brushes her long, this week, blond hair, eyes locking on the battery of medications before her on the countertop. Meds to control her, but more often than not, failing her.

       Looking once again into the mirror, face loosening, she says, “Hey Kara, how we doing this fine morn?” Her voice happy and optimistic.

      “Just glorious, and you, Tara?” a much lower toned voice says back.

       “Is the water warm enough, Cara?

        “Yes, Tara, I believe it is,”

        “Shall we shower now?”

         “Absolutely, we must, Cara.”

         As Tara, Kara and  Cara enter the shower warm water covers them with exquisite sensations as it journeys down a well toned body. Strawberry Purity Shampoo mix with the warm water, its steam, pleasantly fragrant, filling the tiny bathroom, obscuring the mirror across from it.



         Elsewhere, a toady looking man dons a lab coat, hair ruffled from a lack of combing, wearing mismatched socks, leaves his home for a meeting with her. As he enters his blue BMW, he turns on the radio. Greeted with a song by Creed, “One, Oh one. The only was is one…” its radio blasts from the Blaupunkt sound system.

　

        Exiting the shower, Tara , Cara, Kara meet Ebony. They begin to dry themselves and Ebony gets very agitated.

       “What the fuck! Fine, don’t ask me!” a husky voiced female sporting a Tommy shirt and pink short-shorts yells at them.

        “Damn, Cara, Didn’t we chuck her last week?” Tara words displaying concern.

        “Yeah we did! We got rid of her by the Great Fountain last Tuesday. We had rocky road ice cream right after it.” Cara adds with confidence.

       “Guess she came back, didn’t she?” Kara emotionlessly states.

        Shaking a full head of wet clean hair while trying to dry it with green towel, “Guess we failed again…”

         As all three of them get dressed, walking into the living room, Phil is staring at them with crying eyes. “How can you do this to me? Forget me? I’ve known you for over 9 years,” Wearing a Journey jersey and blue corduroys, he looks utterly dumbfounded.

       Tara, Cara and Ebony look nearly horrified at his presence before them.

       “Didn’t we-”

       “Shit, it didn’t hold,” Cara cuts Tara off in mid-sentence.

 


        “DAMN IT!” the four  contrasting females yell with perfect harmony.

          “Let’s get dressed already, Tara,” a calmer Cara speaks.



         Leaving their dwelling, they walk to their group session of never-ending mental probing.



        Not far from the five of them, Dr. Petifield Grimly stops for coffee at the Comfortably Buzzed Coffee shop. A local thrash-metal band plays an over powered version of Higher Ground highly distorted from the JBL‘s in the poorly decorated shop. Greeted by a goth-chick with at least 8 exposed body piercings, “Super Mocha Expresso Deluxe, doc?”

       “Please. Wait, make it two of them.” Speaking with a voice that never left puberty behind, the 48 year old man looks at her as he always wonders: ‘what else does she have pierced?’

      He pays and generously tips her.

       “You got a rough one today, eh, doc?” she asks with a sarcastic edge.

       “You have no idea.”

　

         Happily, Tara speaks to the haggard looking receptionist safely planted behind thick glass. “We’re here for doctor Grimly. We have a 9 o’clock.”

         “Very good, I’ll the doctor know you are in.” Yawning, she tiredly presses a button on her phone. “Your niner is in, doctor, “

         “Okay, I’ll be right out.” His voice, regardless of how many strong coffees consumed, sounds nearly comatose and completely lifeless.

　

         Buzzing sound ensues as a door is opened slowly.

         Faking a smile, Grimly looks to the waiting area. “And how are we today?

        Surmising the four others around her, Tara says, “Not so good doc.”

         “Well, let’s all talk about it, shall we.”



          Brightly lit corridor splashing fluorescents on them from dispersed overhead neon coverings. Between many office doors, the walls display photos and paintings of gentle clouds and landscapes of green pastures of vibrant flowers.

         Reaching a large room with nine chairs in a circle, they sit.

          “How are all of you?”

          “Well, Doctor, Ebony and Phil are back, as you can see,” Tara’s voice is steady, though perturbed at the same time. Uneasily, she and others plants themselves on the chairs.

          “I see, “ doctor Grimly agrees judging by the look on Tara's  face. “Sorry to hear this. Did anything good happen last weekend?”

         “I guess so. I broke it off with Bill.”

          “Good! That relationship was not good for you, Tara. Where did you break it off with him and what did he say to you?”

          Sadness crossing her face as she looked down at the floor, she quietly tells him, “by the Great Fountain. He took it pretty hard, he cried at me. It was horrible! He had his Iron Maiden tee on and his tears landed on his grey sweat pants.

           Looking up, Cara nodded at Grimly, saying with low, confident tone, “he needed to be gone.”

          “I agree, Cara. He did need to be gone from Tara and you.”

          "How can you exclude me from this thought, doctor?" Kara asks loudly though totally lacking an emotional presence.



          “But doc, he said he would return! We can’t handle this. Christ, Ebony and Phil returned. You see this, don’t you?” Cara had a desperate expression of anguish in both her posture and face.

