Tommy. Game of HangMan for real.
Exiting his ever rusting once black mid-eighties Oldsmobile Sierra behind, coursing drunkenly down a dank alley that smelled of two nights of restaurant garbage and human piss. Rustling sounds of rats, mice and huge cockroaches like the hiss of voltage rising up a Tesla coil, growing louder with each step further.
Blinking 100 watt bulb fluorescent, shorting out and coming back, strobe lighting a descent to hell, Tommy goes deeper.
“Duhhhh-don’t go thhhhhar, “ some nicely suited man with stylish brown hair says to him. A voice of drug-annihilated uncertainty states. “donnnnn-g-therrrrrrrr.”
Tommy, taking grasp of this wasted man before him, smart black suit, tailored to fit, gold cufflinks, and the words given.
He also took hold of the blood covering white shirt and purple and blue tie riding down and gravity and darkness created crimson hues descending to his pants.
He witnessed this apparition crossing his path, its words hitting his mind like hollow points, smiling as he stepped aside to not reach its flailing outstretched arms greeting/warning.
Passing fucked up socialite, breathing deeper, Adidas smacking thwonks on bricked alley, going further, sex sounds in many absurd forms, stink of pork gone south on this humid Amsterdam night. Flies, no ending of muffled buzzing flies ascending as he walked to the doorway he sought.
Above the doorway, vibrant black-lighted illumination on florescent walls read simple words: Your god gave up on. Shed all hope. Its door, cold grey metal reaching warmer colours with its slowly rusting bottom having no peep-hole.
Tommy grabbed its knob, turning it clockwise, and went forth.
Graffiti colours of blues, greens and the brightest of reds greeted him with their contrast against flat-black walls. Wasted and water-stained flooring meets each step.
Huge muscled man with bald head and sharp expression comes from Tommy’s left. Blocking, putting him in check. Sporting a Swastika with a rainbow above it, Tommy wondering if he’d met some floundering zone where Nazi’s meet Homo’s.
Steady mind, wanting something else, accepts and stops. Running fingers through slight black locks. Confident, self absorbed and hungry.
“Show me your dick, fucker!” the gay Arian states with strength of tone and pitch. He places large left hand on Tommys right shoulder, clamping down like a misplaced Vulcan drop-zone, stopping him.
Tommy, obliging, unzips his fly freely. Shrunken penis falling from the fly of his faded Levi’s. Expression of facial continence as its weakness shown.
“Welcome to Amsterdam, American!” Nazi-Fag, sucking on a failing peppermint breath mint, motions Tommy into the grander reaches of this depressing hall to its steps leading up.
Inhaling deep the coming gloom, leaving smells of animal piss reaching whiffs of Super Hit and Jasmine inscents enveloping him, taking him further.
Reaching final step to level showing bronzes’ high-priced ceramic tiles, he takes a 90 degrees to his right. Eyes fiercely like a kid first visiting a Kidz-R-Some, growing wider and wider still with each sight memory thru eyes could take in. Deepest of air he takes into nonsmoking lungs.
Redhead, dressed like New York secretary, flowing hair over deep blue suit coat covering pale blue shirt, with tight fitting black slacks toward stilettos. “Cash or Plastic?” Her voice is even and unyielding. She blackly wishes for better things for herself and her children.
Tommy hands her an American prepaid Walmart **********.
Approved! A positive sound chimes.
She welcomes Tommy to Hell and opens the black door to her right.
Steel door opening, greeted with massive bass thumps smashing against his heart and sights of human thrashings and audible throes of abandonment and ecstasy.
Fiery eyed long haired blond females thrusting madly over flat males gasping harshly on stained pillows of yesterdays orgies. Moans in various stages of climax, rising, descending or content: smells of human scents via the ’private places’ secretions represent.
Tommy trips over a wasted brunette, his pale Levi’d knee landing firmly on her forehead soundly, surely leaving a bruise. She says: “sorry,” the most wasted of those that have lost both soul and body, truly and with complete sincerity, caring not as they no longer wish to be.
Strolling toward the strobing, fluorescent realms of the bar as images change with the most of decadent backgrounds of artists obscured thru history with modern videos of Rammstien and Martika romp.
Out totally of place and time, wearing a cowboy hat, throwing out a fake drawl, “ C’n I h’ves absinthe? “
Bartender in the most sublime James Bond tux says simply far better than most Americans,. “Please, Sir, say again”
Frustrated and failing with a Texas accent : Just give me a beer!
“What beer would you like to have, Imported, Russian or elsewhere?’
Tagging him, suspiciously, he is brought down….
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
AUTHORS NOTE: to be continued tomorrow….
Mark William Darus ; 07-14-2012
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Thursday, July 12, 2012
186 miles per hour, guardrail airborne to a pastures redemption.
186 miles per hour, guardrail airborne to a pastures redemption.
Serina’s tale of whoa.
Pissed at a family with plastic words spewing never ending doubts from twisted mouths. Serina walks away from her family, fighting tears, look of ferocity, eyebrows aimed toward her tiny nose. Walking past the counter area, where single diners would congregate, heading the front exit. Passing the sign that reads: Maximum occupancy: 126, opening the outer door, warm summer breeze calling her to her bike.
The Lenny’s Restaurant adjacent to the Clearstratus Mall, a division of Southfield Malls, like so many other Lenny’s. Exterior booths, some holding 6 people with interior tables seating 4. Tacky paintings of fishermen, vague sunsets and mountain ranges, mixing with odors of burnt onions, overcooked cheese sticks and bad coffee.
Leaving this, embraced by summer evenings diving sun sometimes covered by lazy clouds, sounds of frogs beckoning mates, crickets chirping. To her, these nature calls mean serenity.
Serina mounts her trusty friend.
Verrrrr-ROOOOOM! Her Honda CBR750R growls to life. Tachometer hitting just under 9,000 RPM’s, halogen headlight lasering s single intense beam spotlighting the side of worn Uhaul truck with a fading picture of some Great Plains scene.
Raising her airbrushed Deathshead helmet with strong hands over crew cut blond hair. Seeing surroundings, green eyes blazing, before shrouded by polarized glass. Firmly planted on head, motorcycle in neutral, right hand competently grabbing throttle.
Verrrrrr-ROOOOM!
RPM’s going high, releasing clutch, taking off. Losing control halfway through cornering left as her back tire hits engine oil on black pavement. Wobbling violently too and fro, sobering event, she corrects front tire aim and shoots true exiting the parking lot onto 4 lane highway traffic.
Tightly fitting royal blue striped legs, placed astride powerful engine slightly shrouded by Cobalt fiberglass bodywork. Matching leather coat covering arms extended, passionate hands meeting handlebars.
Skin and bone mating with metal and plastic in the truest sense of man and beast.
Stopping at a red light, heat of her lover rising, enclosing her from the only thing that never screamed back to her except in acceptance.
Red convertible Ford Mustang next to her in the right lane, macho man with receding hairline and bleach blond bitch with over make-upped face glance over at her. Not quite a GT, though sporting an 8 banger smaller than that of a 5.0, throws out a meager 5000 RPM gasp. Overly bassed thumps of Judas Priest FreeWheel Burning with raspy treble vocals fill this crossroad.
Firing back, she gives them a hearty 9500, its menacing pitch causing heads to turn from her in the left lane. She was always left-laner. Never curb lane, as that is for losers.
Serina, in her element, laughing: Obviously this idiot has no clue of thrust to weight ratios…
Mustang redlining. Macho man and bleach bitch looking excited like those close to orgasm.
Throttling hard on her CBR750R, exhaust shrieking into the night.
Watching traffic light going yellow to cross traffic.
Engines pitching higher and higher. Anticipation reaching a point of pure acerbating madness.
Their light goes Green.
Macho jumps ahead of her.
BOOM! Huge plume of white smoke quickly follows Mustang as a right side piston smashes through the intake manifold, nearly piercing its candy apple red hood.
Glowing green eyes meet her laughing face as she leaves the line at no more than 25 MPH.
Pulling up her visor to meet them with unshielded eyes as she passed them. Another one bites the dust, she thought.
Purring into the lesser roads of traffic lights encumbering, she powers on as night smells and blurring trees greet her in natures welcome.
Leaning sharply into tight corners, blasting down straight-aways, keen eye looking for State Patrol, never looking into her rear view mirrors. Never looking backward.
Except in her own mind.
Serina had pissed off many in her small years on this planet, causing their indifference toward her. Her past, like that of William Tecumseh Sherman’s scorched earth march: burning bridges, fields and homes but with the closest of people that cared for her in loving fashion, leaving them frustrated and fuming in her wake.
I try. Each and every day I try so help me god. I know I say the wrong things, fall back on yesterdays failures I never seem to learn from and speak harshly in some attempt to make them listen. Yeah, I understand them, I just don’t understand myself and why I do what I do. Repeatedly.
Why can’t someone just kill me?
Cooler air from the denser array of green trees and grass, escaping the asphalt jungle, its tarred surfaces and concrete boring landscapes, the summer heat they hold, descending deeper into woods she rides.
Shit! She cries, braking hard as she passes something to her left side.
Rear tire locking up, smoking rubber creating whitish vapor, swerving to a halt.
Parking her bike aways from the road, removing helmet, shaken, she begins to walk toward what she saw.
Nature making wondrous spenders of the night: that of rustling trees louder without the din of constant daytime traffic, barn owls hooting, faint low-pitched growls of raccoons. Smell of fresh pine and other wooded inhabitants with the river scents doing what do each summer night appreciated by so few.
Reaching what had caught her eyes, she gasped, eyes displaying both concern and sorrow.
Dropping to leathered knees, she sent her right hand to the smashed and dying deer before her.
HUH-HUH-HUH-HUH, the failing doe exhaled with increasing repetition.
Oh, god! NO! Serina’s eyes shedding tears, stroking its head with sincerest of hearts to ease its suffering. NO! Damn….
Shattered doe, sad eyes shinning in full moon unclouded, meeting Serina’s eyes with fading night vision. Knowing, instinctively so, it was not alone now.
HUH-HUH-HUH-HUHHUHHUHHUHHUH! Faster and faster, breath trying harder and harder to hold on to constantly slendering threads of life.
Falling tears like rain on a spring day reaching gushing volume, Serina’s heart falling deeper as this animal suffers on.
The doe’s crushed rib cage with once strong legs mangled, free flowing blood less and less with each fleeting pant. Thankfully, vultures sleeping, not circling to descend with hungry beaks darting at soon dead.
Words escaping quietly, softest of tones, whimpering a single prayer: Lord, take this deer to you. End its pain as someday you will do mine.
Stroking gently behind its ears, blond short hair casting halos to ceasing sight of the doe.
HUHUHUHUHUHUHUHhuh-huh-----huh-huh------hu… Final air spent, big brown eyes closing eternally, leaving this world forever.
Throwing herself to the dead animal under her, Serina lifting its head and holding it in her arms. Be at peace. Be at peace.
On her bike, placing helmet on head after calling 911 for animal control for no other reason than to not see the majestic animal to be eaten by predators. She fires up her Honda, leaving the scene as quietly as possible.
Miles passing endlessly over hours that reach brilliant sunrise in another State. Cornfields rising in colour, hay fields growing in gold hues, hints of morning dew meeting the steady purr of her bike. The moon vanishing as quickly as it greeted her.
Long straight line, yanking on throttle. The increasing whine of last gear ascending in tone. Faster and faster as the shebike pumped power.
Mind spinning endlessly of her latest travel took her beyond. No control over its thinking. Wandering soul, endlessly trying and falling short. Memories, damned memories and relations that like herself never truly change.
Box turtle trundling to pond on yonder side of road, seeking even temperature and good feeding ground.
Sound, blaring sound, louder and louder still. Hiding into safe harbor of its shell. The turtle pulls quickly in.
She hits to turtle at 186 MPH. Losing control in a very physical world, bike pitching and yawing massively, heaving her from its power.
Serina goes airborne, arms flailing out like an untrained bird in a massive crosswind.
Flying over wooden fence, barely clearing an electrified cattle holder, mind cart wheeling insanely.
Hitting Earth, bouncing several times as she slows down, leather friction translating to flesh with growing heat.
Fourth, fifth bounce? She does not remember until the final impact stops her suddenly.
Am I dead? Odd smells with no memory meet her as the sun mounts the morning sky.
Lying there, stunned.
Dying like the deer on the road hours earlier, feeling helpless.
“You took a tumble, didn’t you English?”
Serina, barely able to look up, taking stock of both limbs and life support. Do fingers move? YES! Do hands and legs work? YES! Neck broken? NO!
Dazed green eyes look up and meet the voice.
“My wife didn’t want me to put this here. Glad I did.”
Shit, she is smelling shit. She stands, not knowing how she can even do this after such an accident. A pile cow shit she has risen from, she glances down.
Looking at Mr. Yoder, an Amish man in traditional garb, realizing where she landed.
God, she thought. How am I still alive?
“You must be hungry, are you?” smiling all the while, happy for this miracle before him.
Starving! You have no idea…
“c’mon to breakfast then! No better food than my wife's here or anywhere else.”
Shaking less and less, she tells him thanks.
Do you need a farm hand? I’d like to work for what I eat.
“Farm hand? No. Got many for that. But you are welcome. If a hand is what you be, than God will make it so.”
Serina, months later, after working the land, feeling reborn again in a world she never dreamt of, contacting her family who would drive to meet her once again. Wondering what Serina is into now, they coursed the roads of farmlands and brick making companies.
Pulling onto dirt road, no major expectations but liking cheese very much. Brown clouds behind them like a smoke screen. “I’m gonna need a serious car wash after this trip!” Sister said loudly.
They parked and exited their vehicle/
Sheep BAHHING, tiny piglets snorting happily as they romped about, tails quickly wagging, cows mooing. Fresh bread baking, rich, full smells of handmade glory that nowadays never greet the urban world.
Serina, standing taller than ever before, runs to them as happiness fills her face, touches her eyes with arms outstretched to greet them.
Teary embraces. Her telling the story of her absence from them, the deer and landing where she did.
Feast, a grand feast of fresh beef, potatoes, raw goats milk and bread fill bellies as stories shared and hours pass like various fields rise rapidly in summer warmth and sunlight. Smiles and laughs creating accidental yet harmonious chords. Sharing without sarcasm.
Thanks given to Serina’s extended family, hugs given, happy faces exchanged.
Embracing Serina. Serina’s heart feeling sense of place, peace and acceptance from both worlds. Strong arms she gathers them, scoops them against her body.
Contentment: Family united as God wanted.
Thanking the Yoder family before they left, Mr Yoder walked to their car, adjusting suspenders as he always did after mealtime, long white beard moving with gentle breeze.
“ya English! Sometimes yuh have tfall into a pile of cowdung to come out smelling like a rose.” huge smile, raising hand in their soon departure.
Blank looks transcended into deeper understanding of an old saying. Ease and comfort meeting faces as the vehicles passengers truly to hold of its simple meaning.
Serina’s sister, driving away in a White Chevy Suburban, stared into the rear view mirror as her sisters image grew smaller, Serina wearing a pale blue dress with no accessories to display individuality. A sister she had prayed she’d meet and never thought she would.
____________________________________________________________________________________
Authors Note:
I cannot express thanks enough for the sharing to make this entry happen.. I still shake my head in disbelief after meeting the sister, Amish-adopting father and Serina on a too hot county road in SugarCreek Ohio in the summer of 2012.
Corn having a hard time climbing in drought conditions, yet cows doing quite well in fields brown grasses feeding, their milk making greatest of cheeses.
I broke bread and shared as they did with me.
Communion of differing lifestyles.
I think of the blessings my higher power has given me. I question not as it tells me to read emails, talk on the phone and take road <albeit, sometimes Rogue> trips.
This life's juggling does not come easy, but it is not without reward and it leads to Another Life unknown to me.
Highest regards,
Mark William Darus 07/12/2012
Serina’s tale of whoa.
Pissed at a family with plastic words spewing never ending doubts from twisted mouths. Serina walks away from her family, fighting tears, look of ferocity, eyebrows aimed toward her tiny nose. Walking past the counter area, where single diners would congregate, heading the front exit. Passing the sign that reads: Maximum occupancy: 126, opening the outer door, warm summer breeze calling her to her bike.
The Lenny’s Restaurant adjacent to the Clearstratus Mall, a division of Southfield Malls, like so many other Lenny’s. Exterior booths, some holding 6 people with interior tables seating 4. Tacky paintings of fishermen, vague sunsets and mountain ranges, mixing with odors of burnt onions, overcooked cheese sticks and bad coffee.
Leaving this, embraced by summer evenings diving sun sometimes covered by lazy clouds, sounds of frogs beckoning mates, crickets chirping. To her, these nature calls mean serenity.
Serina mounts her trusty friend.
Verrrrr-ROOOOOM! Her Honda CBR750R growls to life. Tachometer hitting just under 9,000 RPM’s, halogen headlight lasering s single intense beam spotlighting the side of worn Uhaul truck with a fading picture of some Great Plains scene.
Raising her airbrushed Deathshead helmet with strong hands over crew cut blond hair. Seeing surroundings, green eyes blazing, before shrouded by polarized glass. Firmly planted on head, motorcycle in neutral, right hand competently grabbing throttle.
Verrrrrr-ROOOOM!
RPM’s going high, releasing clutch, taking off. Losing control halfway through cornering left as her back tire hits engine oil on black pavement. Wobbling violently too and fro, sobering event, she corrects front tire aim and shoots true exiting the parking lot onto 4 lane highway traffic.
Tightly fitting royal blue striped legs, placed astride powerful engine slightly shrouded by Cobalt fiberglass bodywork. Matching leather coat covering arms extended, passionate hands meeting handlebars.
Skin and bone mating with metal and plastic in the truest sense of man and beast.
Stopping at a red light, heat of her lover rising, enclosing her from the only thing that never screamed back to her except in acceptance.
Red convertible Ford Mustang next to her in the right lane, macho man with receding hairline and bleach blond bitch with over make-upped face glance over at her. Not quite a GT, though sporting an 8 banger smaller than that of a 5.0, throws out a meager 5000 RPM gasp. Overly bassed thumps of Judas Priest FreeWheel Burning with raspy treble vocals fill this crossroad.
Firing back, she gives them a hearty 9500, its menacing pitch causing heads to turn from her in the left lane. She was always left-laner. Never curb lane, as that is for losers.
Serina, in her element, laughing: Obviously this idiot has no clue of thrust to weight ratios…
Mustang redlining. Macho man and bleach bitch looking excited like those close to orgasm.
Throttling hard on her CBR750R, exhaust shrieking into the night.
Watching traffic light going yellow to cross traffic.
Engines pitching higher and higher. Anticipation reaching a point of pure acerbating madness.
Their light goes Green.
Macho jumps ahead of her.
BOOM! Huge plume of white smoke quickly follows Mustang as a right side piston smashes through the intake manifold, nearly piercing its candy apple red hood.
Glowing green eyes meet her laughing face as she leaves the line at no more than 25 MPH.
Pulling up her visor to meet them with unshielded eyes as she passed them. Another one bites the dust, she thought.
Purring into the lesser roads of traffic lights encumbering, she powers on as night smells and blurring trees greet her in natures welcome.
Leaning sharply into tight corners, blasting down straight-aways, keen eye looking for State Patrol, never looking into her rear view mirrors. Never looking backward.
Except in her own mind.
Serina had pissed off many in her small years on this planet, causing their indifference toward her. Her past, like that of William Tecumseh Sherman’s scorched earth march: burning bridges, fields and homes but with the closest of people that cared for her in loving fashion, leaving them frustrated and fuming in her wake.
I try. Each and every day I try so help me god. I know I say the wrong things, fall back on yesterdays failures I never seem to learn from and speak harshly in some attempt to make them listen. Yeah, I understand them, I just don’t understand myself and why I do what I do. Repeatedly.
Why can’t someone just kill me?
Cooler air from the denser array of green trees and grass, escaping the asphalt jungle, its tarred surfaces and concrete boring landscapes, the summer heat they hold, descending deeper into woods she rides.
Shit! She cries, braking hard as she passes something to her left side.
Rear tire locking up, smoking rubber creating whitish vapor, swerving to a halt.
Parking her bike aways from the road, removing helmet, shaken, she begins to walk toward what she saw.
Nature making wondrous spenders of the night: that of rustling trees louder without the din of constant daytime traffic, barn owls hooting, faint low-pitched growls of raccoons. Smell of fresh pine and other wooded inhabitants with the river scents doing what do each summer night appreciated by so few.
Reaching what had caught her eyes, she gasped, eyes displaying both concern and sorrow.
Dropping to leathered knees, she sent her right hand to the smashed and dying deer before her.
HUH-HUH-HUH-HUH, the failing doe exhaled with increasing repetition.
Oh, god! NO! Serina’s eyes shedding tears, stroking its head with sincerest of hearts to ease its suffering. NO! Damn….
Shattered doe, sad eyes shinning in full moon unclouded, meeting Serina’s eyes with fading night vision. Knowing, instinctively so, it was not alone now.
HUH-HUH-HUH-HUHHUHHUHHUHHUH! Faster and faster, breath trying harder and harder to hold on to constantly slendering threads of life.
Falling tears like rain on a spring day reaching gushing volume, Serina’s heart falling deeper as this animal suffers on.
The doe’s crushed rib cage with once strong legs mangled, free flowing blood less and less with each fleeting pant. Thankfully, vultures sleeping, not circling to descend with hungry beaks darting at soon dead.
Words escaping quietly, softest of tones, whimpering a single prayer: Lord, take this deer to you. End its pain as someday you will do mine.
Stroking gently behind its ears, blond short hair casting halos to ceasing sight of the doe.
HUHUHUHUHUHUHUHhuh-huh-----huh-huh------hu… Final air spent, big brown eyes closing eternally, leaving this world forever.
Throwing herself to the dead animal under her, Serina lifting its head and holding it in her arms. Be at peace. Be at peace.
On her bike, placing helmet on head after calling 911 for animal control for no other reason than to not see the majestic animal to be eaten by predators. She fires up her Honda, leaving the scene as quietly as possible.
Miles passing endlessly over hours that reach brilliant sunrise in another State. Cornfields rising in colour, hay fields growing in gold hues, hints of morning dew meeting the steady purr of her bike. The moon vanishing as quickly as it greeted her.
Long straight line, yanking on throttle. The increasing whine of last gear ascending in tone. Faster and faster as the shebike pumped power.
Mind spinning endlessly of her latest travel took her beyond. No control over its thinking. Wandering soul, endlessly trying and falling short. Memories, damned memories and relations that like herself never truly change.