          Turning her head to the left, face away from Grimly, the voice of Tara fills the room.

       “I think he made me pregnant!”

         Cara, Phil, Kara  and Ebony nod their heads with this knowledge. Kick off one, another emerges.

         Sighing, doctor Grimly looks at Tara.

         Besides himself, Tara is the only other person in this room of nine chairs.



                             Mark William Darus 09172012

　

　

Authors Note: Tara Part was a story I started well over 17 years ago. I came to know a woman that suffered, and I do mean suffered, from multiple personalities. I posted poetry and stories about this womans life and the changes I witnessed back on the pre-World Wide Web, when all we had was BBS systems to reach one another in cyberspace.

Tara Part is a fictitious name. It has been a while since I wrote about Tara. Writing about her always seemed painful to me. A few of her personalities loved me and they shared this with me. A few didn’t, they made this known, and I split when she happened on an abuser she later married.

To the real-life Tara, I am sorry I was not stronger back when…

Thanks to Dave T for always asking about Tara.

I don't want to be the one. by Ryn Cricket

                                  I don't want to be the one.
                                         by Ryn Cricket.



  I am at this place in my career

　

My life,

My motherhood,

Where I am at a loss.

I’ve been a teacher for 22 years

And a student my whole life.

I love research.

I love history, anthropology, religions, literature….

I love digging deep into people’s lives

And how they live or lived.

What was it like?

I don’t read —

I DEVOUR books!

Especially history.

I wrote a paper once about how awful it was

That Bloody Queen Mary beheaded Lady Jane.

I mean, everyone knew she was just a teen-aged puppet

And had no interest in the throne.

I sited 10 sources on the injustice.

And my professor wrote,

“You’re too sentimental”

across the top of my paper.

I hated him.

To me, history wasn’t dead and removed.

They were living, breathing people with experiences

I could share,

understand,

empathize…

And I’m home-schooling my girls now

–which I love.

–which I’ve dreamed of

–which I’ve planned for

–in my head –

for years.

But I am at this point

After 22 years, that…

I don’t want to be the one

Who tells them they are different.

That they have a different history than I do.

I find that I avoid certain movies and TV shows

Because I don’t want them

to question why

people don’t like them because

God colored them with a tan crayon.

　

(That’s what my little one says).

You see, to them,

It’s not black and white,

it’s shades of tan and peach.

I don’t want to explain

Segregation

Slavery

The Trail of Tears

Reservations

Jim Crow

Oppression

Suppression

How arbitrary it is that our last name is Womack

Just because it is the last name

of the last white man

Who owned their great-great grandfather

Before the Emancipation Proclamation

And he didn’t bother to change it.

This name,

handed down through years and generations

Means nothing!

We live in Thailand,

And they are different

Because they have curly hair.

They are different

Because they are foreign.

They get their pictures taken by strangers

20 times a day.

They are like movie stars.

When we buy groceries,

When we eat out,

When we walk around,

“Stop a minute, this lady wants a picture.”

“Stand next to his daughter there, he wants a picture.”

“The waiters want a picture before we go, girls.”

Mostly, the Thais just want an excuse to touch their hair.

So “different” to my girls, means “Special.”

It means beauty.

It means people love you for how you look.

–Shallow, I know.

But I don’t want to be the one to tell them otherwise.

I don’t even want to put the idea into their head

That there IS an otherwise.

I don’t want to be the one to tell them

That once, they could have been killed for how they looked.

Once, they could have been taken away from me.

That before 1967,

their father and I couldn’t even get married.

That even now, people might think

Or say bad things about them

Even though they don’t know who they are.

That not everyone thinks they are beautiful.

I don’t want them to be naive.

And I have ALWAYS been honest with them.

But, I don’t want

To be the one

To teach them this.

　

By Ryn Cricket 07122012

Earl, proud Thoroughbred, and serenity granted me.

                          A 2AM stroll for needed cigarette as I write.
                                               Needed Reflection.
                                           By Mark William Darus

　

　

              Satisfying day granted as camera mating with firm, a far more confident left hand holding it, as I began taking black and whites at Wallace Lake. I take colour photos as well, catching both stagnant waters that people swim in. I also shoot the sewage drain that spills freely into this lake. Draining filth unhindered, it is hidden from view, eclipsed by dense foliage and paths less traveled. Strolling through poison ivy most dense, trundling over exposed roots of various trees, sounds of chipmunks scurrying about, the smell of dying leaves and their dryness as fall takes over for its share of time.

          I sense belonging in this world as I walk and take shot after shot, catching tiny glimpse of nature and its sounds and smells. I believe myself most fortunate for my ability to take the time and, forgive this cliché, to smell the roses.

         It is with my sincerest sense of belief I say this: As we see the world around us, our eyes are cameras, our ears always recording, our noses taking in subtle changes of climate most amazing as fresh green grass is taken over by that of arid leaves shed from trees. I believe a writer, artist, and photographer see, hear and smell what most do yet others fail to make a connection with. This is what makes them a highly astute voyeur in their walk of creative life. Perhaps journeying down roads not less traveled by most, but certainly looked at vastly different in all respects.