Box turtle trundling to pond on yonder side of road, seeking even temperature and good feeding ground.
Sound, blaring sound, louder and louder still. Hiding into safe harbor of its shell. The turtle pulls quickly in.
She hits to turtle at 186 MPH. Losing control in a very physical world, bike pitching and yawing massively, heaving her from its power.
Serina goes airborne, arms flailing out like an untrained bird in a massive crosswind.
Flying over wooden fence, barely clearing an electrified cattle holder, mind cart wheeling insanely.
Hitting Earth, bouncing several times as she slows down, leather friction translating to flesh with growing heat.
Fourth, fifth bounce? She does not remember until the final impact stops her suddenly.
Am I dead? Odd smells with no memory meet her as the sun mounts the morning sky.
Lying there, stunned.
Dying like the deer on the road hours earlier, feeling helpless.
“You took a tumble, didn’t you English?”
Serina, barely able to look up, taking stock of both limbs and life support. Do fingers move? YES! Do hands and legs work? YES! Neck broken? NO!
Dazed green eyes look up and meet the voice.
“My wife didn’t want me to put this here. Glad I did.”
Shit, she is smelling shit. She stands, not knowing how she can even do this after such an accident. A pile cow shit she has risen from, she glances down.
Looking at Mr. Yoder, an Amish man in traditional garb, realizing where she landed.
God, she thought. How am I still alive?
“You must be hungry, are you?” smiling all the while, happy for this miracle before him.
Starving! You have no idea…
“c’mon to breakfast then! No better food than my wife's here or anywhere else.”
Shaking less and less, she tells him thanks.
Do you need a farm hand? I’d like to work for what I eat.
“Farm hand? No. Got many for that. But you are welcome. If a hand is what you be, than God will make it so.”
Serina, months later, after working the land, feeling reborn again in a world she never dreamt of, contacting her family who would drive to meet her once again. Wondering what Serina is into now, they coursed the roads of farmlands and brick making companies.
Pulling onto dirt road, no major expectations but liking cheese very much. Brown clouds behind them like a smoke screen. “I’m gonna need a serious car wash after this trip!” Sister said loudly.
They parked and exited their vehicle/
Sheep BAHHING, tiny piglets snorting happily as they romped about, tails quickly wagging, cows mooing. Fresh bread baking, rich, full smells of handmade glory that nowadays never greet the urban world.
Serina, standing taller than ever before, runs to them as happiness fills her face, touches her eyes with arms outstretched to greet them.
Teary embraces. Her telling the story of her absence from them, the deer and landing where she did.
Feast, a grand feast of fresh beef, potatoes, raw goats milk and bread fill bellies as stories shared and hours pass like various fields rise rapidly in summer warmth and sunlight. Smiles and laughs creating accidental yet harmonious chords. Sharing without sarcasm.
Thanks given to Serina’s extended family, hugs given, happy faces exchanged.
Embracing Serina. Serina’s heart feeling sense of place, peace and acceptance from both worlds. Strong arms she gathers them, scoops them against her body.
Contentment: Family united as God wanted.
Thanking the Yoder family before they left, Mr Yoder walked to their car, adjusting suspenders as he always did after mealtime, long white beard moving with gentle breeze.
“ya English! Sometimes yuh have tfall into a pile of cowdung to come out smelling like a rose.” huge smile, raising hand in their soon departure.
Blank looks transcended into deeper understanding of an old saying. Ease and comfort meeting faces as the vehicles passengers truly to hold of its simple meaning.
Serina’s sister, driving away in a White Chevy Suburban, stared into the rear view mirror as her sisters image grew smaller, Serina wearing a pale blue dress with no accessories to display individuality. A sister she had prayed she’d meet and never thought she would.
____________________________________________________________________________________
Authors Note:
I cannot express thanks enough for the sharing to make this entry happen.. I still shake my head in disbelief after meeting the sister, Amish-adopting father and Serina on a too hot county road in SugarCreek Ohio in the summer of 2012.
Corn having a hard time climbing in drought conditions, yet cows doing quite well in fields brown grasses feeding, their milk making greatest of cheeses.
I broke bread and shared as they did with me.
Communion of differing lifestyles.
I think of the blessings my higher power has given me. I question not as it tells me to read emails, talk on the phone and take road <albeit, sometimes Rogue> trips.
This life's juggling does not come easy, but it is not without reward and it leads to Another Life unknown to me.
Highest regards,
Mark William Darus 07/12/2012
Monday, July 9, 2012
Giving up on a daughter: Dominoes falling.
Dominoes Falling.
Covering ass when all else fails
I looked out from the back porch of my house, all seems clear, opening screen door. Whiffs of morning, dewy air great with odors of dogshit. Man of near 50, balding and just above earlobes graying to brown locks, brown eyes behind tiny facial glass, ventures out to his backyard.
“yeah, fine, go to your job! What have I got: NOTHING! NOTHING! None of you taught me anything!” the brunette blond with various tats shrieked at him in unending statements as vloume reached fever pitch.
Good morning, Rachel, he met her yells with an even flow of tone and volume. Being down this oneway road many years now , wishing to just great a day in peace, he walks toward his dark grey Chevy Trailblazer after unlocking his failing back gate.
“Yeah, RUN AWAY! JUST GO!” a can, perhaps a branch gets heaved at his car by a slender 28 year old, his eldest daughter, hitting off his windshield, flying over.
Locking gate, he goes along his routine as he has done for over 17 years.
Rachels screams and hurlings becoming a thing of the past with each tenth of a mile his digital odometer clocks.
Buzz Lightyear, to here and Beyond, he quips, avoiding the crackheads with hard left wheel pulls, avoiding desperate humanity, diving in front of his truck, goes about his way.
Trailblazer steadying as he delicately rolls her back into groove, engine humming at 2000 RPMs, he rides toward his morning coffee fix.
Going thru his day, taking calls, aiding those in his job, helping callers with billings snafus or areas similar. Having one single purpose in this day: Get his daughter arrested before he loses everything he has ever worked for. He does this cold-heartedly yet with hopes his daughters arrest might bring about change for her.
He is a failure where she is concerned and can finally acknowledge this after over ten years of trying beyond her eighteenth birthday.
She cannot hold down a job, she cannot make appointments to Free Clinics to get help yet can get herself to the seediest areas of Cleveland to be the devourers that she thinks friends.
Stupid white badgirl wannable, continuously never learning and repeating past mistakes, much like her father that keeps having hopes she would someday learn, thrusting into blind alleys of that fading, happiest of dreams. She goes unfettered to lands of comfort.
As her father plots her downfall.
This man is stupid. One cannot say ignorant as everyone in Rachels family warned him and stopped consulting with her long ago on regular basis. He trundles through his day as he has countless times ago. Keeping some failing hope in humanity he continuously tried.
Realizing sincerest of failure, taking deepest of gulps of humiliating bitterness, he leaves work.
Thirty minute drive to place he needs to go, emotionlessly knowing what is best for his daughter.
Straightfaced, head held high, opening glass door, Gander Mountain hat on his balding head, he walks to front desk.
“Your business here?” an officer greets him with a voice less than that of some drone in a bad B-movie.
Wish to meet your watch Commander or better yet, a Detective. Man of too even tone and facial expression says to the Officer behind thick glass.
The drone says flatly: you here to report a car crash, dog barking? What?”:
I’m here to narc out my daughter.
“why,”
She’s selling pot to minors, smoking up with them and making the other side of my house little other than Meth-Lab_Central.
About two minutes passes by, a Detective walks out to greet him.
Knowing this man, they extend hands and shake.
What’s going on?
My daughter is both selling drugs, pot, or allowing them to be done on the other side of my house as they do so.
Good you came here. What’s the address?
Numbers and street name given, in emotionless tone.
Mark, some kid gave her up a day ago. Busted his sorry ass for shoplifting. Mark, I will note you came here and express your concerns.
Looking down at scuffed tile, Mark, said coldly: Just get her out of my life! I failed like others that stopped talking to her. They warned me and I did not listen.
Within a few days, Rachel made herself a target and was arrested.
Going to work without hindrance and slightly tainted conscious, he went to work knowing coming home would be less stressful.
Blue officer inquires why he trough his daughter in front of a bus.
Blank, dark to black eyes looking forward, coldly saying: Bus? Nope, tossed her ass infront of a freightrain off Bagley road.
____________________________________________________________________________________
Is this of personal vein or is it not. You decide.
I will not condone dealing to minors.
The worst kind of predator possible is one that makes the seriously younger have an addiction. Regardless of what that addiction is, they do deserved to be Narc’d on.
Mark William Darus 07092012
Covering ass when all else fails
I looked out from the back porch of my house, all seems clear, opening screen door. Whiffs of morning, dewy air great with odors of dogshit. Man of near 50, balding and just above earlobes graying to brown locks, brown eyes behind tiny facial glass, ventures out to his backyard.
“yeah, fine, go to your job! What have I got: NOTHING! NOTHING! None of you taught me anything!” the brunette blond with various tats shrieked at him in unending statements as vloume reached fever pitch.
Good morning, Rachel, he met her yells with an even flow of tone and volume. Being down this oneway road many years now , wishing to just great a day in peace, he walks toward his dark grey Chevy Trailblazer after unlocking his failing back gate.
“Yeah, RUN AWAY! JUST GO!” a can, perhaps a branch gets heaved at his car by a slender 28 year old, his eldest daughter, hitting off his windshield, flying over.
Locking gate, he goes along his routine as he has done for over 17 years.
Rachels screams and hurlings becoming a thing of the past with each tenth of a mile his digital odometer clocks.
Buzz Lightyear, to here and Beyond, he quips, avoiding the crackheads with hard left wheel pulls, avoiding desperate humanity, diving in front of his truck, goes about his way.
Trailblazer steadying as he delicately rolls her back into groove, engine humming at 2000 RPMs, he rides toward his morning coffee fix.
Going thru his day, taking calls, aiding those in his job, helping callers with billings snafus or areas similar. Having one single purpose in this day: Get his daughter arrested before he loses everything he has ever worked for. He does this cold-heartedly yet with hopes his daughters arrest might bring about change for her.
He is a failure where she is concerned and can finally acknowledge this after over ten years of trying beyond her eighteenth birthday.
She cannot hold down a job, she cannot make appointments to Free Clinics to get help yet can get herself to the seediest areas of Cleveland to be the devourers that she thinks friends.
Stupid white badgirl wannable, continuously never learning and repeating past mistakes, much like her father that keeps having hopes she would someday learn, thrusting into blind alleys of that fading, happiest of dreams. She goes unfettered to lands of comfort.
As her father plots her downfall.
This man is stupid. One cannot say ignorant as everyone in Rachels family warned him and stopped consulting with her long ago on regular basis. He trundles through his day as he has countless times ago. Keeping some failing hope in humanity he continuously tried.
Realizing sincerest of failure, taking deepest of gulps of humiliating bitterness, he leaves work.
Thirty minute drive to place he needs to go, emotionlessly knowing what is best for his daughter.
Straightfaced, head held high, opening glass door, Gander Mountain hat on his balding head, he walks to front desk.
“Your business here?” an officer greets him with a voice less than that of some drone in a bad B-movie.
Wish to meet your watch Commander or better yet, a Detective. Man of too even tone and facial expression says to the Officer behind thick glass.
The drone says flatly: you here to report a car crash, dog barking? What?”:
I’m here to narc out my daughter.
“why,”
She’s selling pot to minors, smoking up with them and making the other side of my house little other than Meth-Lab_Central.
About two minutes passes by, a Detective walks out to greet him.
Knowing this man, they extend hands and shake.
What’s going on?
My daughter is both selling drugs, pot, or allowing them to be done on the other side of my house as they do so.
Good you came here. What’s the address?
Numbers and street name given, in emotionless tone.
Mark, some kid gave her up a day ago. Busted his sorry ass for shoplifting. Mark, I will note you came here and express your concerns.
Looking down at scuffed tile, Mark, said coldly: Just get her out of my life! I failed like others that stopped talking to her. They warned me and I did not listen.
Within a few days, Rachel made herself a target and was arrested.
Going to work without hindrance and slightly tainted conscious, he went to work knowing coming home would be less stressful.
Blue officer inquires why he trough his daughter in front of a bus.
Blank, dark to black eyes looking forward, coldly saying: Bus? Nope, tossed her ass infront of a freightrain off Bagley road.
____________________________________________________________________________________
Is this of personal vein or is it not. You decide.
I will not condone dealing to minors.
The worst kind of predator possible is one that makes the seriously younger have an addiction. Regardless of what that addiction is, they do deserved to be Narc’d on.
Mark William Darus 07092012
Sunday, July 8, 2012
C'MON, TAKE ME AWAY!: Anthony's fading words.
C’mon and take me away.
This is story of a man named Anthony.
One whom decided life and his agony made him face a monster.
Anthony left his job on a cloudy October afternoon, mold chilly drizzle falling. Droplets of water making polka dots on his grey t-shirt, eventually filling in the blanks, covering broad shoulders. Red hair, long and full, becoming more saturated with each step taken as he headed for his mint sky-blue Camaro.
This was his ninth job since January. His family seemingly taking disgusting pride in pointing this out to him.
“You’re a goddamned drifter. Going nowhere and loving every mile along the way.” his kin was fond of saying at family gatherings. Having given up on him years ago, simply tolerating his presence around holidays and little else, prodding him in vein attempt to make an impression.
Anthony hearing their echo’s off and on, in moments of silence as he would fail for sleep. Eyes closed, being tired, exhausted, seeking for treasure. This treasure being a night of restful slumber without voices that booze and sleeping pills no longer aided him.
Sweats, frigid wetness, covering pillows as if caught in winter rains, causing him to awaken abruptly. Shuddering, grasping to capture what caused this while feeling further depressed. Unable to take hold of the nightmares, like exhaled cigarette smoke slipping through fingers, more and more feeling sadder and lonely with each and every day.
God, have you forsaken me? What did I do to deserve this and why haven’t you taken me home? Sinking face, bowing head, stomach churning, he begins to cry. Tears covering chiseled cheeks, nose growing more congested with sob, clamping down hard on easy breathing. Gasping, heaving body, dropping to his endlessly scabbed knees, to once again roll into a fetal position. Rocking slowly to eventually reach crescendos of speed, faster and faster til he’d knock himself out by his head repeatedly hit the floor.
Driving into this quickly darkening fall evening, his Camaro’s twin exhaust growling fiercely as RPM’s reaching 6000, heading toward the worst areas of Chicago.
Stopping at a McDonalds for two 99 cent McDoubles, thanking the nondescript voice that took his order over static-filled speaker, his Camaro slowly rolling toward window #1. He paid a tiny Asian female that greeted him with a sincere smile. She thanked him, smiling still, bidding him a good night.
Good night? What is a good night? Wasn’t she a character in a Bond movie? Fuck this, climb out of your head!
Engine angrily snarling toward window #2, holding back the horses that wished speed into wall at 150 MPH, he braked solidly at #2. Stainless steel bordered glass window opening to greet him, smiling faced black male handing him a bag: Have a great night, sir!
Nodding and solemnly wishing the same, he took hold of the bag. He then handed this man just over five hundred dollars.
Feeling awkward, asking him to hold position, this minimum wage earner asked him to hold a moment. Seconds later, a pale female manager asked him why he’d given her employee so much money.
Smiling, he told her that her workers deserved a break today, which is why he headed for McDonalds.
Revving engine, throttling hard, smoking tires, he split.
Granny shifting as he ate his burgers while juggling gulps of leftovers of his morning coffee, now cold, hastily taking off after each red-light with increasing abandonment and disregard, motoring into this black night.
Rain, colder than when he’d left his job, steadier than before, seeking his last fix.
Calmly striding down a garbage filled alley, horrid smells of rotting family dinners past ascending from rat torn Hefty bags, though not as bad with falling temperatures. Without a care in the world, Anthony strolls deeper and deeper in danker places.
STOP, motherfucker! Gimme what you got!
Anthony halts, no rise in blood pressure, feeling colder, near freezing as rain turns to white flakes of snow.
I WANT YOU GODDAMNED WALLET, BITCH! Man, short black hair, anemic skinned, agitated face, aiming a 9mm at Anthony’s chest. Wearing a full length leather, shifting stance as if to strike menacing stance. DO AS I FUCKIN’ SAY OR I’LL KILL YA!
Slowly dropping to scabbed knees, like the lazily falling snow, telling the shooter he has no money. He gave it to McDonalds workers miles ago.
While crossing his ankles in an act of submission, staring into the barrel of the 9mm, he said: Do your worst. Free me, you wortHLESS PIECE OF SHIT! GO ON, BLOW MY ASS AWAY!
Unsteady, Shooter feeling insecure with such statements, seeing no fear in this redheads shrouded face. Stepping back, almost falling over careless rubbish.
Wishing to be dead, being one who doesn’t care, therefore one who shouldn’t be, looking deeper in the barrel of his salvation. Eyes getting bigger, pupils fully open, smiling into the abyss.
Just pull the trigger, damn you! Fuck you! You are worthless and probably have the smallest of dicks that women laugh at. How tough are you? You scare lesser fools.
JUST END ME!
Hands trembling, warmth filling his body unlike anything known to him, staring vividly as fire blows just above him, blanketing his face in residue.
FUCK THIS! He begins to cry, face-planting into a dank puddle. Not dead, not understanding why, slowly rising.
Seeing the 9mm held in his own hands. Dropping the Luger into a slushy, soon to be frozen puddle.
Eyes leaking less and less as he sees the moon silently coursing its path between the old buildings which surround him.
Fuck this shot! I’m worth much more…
A man dressed in total black approaches him. “Watched you for a bit, son. Glad you didn’t end a life Jesus took your sins for. Happy you missed, though you did blow the crap outta of Pans Adult Novelty’s neons to hell.”
Looking up toward this calm voice, Anthony arose to his full height stronger than decades before. Knees hurting less with each passing second.
Who are you, he asked, in a voice no longer shaky.
“I’m Father Ericsen, pleased to meet you,” this man of Christ said, sending his right hand toward Anthony.
Anthony, breathing steadily, taking the Father Ericsen’s hand into his own. I’m Anthony.
‘Let’s talk, you and I,” this priest said, smiling, illumination embracing his being. “let’s talk, you and I. We’ll take as long as you need. You can find peace, so help me God!”
“Thank you, Father!”
They, hand in hand, began to leave this alley off personal abyss.
“Oh, wait on second!” the priest said. Leaving Anthony’s hand to the wind, walking away from him, turning his back.
Anthony’s mind began to cartwheel in speedy nervousness.
Reaching down, Father Ericsen said: “Can’t leave this here. Lord, no!” A voice like that of an Angel, he picked on the Luger and placed it in his black overcoat after securing its safety.
Walking back to Anthony, feeling Gods power fill his being, smiling.
“What troubles you, Anthony?”
I thought you were leaving me.
“Christ and his Father never leave anyone behind. Take heart in that.”
Thickening snow descending steadily with each passing moment.
Anthony’s depression leaving him for good.
They talked for weeks without separation.
Anthony found peace and contented home on this Earth.
_________________________________________________________________________________
AN: There is so little I can say. I was fortunate to be the benefactor of this story.
My mind left shredded as I heard one of Anthony’s parishioners sobbingly tell me his tale and what led him to God through a Fisher of Men.
Having those that care for me greatly, thinking me on a course for huge overload, perhaps feeling manic, those closest that know me better than I know myself, sharing caution profound, warning me. I had to place this entry here.
I am one that does believe in hope eternal, eclipsing sadness overcome. One that never gives up any fucking miserable soul that crosses my path.
I give up on no one, perhaps to my own detriment, yet through this gift of Christ I go on.
I sometimes hate this part of myself, cursing it madly, screaming the question: WHY ME?
All things happen for a reason, constantly telling myself time and time again.
If I could…
Would you???
Acceptance.
Mark William Darus July 8 2012.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Sophia, dying alone.
Sophia’s last taking in air to lungs, dying alone.
Gasping, struggling, fighting as air no longer fills her lungs.
Dying, I am dying.
Cold sweat covering tanned skin as it goes to lighter shades.
How and why? Thinking madly, brain churning this nights events, diving further into memory lands as blood and life drain from her.
Slight moments before, doing a deal to keep her fed and some sad sense of living, she walked tall and proud. Just below the Arch de Triumph, she attempted to broker a deal between contrasting factions. One side to another, we’ll call the Crips and Bloods, or the Triads to the Russian Family. Massive gain versus fallout having so many guns focused on the average redhead in its center.
They want 30 a block.
She interpreted between both Chinese to French and backward.
Sunset highlighting buildings to her left, shading those to her left. Smells of foods from many lands and those of sweaty tourists making a normal sunset. Honking horns of impatient drivers, vendors talking of their wares, the snapping of cameras and dogs barking in the background.
Too much, he interpreting from Sophia, looking to the Chinese reps.
Not happy, the Triads look back at her.
現在一點兒,蕩婦! 讓他們看到我們是指企業! 這樣做!
Now a little bit, bitch! Let us be seen refer to enterprises! do it.
Looking a bit apprehensive, she tells them, be cool, I’ve got this.
Stress crossing brow, pinprick pupils from cocaine accelerating brain and bodily functions, she says to the French mob. Looking less cool, less controlled, sweat falling from black Italian hair slightly stopped by eyebrows descending into her eyes. Stinging them. Tearing them
Weakness shown in front of professionals.
Ils veulent 15. C'est leur offre finale.
They want 15. It is their final offer.
Le feu et prend leur argent!
Fire and takes their silver!
A Triad knowing French drew his .45 making his clan kin do the same.
Shots Rang out. Cries of the romantic choiring, albeit it poorly with the flapping of bats wings, dropping to knees and chests hitting ground to escape lead tearing flesh of themselves.
Music of bands with both mandolins and accordions in the forefront droning on, giving little notice to audiences taking face-dives to brick.
The bands played on.
Ricochets twanging from iron beams, meagerly spent hunks of fired .45’s thunking into nearby wooden stands and grazing the passerby, finding home in wood, drywall, flesh and radar faulty bats, dropping them to ground like a bad movie.
Sophia’s body shook like the poorest of piñatas, being beaten by a horde of discontent Vikings from two sides simultaneously. Forward, backwards, forwards, backwards until gravity took over.
Gasping for air, mind content with this outcome. Staggering, ambling foot over foot. Blood parting the sturdiness of veins. No panic, walking, crawing, up and walking, collapsing to knees, crawling and crawling further.
End of her pain without committing suicide.
Eyes opening for the final time.
Looking up with final glance that Charon would have someone place coins to close them, sweeping her across to the land of death.
This is the Eiffel Tower.