          Humanity: We are little more than strainers of varying meshes. What passes through yours is caught by mine. That’s okay. We’re all so incredibly different as we pass through each others lives, share a glance in a parking lot or the line of an under-staffed Walmart. Like particles in the vary air we take in, we are connected in one form or another.

            When planets do align, sometimes we make contact. When conversations go beyond the 5 minute mark, personal connection reached, it is at that point we begin to toss away paranoia and share our lives with others. This, to me, is one of the greatest aspects of humanity: The undying ability of some to go on, live life and grow from their open joining with others. A world where sharing opinions, thoughts, concerns create landscapes of many forms, colours and shapes without judgment or flagrant disapproval. A simple, to me, pure land fostering the lifting of being to higher areas unknown.

        With all creation from birth, as we grow, I shared this with a girlfriend of many decades ago: The only bad pasts are those we create ourselves.

          Come on people! You might hate your ex and call them every name in the book, but where does your share of personal error come into play? Who is the asshole in this: The asshole for being one or your choosing to be with one? Granted, I have not always known this revelation, but I have learned from its sharp knifes edge as it cut through me.

         Being most wordy, I strayed from the meaning of this post. Forgive me for this.

　

         I was granted a chance to photograph a moving horse. Prior to this, I displayed animal shots of ducks, geese and squirrels. My photos caught the attention of a Facebook friend. She asked me to take photos of her and Earl. After meeting this incredible 1100 pound animal, looking into his eyes, stroking his nose and sweaty body, I knew I was about to learn much.

           Prior to this, I had little experience with horses. I drove them poorly, impatient beast below me always sensing my weakness and taking course of area with really low branches to discard me.



             Needless to say, I am an absolute beginner in this arena.

            I was greeted with the warmest of smiles from her as well as her horse, Earl.

            I cannot believe the things I witnessed as she took care of her trusty steed. The care and poise as she brushed him, occasionally looking into this eyes as his beautiful tail swatted flies away. I was between Earls tail and a fly, he soundly met the right side of my face with a hearty ‘smack!” I smiled from this experience. My past feeling of horse hair was from paint brushes I ran my fingers through. This smacking was so much more wonderful.

         She gave Earl a new saddle blanket which she beamed about as her eyes meeting her face, smiled most honestly.

         In little time, I began taking photos of Earl and her captain. They slowly warmed up, taking large passes of the indoor arena. Fighting bad lighting, loving the challenge this gave me, twisting my frame, feet solidly planted, I followed them as my shutter took its time as I struggled to hold things in frame.

          Frame after frame taken, standing taller with each attempt, cherishing this moment in time, I kept firing away at Earl and his happy care-taker. Occasionally catching sharp forefronts  with movement in background, taking life as it moves.

 

And this Photograph of a horse in motion below was my first in motion. 

 

          The shoot being completed, she asked me out for drinks. I told her my stance on beer-breath and driving and told her a tea would be fine.

          I spent the next several hours sharing with her areas of life seldom given without open minds and hearts. We shared. Wondrous. To me, it has been a long time since the last time.

          As we walked to our Chevy’s, we hugged, smiling.

          To her, owner of Earl, I, like your proud animal, bow my head to you.

                                  You are exceptional!

                       Mark William Darus 09132012

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.



     “LORD KNOWS, WHAT I HAVE DONE TO DESERVE THIS…”

             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.

\

                             THUD!

                  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:

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!!!!!



                              “Call the time of death, doctor,”\



                                    “NONSENSE! CLEAR! “



                                             THUMP!

                       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!!”

                                     THUUUUUUUUMP!

                      “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.

             “n-nur,”

              “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,

Karen.

　

　

____________________________________________________________________________

　

                   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!

　

If I WERE TO DIE SHORTLY, THIS IS MY LEGACY.

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

Worth a thousand words: An unexpected marriage.

                       Worth a thousand words: An unexpected marriage.

             I find it amazing how the many months of writing refueled my interest in photography.

             I have little idea what made me buy the Kodak EasyShare camera from Big Lots that 90 degree day in July. After posting photos on Facebook, a coworker gave me her camera when her husband bought her a much better Canon outfit. I later traded that in adding a few extra dollars on my part, I purchased the FujiFilm S4200 I use today from Dodd Camera.

           Not two months after starting digital photography an odd thing occured. I began to realize that writing made me take more photos  and taking pics made me write more.

           I began to think: What a perfect marriage of creativity.

           I humbly wish to share with you what I believe to be my best photographs to date.

           I hope you like them as much as I enjoyed taking them.

           Mark William Darus 09102012

                      <click on the Photographs below to see full form.>

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                           This was the first time I caught lightening.

                      

                         Thank you for taking the time to look at them.

                          All photographs taken by Mark William Darus.
                                   Can be used with permission.

 

 

 

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