She dies.
_________________________________________________________________________________
This was sent to me by the father of, and he told me to place this: Italy.
He basically gave me police reports from witnesses that saw things suspicious.
His words, my placement.
AN: Going into other areas of psychology and its place in this world.
Going further we stroll.
Mark William Darus. 07-07-2016
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Never Learning: Stuck groove in an endless record.
Never Learning: Stuck Groove in a record.
Light, dark, light, dark, light, dark, causing pupils to expand and contract too quickly, hurting fragile head. Faces looking down at her with looks of urgency crossing their brows as they’d go from shadows to vibrant, shadow to vibrant, light, dark, light, dark, light, dark.
The wheels of her gurney squeaked violently as she was hurriedly whooshed to down hallway to waiting Emergency Room 5.
Cold, this room was so cold, so far removed from the humidity she knew mere moments earlier as she hung with friends she’d cultivated through total desperation and loneliness. These so-called friends controlled and fed her illusion that she controlled them.
One of them decided to put a slug into her.
Plasma, stat.
Yes, doctor!
Knock her out! STAT!
Affirmative! “just count backward from ten, please.”
She’s lost a lot of blood…
Scalpel!
Audible snap as nurse feed surgeon the tool requested.
Sponge!
Suction!
Nurse absorbing free flowing blood to give surgeon clear view from the point of entry.
Ten, nine, eighhhhhht, sev.
She was now sent to the neverland of the mind-world where the body feels nothing, eyes cannot see and arms and legs fail to move.
Ears still firing signals to the brain that never truly sleeps regardless of drugs given to make it idle. Christ, I can still hear what they say! Why? Shouldn’t hear nothing?
Hearing the sounds as they cut into her, attempting the remove the bullet from her chest.
Beep! Beep! Beep! Mechanical sounds repeatedly playing, giving the Staff vital information as to her failing physical whereabouts.
BP falling fast, Doctor!
10 cc’s of…
Pulse at 220!
We’re losing her!
Got it! Bullet removed.
CLANK. Hunk of lead hitting stainless bowl.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
Flatlined, vital signs nose-diving, darkness descending.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
Paddles!
Charging, Doctor.
WheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! Voltage mounting to reach-
CLEAR!
Thunk! Dead body arching suddenly, explosively.
I’m not dead! I still hear! Is my hair fro-ing out?
Nothing.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
Motionless, like the branches of trees on a windless night, she lay there bathed in the glow of sodium illumintaion.
WheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
CLEAR!
THUNK!
Slender frame rising as voltage causes muscles to tense quickly.
Beeeeeeeep, beeeeep, beep beep beep beep beep. Leveling out to a steady metronome that comforts staff.
Nurse padding sweat from Doctors forehead.
Brain sending signals: fill lungs with air, make blood right again. Blood holding within. Live.
Stable, taking control of the bodies mainframe. Systems that function normally when we sleep without outside guidance by us. Operating crucial memory given at birth to keep us alive.
Green eyes open quickly days later, seeing blank ceiling tiles, faint whiffs of rubbing alcohol filling her nostrils, ears picking sounds like those heard in a long tunnel.
Processing slowly: of area with all senses sending information.
‘Wheeeeeeeeeeeeel offfffffffff Fortune!’
Brother looking down at her, tears falling like a gentle rain. You’re back!
Hearing his words, casting no smile nor look of happiness.
We almost lost you! His eyes flowing freely now, congestion taking grip of nasal reaction, getting stuffy, difficult to breathe.
She solemnly aimed her eyes into his.
I’m back? Her voice even and cold.
How long this time?, she asked him without emotion.
Things will be different this time. He stated this with a voice of confidence, looking down at his sister in the hospital bed. As he had, many times before.
Where’s my friends?
God help my sister.
Where’s my fucking friends? Where’s my cellphone?
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Some never learn. Some cannot learn for they have no sense of self and are more defined by others in some sad attempt to justify their lives. Shape-shifters in the most profound sense, adhering to the codes of lesser forms that manipulate them time and time again to their own demise.
I received an email from a man that left me his phone number. I called it and spoke with him for about an hour. Complete and utter tones of desperation, filled with frustration with him stating he felt useless and wanting to bash his skull into the nearest drywall.
Trying to comfort him, telling truth that some human-train wrecks cannot be avoided no matter how hard we try to save someone. Getting nowhere with words no matter how well intentioned or expressed, suggesting he simply give up like other members of his family had years ago. Failing further with each counter he swung at me.
Failing.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
I told him to call me when feeling at wits end.
Taking some comfort in that, <I hope> he said thanks.
We ended this conversation, but not before him saying:
They shoot horses, don’t they?
Mark William Darus 07/04-05/2012
Light, dark, light, dark, light, dark, causing pupils to expand and contract too quickly, hurting fragile head. Faces looking down at her with looks of urgency crossing their brows as they’d go from shadows to vibrant, shadow to vibrant, light, dark, light, dark, light, dark.
The wheels of her gurney squeaked violently as she was hurriedly whooshed to down hallway to waiting Emergency Room 5.
Cold, this room was so cold, so far removed from the humidity she knew mere moments earlier as she hung with friends she’d cultivated through total desperation and loneliness. These so-called friends controlled and fed her illusion that she controlled them.
One of them decided to put a slug into her.
Plasma, stat.
Yes, doctor!
Knock her out! STAT!
Affirmative! “just count backward from ten, please.”
She’s lost a lot of blood…
Scalpel!
Audible snap as nurse feed surgeon the tool requested.
Sponge!
Suction!
Nurse absorbing free flowing blood to give surgeon clear view from the point of entry.
Ten, nine, eighhhhhht, sev.
She was now sent to the neverland of the mind-world where the body feels nothing, eyes cannot see and arms and legs fail to move.
Ears still firing signals to the brain that never truly sleeps regardless of drugs given to make it idle. Christ, I can still hear what they say! Why? Shouldn’t hear nothing?
Hearing the sounds as they cut into her, attempting the remove the bullet from her chest.
Beep! Beep! Beep! Mechanical sounds repeatedly playing, giving the Staff vital information as to her failing physical whereabouts.
BP falling fast, Doctor!
10 cc’s of…
Pulse at 220!
We’re losing her!
Got it! Bullet removed.
CLANK. Hunk of lead hitting stainless bowl.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
Flatlined, vital signs nose-diving, darkness descending.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
Paddles!
Charging, Doctor.
WheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! Voltage mounting to reach-
CLEAR!
Thunk! Dead body arching suddenly, explosively.
I’m not dead! I still hear! Is my hair fro-ing out?
Nothing.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
Motionless, like the branches of trees on a windless night, she lay there bathed in the glow of sodium illumintaion.
WheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
CLEAR!
THUNK!
Slender frame rising as voltage causes muscles to tense quickly.
Beeeeeeeep, beeeeep, beep beep beep beep beep. Leveling out to a steady metronome that comforts staff.
Nurse padding sweat from Doctors forehead.
Brain sending signals: fill lungs with air, make blood right again. Blood holding within. Live.
Stable, taking control of the bodies mainframe. Systems that function normally when we sleep without outside guidance by us. Operating crucial memory given at birth to keep us alive.
Green eyes open quickly days later, seeing blank ceiling tiles, faint whiffs of rubbing alcohol filling her nostrils, ears picking sounds like those heard in a long tunnel.
Processing slowly: of area with all senses sending information.
‘Wheeeeeeeeeeeeel offfffffffff Fortune!’
Brother looking down at her, tears falling like a gentle rain. You’re back!
Hearing his words, casting no smile nor look of happiness.
We almost lost you! His eyes flowing freely now, congestion taking grip of nasal reaction, getting stuffy, difficult to breathe.
She solemnly aimed her eyes into his.
I’m back? Her voice even and cold.
How long this time?, she asked him without emotion.
Things will be different this time. He stated this with a voice of confidence, looking down at his sister in the hospital bed. As he had, many times before.
Where’s my friends?
God help my sister.
Where’s my fucking friends? Where’s my cellphone?
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Some never learn. Some cannot learn for they have no sense of self and are more defined by others in some sad attempt to justify their lives. Shape-shifters in the most profound sense, adhering to the codes of lesser forms that manipulate them time and time again to their own demise.
I received an email from a man that left me his phone number. I called it and spoke with him for about an hour. Complete and utter tones of desperation, filled with frustration with him stating he felt useless and wanting to bash his skull into the nearest drywall.
Trying to comfort him, telling truth that some human-train wrecks cannot be avoided no matter how hard we try to save someone. Getting nowhere with words no matter how well intentioned or expressed, suggesting he simply give up like other members of his family had years ago. Failing further with each counter he swung at me.
Failing.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
I told him to call me when feeling at wits end.
Taking some comfort in that, <I hope> he said thanks.
We ended this conversation, but not before him saying:
They shoot horses, don’t they?
Mark William Darus 07/04-05/2012
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
4 months of solid writing: Anniversary for me.
Four months of writing and not ending thoughts water falling into words.
Research to the active mind should never fall to idle embrace.
On a personal note, I cannot believe I would ever continuously write on a single subject for so long, hopefully do some justice, and express my thoughts with those of others. I am flabbergasted to say the least, not only by my endeavors yet more to those that sent emails urging me to go forward.
Even with the ending of Psychopathy: Another Life and its going toward Borderline Personality Disorder, emails land on my place in the web of this grand world we inhabit.
I stated at its start: I hope some gain some knowledge through my words on subjects most dark, to gain some understanding into lesser known areas of human psychology.
Given the content I have received, I can believe I did hit some, albeit from lands far and away from the USA. I truly had no idea this would happen though I am profoundly glad it did.
I had seen on TV how blogs hit the globe. I had seen shows that had those offering kidneys and organs to a blogs founder in times of distress from other countries. I can now see how this happens, yet still held by such events. The power of words? Power of emotion to others? Power for the right thing to do?
Power suggesting a sacrifice selves for the benefit of another?
Do these that offer themselves to some electronic persons plight, showing the rest of us: what is human? And do this with little less than the suffering person to simply be able to write further?
The more I publish here, the more I know where this ability to do so comes from.
This graceful ability comes from Jesus, or as some would say: a higher power. Does it really matter in the long run which religion this follows and most of these teach us the same roads to follow for peace on this Earth? Buddha, Islam, Jewish, Christian <and it’s various subdivisions> Atheist, Hindi, Taoist, Shinto, Manichaeism, Cheondoism, Tenrikyo, Rastafari, Wicca, Pagan, and those that simple believe in nothing whatsoever. You follow the laws of what you believe as do I and for this, none of us are any different than one another in the grand scheme of things.
Yes, I am an asshole believing that someday humanity will ever have peace. We, as a species will always carry hatred of wrongs done to our people and wish to avenge our dead. We are human, subject to fail, repeating history ever forward. We learn nothing of the past. We sacrifice for a flag, pompous beliefs and offer up our children die as they die young.
For country <USA>, King/Queen, Czar, Dictator and self. What is to gain as we allow our kin, children to get wasted, dieing face down in muddy lands away from us, for us to maybe prevail in some illusion the media spins most proper?
I have been asked about 500 plus times in the last 4 months why I write on this blog and why I created it. I do this, without the blatant sarcasm that usually follows such, because I can. I write what I do because I am compelled to do so. There is some element within me that can take the most depressing aspects of humanity and write about them without judgment or remorse. Third Person narrative, fly on the wall, feeling nothing and just seeing the minds eye, as others share with me.
Am I evil?
This depends solely on your point of perspective. I write about desperation, being used by those that use us, the nearly dead and those wishing to be so, ones that wish to use each and every one on either a personal or economical level <via banks, leinholders, shareholders> of some femme fatale/ gigolo conning out of an inheritance.
I must be evil in some respects. I write what I do without feeling, remorse or sorrow. I write what I do caring not what blows back on me with the egocentric confidence I can defend every word here that would make the most seasoned lawyer or psychiatrist think twice about taking me on.
I would hire no lawyer in court to defend me.
If I cannot do this for myself, than I am truly a failure.
I hate no one.
Those that desire to be used will be by someone. You ask for this to occur, and if you have read anything by this: start at the beginning and read it over. What the fuck is wrong here and you sincerely need to gain serious help.
In conclusion I can only express this: I did not do this third of a year on my own. Those of many countries and lands fueled me to go on. I could not have done this without you.
Mark William Darus 07-04-2012
Research to the active mind should never fall to idle embrace.
On a personal note, I cannot believe I would ever continuously write on a single subject for so long, hopefully do some justice, and express my thoughts with those of others. I am flabbergasted to say the least, not only by my endeavors yet more to those that sent emails urging me to go forward.
Even with the ending of Psychopathy: Another Life and its going toward Borderline Personality Disorder, emails land on my place in the web of this grand world we inhabit.
I stated at its start: I hope some gain some knowledge through my words on subjects most dark, to gain some understanding into lesser known areas of human psychology.
Given the content I have received, I can believe I did hit some, albeit from lands far and away from the USA. I truly had no idea this would happen though I am profoundly glad it did.
I had seen on TV how blogs hit the globe. I had seen shows that had those offering kidneys and organs to a blogs founder in times of distress from other countries. I can now see how this happens, yet still held by such events. The power of words? Power of emotion to others? Power for the right thing to do?
Power suggesting a sacrifice selves for the benefit of another?
Do these that offer themselves to some electronic persons plight, showing the rest of us: what is human? And do this with little less than the suffering person to simply be able to write further?
The more I publish here, the more I know where this ability to do so comes from.
This graceful ability comes from Jesus, or as some would say: a higher power. Does it really matter in the long run which religion this follows and most of these teach us the same roads to follow for peace on this Earth? Buddha, Islam, Jewish, Christian <and it’s various subdivisions> Atheist, Hindi, Taoist, Shinto, Manichaeism, Cheondoism, Tenrikyo, Rastafari, Wicca, Pagan, and those that simple believe in nothing whatsoever. You follow the laws of what you believe as do I and for this, none of us are any different than one another in the grand scheme of things.
Yes, I am an asshole believing that someday humanity will ever have peace. We, as a species will always carry hatred of wrongs done to our people and wish to avenge our dead. We are human, subject to fail, repeating history ever forward. We learn nothing of the past. We sacrifice for a flag, pompous beliefs and offer up our children die as they die young.
For country <USA>, King/Queen, Czar, Dictator and self. What is to gain as we allow our kin, children to get wasted, dieing face down in muddy lands away from us, for us to maybe prevail in some illusion the media spins most proper?
I have been asked about 500 plus times in the last 4 months why I write on this blog and why I created it. I do this, without the blatant sarcasm that usually follows such, because I can. I write what I do because I am compelled to do so. There is some element within me that can take the most depressing aspects of humanity and write about them without judgment or remorse. Third Person narrative, fly on the wall, feeling nothing and just seeing the minds eye, as others share with me.
Am I evil?
This depends solely on your point of perspective. I write about desperation, being used by those that use us, the nearly dead and those wishing to be so, ones that wish to use each and every one on either a personal or economical level <via banks, leinholders, shareholders> of some femme fatale/ gigolo conning out of an inheritance.
I must be evil in some respects. I write what I do without feeling, remorse or sorrow. I write what I do caring not what blows back on me with the egocentric confidence I can defend every word here that would make the most seasoned lawyer or psychiatrist think twice about taking me on.
I would hire no lawyer in court to defend me.
If I cannot do this for myself, than I am truly a failure.
I hate no one.
Those that desire to be used will be by someone. You ask for this to occur, and if you have read anything by this: start at the beginning and read it over. What the fuck is wrong here and you sincerely need to gain serious help.
In conclusion I can only express this: I did not do this third of a year on my own. Those of many countries and lands fueled me to go on. I could not have done this without you.
Mark William Darus 07-04-2012
Monday, July 2, 2012
Samirs' Concrete Bed.
Another story given to me by those that knew someone of an area much later diagnosed as BPD. Witnessing styles, traits levels of elevations and depressions, setting signals of red and chiming loudly off to send an alarm to those that state they loved them in nearest proximity.
Of Samir: child of Buddha.
Of Buddha, my brother most strong with conviction, but never finished tiny tasks. His Medical School life deteriorated to shambles.
He did drugs as heroin and ludes to find sleep and kill voices. More than not, these failed and brought further dire depths as Samir swam deeper and deeper into lands of further discontent.
AUTHORS NOTE: This is where his sister gave me free reign to write freely based on her observations.
To her, thank you for your trust.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Samirs’ concrete bed:
Awaking in the home of parents. Shit, it’s 8AM, I’m still here and shit still smells the same: he thinks, eyes in growing anger reaching stronger elements.
Smelling funk and shit he rises as flies flutter away from him
Wearing black Metalica jersey and blood saturated jeans, he stands, full body image before full length mirror; who did I kill? Did I kill, someone, some thing?
Without showering, checking himself in a mirror, he took a walk. Those he passed looked both horrified or complacent as the sight of him and his enveloping odor took hold of their senses or didn’t.
Reaching into near empty pockets, finding little more than 50 bucks, still wondering, was it male or female, dog or cat he’d slain?
His brown eyes matching smelly shades in shorts, blankly staring into his image in the plate glass of a JC Pennys store. Six foot, highly gaunt frame with sunken eyes and unclean blond, mangled locks. He resembled a victim of a Amtrak derailment that’d been thrown several hundred into a morgue, hitting every possible object in his path.
Didn’t Matter, just keep moving. Just keep running and don’t ask questions.
Walking blankly into roads without the right of way, nearly getting hit several times by passing cars and trucks, causing him no stress nor tension. Never acknowledging blaring horns or the screams of those witnessing, he strode like a zombie.
Tired, so damn tired he pressed on, eventually finding a Unitarian church. Deciding to place his weary head down, he found comfort on the reclining bed that was it’s concrete steps.
Eyes closing, a chill crossing his body. He died there.
A few parishioners saw him fade on their churches steps and dialed 911. They ran out to him, eyes filled with a mixture of desperation and horror. Some saying prayers, others tag-teaming with CPR, never giving up til the EMS teams arrived.
Siren quietly in the distance, getting louder and louder still with each fleeting second, a blaring a metronome of hope for those dying and those in audience with it.
The curious, eyes wide came to the happening from close gas stations, corner stores and a library. As they approached, many speculated it was either another drug deal gone bad or just another drive by.
People love to see death and dying. They slow down on freeways out of sick curiosity. They so wish to see a mangled, blood-soaked bodies penetration with a windshield that they cause accidents on their side of the road.
Sirens converging from opposite sides, with differing tempo and pitch, police and EMS arrive.
Police ordering the irrelevant people to move back, sometimes shoving those with far too much glee in their eyes away from the scene. The Paramedics, life saving duffels in hands, hurriedly pacing toward the failed body of Samir.
Taking vitals: Nothing. Determination, fortitude and a fiery will showing in their eyes, they continued.
Their frenzied, sweaty work succeeding as Samir made a tiny, shallow cough.
Stabilizing him, they swept him off the nearest Emergency room.
As they took Samir from the scene, the murmur of conversations mingled in contrast of both hope and ill-tidings, female and male alike, creating a word salad of confusion: Let’s pray for, hope he dies the goddamned drug dealer, our brother in Jesu, dude got jacked and must’ve had it commin, eye for an eye, lift him up god and, let that sad fucker die, in Jesus name, hope he dies.
After surgeons worked on Samir for hours, giving him much to replace what he had lost, they deemed this an attempted suicide. His naked body revealed cuts, not slashing knife marks of an attacker, and saw this as self inflicted.
Clean sheets, clean self, days later Samir awoke in a hospital room. Feeling little about himself, almost pulling his IV’s out as he turned toward his sister, he rolled toward her voice.
Eyes twitching, fleeting focus on her look of concern.
I was worried, she cried, clutching is fragile hand.
I’m sorry… Again.
____________________________________________________________________________________
She asked me to attach no name to her words. She asked me to give her brother a name and homeland close to hers.
I hope I have written what you wished to be told in truth to your words by me.
Mark William Darus 07/02/2012
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
BPD: Sarah's story: First entry In Borderline Personality Disorder.
Sarah travels gracefully through minefields.
She awakens in the morning shade side of the room she rents. Eyes openly slowly, cautiously, afraid to see what diminishing items she owns have vanished over night.
Hangover so immense it tries to cleave her brain in two. Throbbing pain in temples, mouth drier than the Sahara, she coughs, gags and heaves nothing but stomach acid onto the floor. Cockroaches scurry about yet some are trapped in the tequila and stomach acid vomit as it hits them squarely. Try as they might, they’re toast and will soon die. The rats, on the other hand, will indulge on the dead roaches in due time.
Sarah, looking down, brushing her matted brunette locks aside, thinks idly: Serves ya right! Why should be the only that suffers?
She finds the energy to pull her too thin legs over the side of the bed and attempts to stand. The soiled pink tank top she wears rides high, exposing breasts that resemble deflating balloons, layers of overlapping flesh with nipples.
Rats and mice take notice and hurry to their safe places. Rats and mice are sharp learners in the realm of survival.
She of extremely slender frame, falls back into the bed, head spinning, pulsating, in grand pain, yet no different than many of the yesterdays she’s known in her twenty six years.
Need shower, she thinks, catching whiffs of her odors mixed with the recent fire smell from down the hall and the pesticides House Control use with no effect.
She rises without falling. Baby steps, one foot in front of another as if never to have walked before, she aims toward the bathroom. Veering into the entertainment center that once held her flat screen, blue ray, and stereo, hip connecting sounding, she flinches not. The numb have no feeling. The numb don’t care what happens to their body.
Sarah enters the bathroom and hits direct sunlight. She takes off the filthy tank and goes to remove her panties. She sighs, looking down. Another morning without having them on, what did I do last night, she ponders. Eyes tightening, muscles on her face become pronounced, tears wanting to leave yet unable to as she bites down hard, wishing not to feel them on her cheeks.
Her expression of sadness gives way to a look of hope as she stares at the sun.
This is a new day, she says to the shattered mirrored across from her. Things can be different this time. Things can get better. I can do this. I can try. I hope.
I hope, she says in a voice of both a whisper and a whimper. I can’t keep failing forever, right?
Turning on the water, she steps into the moldy shower.
Water covers her like a total baptism. Mouth opens to the showerhead, drinking deeply to waste the cottonmouth that threatens to seize her throat. Her body takes in the surrounding warmth as water courses over her. She takes the mildew covered washcloth off the paint-chipped windowsill into her hands and applies a liquid soap.
Fading green eyes closed, she begins to wash herself faintly noticing dogs barking in the alley and exhaust smells from the rising morning rush hour.
It’s 8AM on someday of some week during some month in another year for her.
Sarah, after spending 45 minutes sifting through much dirty body covers finds some clean things to adorn herself with. Putting on the perfume an old boyfriend bought her months, mayhap years ago to substitute for deodorant which she hasn’t had in months, smile on face, she ventures out to this brand new day of sunlight.
Walking to another point of possible employment, digging deep to bring both positive attitude and confidence to bear, through yet another clear glass doorway, striding forward.
Fills out an application like the hundreds she’s done before.
She has references to place to paper. Those that would grant her experience from jobs past most imaginary: given by the weakest of friends in the lands of addiction with cell phones and those that owe her, mostly through sexual favors, she tries.
With vibrant long flowing brunette hair rolling over broad shoulders, shrouding her gaunt face, she answers questions from the nondescript interviewers that challenge her. The confidence she shares with them grant her a job.
A job that she will be fired from through her emotional outburst and tyrannical behavior.
This job, granting her at least a months worth of starting wages, gives her the peace of mind to keep the sad room to sleep in, with its cockroaches, mice and rats. This tired place to lay her head to awaken with hope.
This infinitesimal world to grant her little more than a desperate, miserable sustenance to live a bit more. Hope a shrinking tad more with each day that passes.
To get a paycheck, hit a bar or crack house, letting men buy her delights that will numb her as she lets them take advantage of her. Remembering not what happened after work, waking up each next sunlight feeling numb, semi naked and alone.
To fail when depression grasps her, lashing out to hurt others on her paranoid defense or maybe attempt to kill herself again.
Failing at both, she always awakens another morn. Tries. Attempts.
Sarah fails like a skipping record of a sad tune, yet picks herself up like some Phoenix of the eternally damned and tries with less strength than the day before.
Each day is a rerun. Each day is the same.
She forgets months, years, and proceeds down avenues of broken dreams remembering not the hours, days, years before. Learning nothing.
Each morn, waking more tired than the one before, yet dredging her soul forward, she tries.
And strikes out at the plate every time.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Authors note: The above story was my words. The thoughts behind this was given to me by someone that read my Mondays Facebook post asking for those that had something of personal history with either BPD or a family/friend story on this.
The person that sent me the information and their observations asked me to put their words like what I wrote in the Cracker Barrel Massacre entry to Psychopathy: Another Life. A third person description into what I see when I read, sense and take in what those that feel for someone they love and cry for. To those that are utterly powerless to assist this person with, yet watch all the same.
Futility squared.
Or as this person so eloquently put: Watching a human train wreck in the slowest of motion, sobbing heart out and failing all the same.
Granting me the privilege of a first name he wished to publish.
Viktor, the first to send me an email. Your email came within five hours of Mondays 06/25/2012 post. Thank you very much. I can, in some respects, sense your pain through the words you shared with me. You truly are someone of feeling. A man of humanity towards someone you deeply care for and love.
Thank you, Viktor!
Mark William Darus 06-27-2012 in EST, Cleveland, Ohio, USA.
This is the music i played while writing this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3q1zTneO46Y
She awakens in the morning shade side of the room she rents. Eyes openly slowly, cautiously, afraid to see what diminishing items she owns have vanished over night.
Hangover so immense it tries to cleave her brain in two. Throbbing pain in temples, mouth drier than the Sahara, she coughs, gags and heaves nothing but stomach acid onto the floor. Cockroaches scurry about yet some are trapped in the tequila and stomach acid vomit as it hits them squarely. Try as they might, they’re toast and will soon die. The rats, on the other hand, will indulge on the dead roaches in due time.
Sarah, looking down, brushing her matted brunette locks aside, thinks idly: Serves ya right! Why should be the only that suffers?
She finds the energy to pull her too thin legs over the side of the bed and attempts to stand. The soiled pink tank top she wears rides high, exposing breasts that resemble deflating balloons, layers of overlapping flesh with nipples.
Rats and mice take notice and hurry to their safe places. Rats and mice are sharp learners in the realm of survival.
She of extremely slender frame, falls back into the bed, head spinning, pulsating, in grand pain, yet no different than many of the yesterdays she’s known in her twenty six years.
Need shower, she thinks, catching whiffs of her odors mixed with the recent fire smell from down the hall and the pesticides House Control use with no effect.
She rises without falling. Baby steps, one foot in front of another as if never to have walked before, she aims toward the bathroom. Veering into the entertainment center that once held her flat screen, blue ray, and stereo, hip connecting sounding, she flinches not. The numb have no feeling. The numb don’t care what happens to their body.
Sarah enters the bathroom and hits direct sunlight. She takes off the filthy tank and goes to remove her panties. She sighs, looking down. Another morning without having them on, what did I do last night, she ponders. Eyes tightening, muscles on her face become pronounced, tears wanting to leave yet unable to as she bites down hard, wishing not to feel them on her cheeks.
Her expression of sadness gives way to a look of hope as she stares at the sun.
This is a new day, she says to the shattered mirrored across from her. Things can be different this time. Things can get better. I can do this. I can try. I hope.
I hope, she says in a voice of both a whisper and a whimper. I can’t keep failing forever, right?
Turning on the water, she steps into the moldy shower.
Water covers her like a total baptism. Mouth opens to the showerhead, drinking deeply to waste the cottonmouth that threatens to seize her throat. Her body takes in the surrounding warmth as water courses over her. She takes the mildew covered washcloth off the paint-chipped windowsill into her hands and applies a liquid soap.
Fading green eyes closed, she begins to wash herself faintly noticing dogs barking in the alley and exhaust smells from the rising morning rush hour.
It’s 8AM on someday of some week during some month in another year for her.
Sarah, after spending 45 minutes sifting through much dirty body covers finds some clean things to adorn herself with. Putting on the perfume an old boyfriend bought her months, mayhap years ago to substitute for deodorant which she hasn’t had in months, smile on face, she ventures out to this brand new day of sunlight.
Walking to another point of possible employment, digging deep to bring both positive attitude and confidence to bear, through yet another clear glass doorway, striding forward.
Fills out an application like the hundreds she’s done before.
She has references to place to paper. Those that would grant her experience from jobs past most imaginary: given by the weakest of friends in the lands of addiction with cell phones and those that owe her, mostly through sexual favors, she tries.
With vibrant long flowing brunette hair rolling over broad shoulders, shrouding her gaunt face, she answers questions from the nondescript interviewers that challenge her. The confidence she shares with them grant her a job.
A job that she will be fired from through her emotional outburst and tyrannical behavior.
This job, granting her at least a months worth of starting wages, gives her the peace of mind to keep the sad room to sleep in, with its cockroaches, mice and rats. This tired place to lay her head to awaken with hope.
This infinitesimal world to grant her little more than a desperate, miserable sustenance to live a bit more. Hope a shrinking tad more with each day that passes.
To get a paycheck, hit a bar or crack house, letting men buy her delights that will numb her as she lets them take advantage of her. Remembering not what happened after work, waking up each next sunlight feeling numb, semi naked and alone.
To fail when depression grasps her, lashing out to hurt others on her paranoid defense or maybe attempt to kill herself again.
Failing at both, she always awakens another morn. Tries. Attempts.
Sarah fails like a skipping record of a sad tune, yet picks herself up like some Phoenix of the eternally damned and tries with less strength than the day before.
Each day is a rerun. Each day is the same.
She forgets months, years, and proceeds down avenues of broken dreams remembering not the hours, days, years before. Learning nothing.
Each morn, waking more tired than the one before, yet dredging her soul forward, she tries.
And strikes out at the plate every time.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Authors note: The above story was my words. The thoughts behind this was given to me by someone that read my Mondays Facebook post asking for those that had something of personal history with either BPD or a family/friend story on this.
The person that sent me the information and their observations asked me to put their words like what I wrote in the Cracker Barrel Massacre entry to Psychopathy: Another Life. A third person description into what I see when I read, sense and take in what those that feel for someone they love and cry for. To those that are utterly powerless to assist this person with, yet watch all the same.
Futility squared.
Or as this person so eloquently put: Watching a human train wreck in the slowest of motion, sobbing heart out and failing all the same.
Granting me the privilege of a first name he wished to publish.
Viktor, the first to send me an email. Your email came within five hours of Mondays 06/25/2012 post. Thank you very much. I can, in some respects, sense your pain through the words you shared with me. You truly are someone of feeling. A man of humanity towards someone you deeply care for and love.
Thank you, Viktor!
Mark William Darus 06-27-2012 in EST, Cleveland, Ohio, USA.
This is the music i played while writing this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3q1zTneO46Y
Monday, June 25, 2012
BPD: Yet Another Life. Intro to Borderline Personality Disorder.
Intro to Borderline Personality Disorder <<BPD>>research study:
Why research this area of Mental Disorders ? Well, I like underdogs in all aspects of life. Like the area of Nonviolent Psychopathy <NVP>, there is very little known about this aspect of human life.
Unlike NVP, BPD crosses to lands where either physical illness brings it to light or its victims were simply born this way. Either way, there are physically painful aspects that connect these with mental illness.
One has to ask: What came first? The chicken or the egg? What came first? The physical pain or the downside of mental wellness?
My personal visits to University Hospitals Psych area and its staff never fail to give me areas to further explore. I use their suggestions and run with it. I do this to help those in trouble and maybe aide them at getting help.
How many of us haven’t been in need of help that its bleakness descends on us and drives us to harm or run so beyond the scope of ourselves and those precious others around us, are completely eclipsed by its grandeur?
Some peaks at best left climbed and guided by those with understanding of its terrain and knowledge of an ever-changing landscape as winds, blinding snowfalls come from nowhere. Where does one find a worthy guide to climb? What should be brought before ascension? Clean clothing, insurance in order, or an open mind mostly clouded through shredded memories of past failures after trying? What to bring? Ever felt a sense of unease going to Christmas gathering wondering if presents you bought will be appreciated or just looked as a half-assed attempt to save face? If you have, you know, perhaps can feel what these people of pain and mental side-windings go thru each and every day of their lives.
What do I attempt to find as I climb Everest once again?
Truth as it is given to me from readers that wish to write feelings out in plain sight. Their experiences and life events and how others viewed them. Maybe finding some anonymous peaceful land to simply share and realize they are NOT alone on this planet. For friends and families to share experiences over time: feeling lost in helping, guiding those with this Illness.
Know this: like psychopathy, Borderline Personality Disorder is NOT considered a viable disability and therefore will not get anyone a ‘check’. For those that follow beyond the United States of America: the ‘check’ designation goes to this countries view of a disability and how the government will send them a monthly paycheck, if you will, for not being able to work and earn a living.
In the United States of America, this ‘check’ aspect tends to go for those that never worked more than a few months in 5 years of life beyond eighteen years of age, yet as a benefit of a twisted welfare system that funded, or finding other avenues to find a doctor that placed signature to paper they were unfit to work and be granted a check.
I make no judgment on this, but I will back up my words here.
Just what is Borderline Personality Disorder?
This disorder should be considered serious in areas as they pertain to unstable relationships, massive mood swings, < I love you, but I am going to punch you in the face>, behaviors that can instantly go from major violence or its opposite., <I want to kill my boss slowly! Let’s go to the mall and eat Orange Chicken.>L
Those suffering from BPD often experience:
An innate inability to control thoughts or emotions on a day to day basis.
Massively impulsive and reckless behaviour.
Unstable relationships with those beyond families (perhaps because families/blood ties have deeper roots that can deal with droughts given to them by the afflicted.)
There are physical areas I wish to explore here as well as mental.
I am not a doctor by any stretch of imagination. I do believe this credential is irrelevant where people on people experience occur with emails, or as phone conversations or face-to-face encounters grace me, bless me, if you will.
Without leaving Psychopathy: Another Life in the dust, let’s explore another area of human experience that can kill, more via suicide than financially wasting others for gain. Far more internal in its minds hold seeking an end to pain, either imagined or realized since adolescents.
It is my sincere hope we will discover something that aides.
Mark William Darus June 25 2012 6:29 PM
Why research this area of Mental Disorders ? Well, I like underdogs in all aspects of life. Like the area of Nonviolent Psychopathy <NVP>, there is very little known about this aspect of human life.
Unlike NVP, BPD crosses to lands where either physical illness brings it to light or its victims were simply born this way. Either way, there are physically painful aspects that connect these with mental illness.
One has to ask: What came first? The chicken or the egg? What came first? The physical pain or the downside of mental wellness?
My personal visits to University Hospitals Psych area and its staff never fail to give me areas to further explore. I use their suggestions and run with it. I do this to help those in trouble and maybe aide them at getting help.
How many of us haven’t been in need of help that its bleakness descends on us and drives us to harm or run so beyond the scope of ourselves and those precious others around us, are completely eclipsed by its grandeur?
Some peaks at best left climbed and guided by those with understanding of its terrain and knowledge of an ever-changing landscape as winds, blinding snowfalls come from nowhere. Where does one find a worthy guide to climb? What should be brought before ascension? Clean clothing, insurance in order, or an open mind mostly clouded through shredded memories of past failures after trying? What to bring? Ever felt a sense of unease going to Christmas gathering wondering if presents you bought will be appreciated or just looked as a half-assed attempt to save face? If you have, you know, perhaps can feel what these people of pain and mental side-windings go thru each and every day of their lives.
What do I attempt to find as I climb Everest once again?
Truth as it is given to me from readers that wish to write feelings out in plain sight. Their experiences and life events and how others viewed them. Maybe finding some anonymous peaceful land to simply share and realize they are NOT alone on this planet. For friends and families to share experiences over time: feeling lost in helping, guiding those with this Illness.
Know this: like psychopathy, Borderline Personality Disorder is NOT considered a viable disability and therefore will not get anyone a ‘check’. For those that follow beyond the United States of America: the ‘check’ designation goes to this countries view of a disability and how the government will send them a monthly paycheck, if you will, for not being able to work and earn a living.
In the United States of America, this ‘check’ aspect tends to go for those that never worked more than a few months in 5 years of life beyond eighteen years of age, yet as a benefit of a twisted welfare system that funded, or finding other avenues to find a doctor that placed signature to paper they were unfit to work and be granted a check.
I make no judgment on this, but I will back up my words here.
Just what is Borderline Personality Disorder?
This disorder should be considered serious in areas as they pertain to unstable relationships, massive mood swings, < I love you, but I am going to punch you in the face>, behaviors that can instantly go from major violence or its opposite., <I want to kill my boss slowly! Let’s go to the mall and eat Orange Chicken.>L
Those suffering from BPD often experience:
An innate inability to control thoughts or emotions on a day to day basis.
Massively impulsive and reckless behaviour.
Unstable relationships with those beyond families (perhaps because families/blood ties have deeper roots that can deal with droughts given to them by the afflicted.)
There are physical areas I wish to explore here as well as mental.
I am not a doctor by any stretch of imagination. I do believe this credential is irrelevant where people on people experience occur with emails, or as phone conversations or face-to-face encounters grace me, bless me, if you will.
Without leaving Psychopathy: Another Life in the dust, let’s explore another area of human experience that can kill, more via suicide than financially wasting others for gain. Far more internal in its minds hold seeking an end to pain, either imagined or realized since adolescents.
It is my sincere hope we will discover something that aides.
Mark William Darus June 25 2012 6:29 PM
Sunday, June 24, 2012
The end ofPsychopathy Another Life: total thanks. ROCK ON as i go into other places!
GOING FORWARD: FROM NVP's to BPD's.
Changing to Psychopathy Another Life and Borderline Personality Disorder.
I felt it was time to branch out and extend both arms and mind to other areas less studied or explored into the human condition where right equals left and down is up to some. So much like Nonviolent Psychopathy, BPD does have an unusual place in everyday life.
Often labeled with misdiagnosis, and more often treated with medications that proved either wrong or horribly so with patients seeking either suicidal or homicidal beliefs to ease themselves.
And what medications were those? We’ll get to that later. Trust me on this.
Borderline Personality Disorder has personal attributes that have symptoms that range from major depression, high blood pressure, slight mood swings to physical symptoms of RA (rheumatoid arthritis) , other severe debilitating illnesses. Sometimes Lupus, Fibromyalgia, and physically repeated perceived pain can cause psychological breaks to what we saw those afflicted with as psychotic breaks. This being done with best intentions, though wrongly so.
Unlike Nonviolent Psychopaths, this area goes into other areas often misdiagnosed, incorrectly and medically treated in sheer ignorance. There are so many in this aspect of psychology that professionals did not travel.
As I said in the beginning of PAL, let’s dance into corridors of darkness of the mind.
STAGE TWO: Psychopathy and Borderline Personality Disorder.
Journey into madness or enlightenment?
You decide for yourself and reach your own conclusions.
I will keep thinking and writing.
If I knew how to do scrolling credits: I would do so to this song: to you all: CarlySimons: Nobody Does It Better. As you read below, but this Carly song says it best: to me, nobody does it half as good as you! Humble thanks to you all.
Baby, you’re the best!
I thank the Roses, Holly, Klockner, Torres’, Baznik, Somers, Henson, Catherine, Stool-sample-Pyro, Cleveland Ohio, Heidi and David, Gretchen, Angie in The Great white north<and you keep running in those pick shoes and waste them all!, Lisa USA, Lisa, UK, Leesa Italy, Thermal Nuclear Warrior Prypiat, Ivana, Sabrina, Caitlyn Georgia, Jonathon, Thyroid Avenger, Katerina Czech Republic. Maria of violence in Mexico, Julia, Donna, Audrey, Mary Pa USA, Olga, Maribeth of Wyoming, Felix of Tacoma Washington, dumb bitch two alleys over, COOBA, Giant Eagle employees at Parma, Garfield heights, Brooklyn and Middleburg heights, Heinans employees at Mayfield Village, Rocky River, Bagley and Bainbridge. Sav-a-lot employees from Cleveland Ohio: Brookpark Road, Clark Ave, Parma Heights and Twinsburgh. Kmart reps and managers from Medina, Lorain Road, Brookpark road, Macedonia, as well as Sears in several locations. To McDonalds, Arbys, Burger King, Mr. Hero’s, Taco Bell, Denny’s, Appebys, Mr Chicken, Verizon Wireless, Sprint Wireless, Five Below, Bath and Body Works in Parma and Solon, Mustard Seed Solon, Barnes and Noble employees many of which former Borders workers, Half Priced Books both Great Northern Mall and off Mayfield Road, FYE Parmatown, North Olmsted, Strongsville, Steak and Shake Brooklyn, Kamms Corners, Cityview and Steelyard, Bed Bath and Beyond managers for their sincere words and giving and paying for their employees to talk to me with no credentials whatsoever,
Benihanna Japanese steakhouse, Samurai Steakhouse <but these wonderful people fed me for free when my blog was proven to them as its author. >. To the Mall RATZ that maintain and keep our malls and eating areas clean for us: Westfield Great Northern, SouthPark and Parmatown. Union Eye Care Pearl Road Parma, Aetna Plastics Cleveland, Home Depot in Brooklyn, North Olmsted and Euclid and others, Old Navy several locations, Olde Tyme Pottery Middleburgh/Parma heights, China Town carry out and delivery, Choopa’s Market Parma, Brookgate Lanes welcoming after a 12 year absence and remembering me, World Auto Parts Parma, Malleys Chocolates Lorain Road, Aurora Prime Outlets and RT 43 Solon, Aunt Annies Pretzels Parmatown, Great Northern, Southpark. Monroe PA, Olive Garden in locations in Ohio and Pennsylvania, Gabes Cleveland, Catherines Middleburg Hts,
Other areas of thanks:
With Beer:
Great Lakes Brewing Company. Buckeye Beer Engine Lakewood, FatHeads North Olmsted, Brew Kettle Strongsville, Rat Cellars <part of Chalet Debonne winery in Madison Ohio> nice IPA’s. Rust Belt PA, <<< with beer and food, buy local, eat well, and enjoy with friends as you do it…. Have a responsible driver and pay this person with massive amounts of coin to stay sober.
Ohio is thumping its chest in the world of microbreweries.
The Cleveland Ohio Police Department < and how they treated me when I went suicidal after forgetting to take meds for two days.> Sadly, conversely speaking, Cleveland Metro Generals ER placed me in a room without padded walls, phucked up cable with no channel changer and NEVER locked the door. Of course I ventured out and walked the halls. I talked with others about gunshot wounds to garden accidents that sometimes cut the small of their backs. I talked to the depressed wishing to die and those that wished their person to remain amongst the living…
To Sheetz, GetGo,. Speedway, BP Gas USA, to The Ford Motor Company for going against bailout money from all of us Amerikans. Ford: Standing Tall and Proud as WE SHOULD!
To the athiests, teaching me that the truth is most important.
To the Wiccans, telling me each blade of grass bears meaning.
To Christ that taught me everything has meaning and to never judge.
I would like to thank the following:
Abigail: First commenter, and contributor. You threw yourself out there. Give me just about 15 minutes and we will share the dance with the song you asked for.
Catherine: Stay a friend on fbook. Your words rang true…
Jonathon: You are what you are, brother,
Irina: sad as subjects ends. Elated where your mnd takes us. I so loves you, tears as we don’t join,
NO ONE PERSON WILL EVER TELL ME MY MADNESS HAS NO RELATION TO CHRISTS PLAN FOR ME. Why else do I seek and talk to those in pain and agony and the brink of total despair.
Sure, I learn from each encounter with everyone I meet.
\
Still… I am cold, have no heart most would call such.
I am not without Christ at my side, guiding me.
In Conclusion:
I: Mark William Darus am what I am
I am the son of Marion and Theodore <ted<grandchild of Jenny and Orlan Sturdivant.
I am what I am. This journey began over three months ago into this blogs realm. Time to take a shift.
Do not waste time feeling sorry for me. Spend that time and its energy to bring smiles and happiness around you.
You all are where you are in my life: I hold most of you most high. I will no longer say the word love to my children. They are smart enough to hear my words. < well, I know that Rachel knows what this means>
To Catherine, Jonathon and first time posters: you wrote what you did for a reason. Thanks.
Irina Spektor, we have talked so many times that wish me to forget how to swim and lose myself with you. Irinia, we will join one day. In the words of Stonewall Jackson: if not in this, then in Heaven. I so wish I could embrace you for where you took me to.
Abigail: First contributor and huge supporter of my entries. Yours was the first voice that shed meaning to words. Yours was the first human voice that I encountered to this blog. What can I say to you?
You stood by me cyber world when many saw insanity through this journey and kept me on the true North…. What can I say to you?
Tabitha: Your words, continued support and thoughts enlightened me to no end. I look forward to working with on BPD research. You came to my blog a relative late-comer and I was blessed you found it.
Baby's , you’re the best!
Mark William Darus. 06242012
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