No Shoes Required (3)
Juste parce que je peux… (The Present in the Garden) On this morning, the sun performed at his very best. Rising majestically from the softness that was night into the arms of the bluest sky. Dazzling all earth’s creatures with the awareness of undeniable grandeur. The moon may control the tides and the hearts of lovers but on this day, the sun was to be unchallenged as the rightful ruler of all inspiration. Sarah viewed the splendor of the morning from the many paned window of the back room of her parent’s house. It really wasn’t a window, but a door that opened out into the rear garden. She happened to view such a brilliant sunrise completely by accident, as she is a late sleeper, and doesn’t usually see anything more than the noonday sun. Staying up the greater part of the previous evening to watch an old film on the television, Sarah dosed off only to be awakened by the sound of a soft, thin, almost reed like voice speaking in the room. Feeling quite alarmed by the sound of a voice in a dark room, she reached for the pull chain switch of the table lamp on the table beside her, only to stop as a soft presence let its touch be felt upon the back of her hand. Looking around the room for the person responsible for administering the touch of her hand, she saw standing behind the lamp she was reaching for; a very pleasant faced woman. She was fairly young in appearance and dressed in comfortable clothes; something made of cotton probably. Turning herself to better view this stranger in her house, Sarah accidentally knocked the lamp to the floor, only to have it caught by the woman standing near. Seeing the opportunity to approach Sarah, the woman did so with the nicest intentions. She put her face to Sarah’s and asked her to kindly remain silent and to relax, as she meant to cause no harm to her. Sarah obeyed and pulled her knees to her chest as she sat and listened to her visitor. The woman sat next to Sarah and told her that she was a spirit, “a ghost”, if that is what she wished to call her, but she wasn’t present for evil intentions. Quite the contrary, in fact, She was there to do something good. She spoke of her life as one that was spent frivolously and with great decadence as a stage performer. Her claim to fame was an amazing singing voice that catapulted her to stardom when she was barely into her teen-age years and unfortunately put her in the hands of many corrupt people. She spoke about being sexually abused and the accompanying drug and alcohol abuse that eventually helped her to her death. Suicide was the only way to remove the pain of her living in torment. Suicide, she said, only removed the body from torment but does not heal the soul. One cannot leave life voluntarily. The suicide victim must endure the pains of their past life until they come into contact with an individual of the same age as their own; at the time of death. They must also be able to help that living individual without permission. Then, and only then, will the soul be free from pain. As the woman finished speaking, Sarah looked at the ghostly face with watery eyes. Soon enough the tears would flow freely. Who could not weep for such a tortured soul? Seeing this, the woman told Sarah not to weep, for what is done is done and she did not come for sympathy. Brushing the tears from her eyes and kissing Sarah on the mouth, she asked only a small favor of Sarah. If she would wake with the sunrise, this one time and walk into the garden. Sarah nodded and fell fast asleep, as the woman vanished into nothing. The sound of the television static woke her from her sleep. Turning to look out the door, Sarah was witness to the rising of the morning sun. Remembering the events of the evening, Sarah walked out into the garden as was asked of her. Sitting on the top of the garden wall was a cardinal of dazzling scarlet; singing its morning song. Sarah, pleased by the singing of the bird, added her own harmony to the song heard in the garden. So pleased was she by this little bird, that she called up to her mothers window, so that she may also behold this beautiful creature. Hearing a voice from the garden, Sarah’s mother went to her window and saw her daughter singing amidst the brilliant sunrise and collapsed. Before this moment, Sarah had never murmured a single sound in her entire life. Les tangents loin! When last we met; did we even speak? Funny, I can’t remember. It was cold, wasn’t it? Now everything is different in this place called “ HERE”. Simon says stop breathing! Exhale! I didn’t say Simon says. Yes, yes, blue in the face of adversity, unconsciously preening with pursed lips into the rolling waters of this afternoon’s sudden down pour of cloud sweat. Would you like an armchair set curbside for future gazing? Avatar autonomous vainglorious. Clorox in the eye just might help you to see a little better. Simon says exhale and breathe freely. Is self-ingestion completely out of the question, divine devourer of bilious handbags? Eating ones elbow is not quite the self-indulgence I had in mind. Now that the frost of winter has graciously turned into the ever nurturing waters of spring, on the verge of summer droughts, (PATHETIC) la la la birds do sing of the flowers that come with Spring, capitol “S” for savings. I have a box of coffee filters that claim to be “ unbleached”; were my previous coffee filters bleached? If so, did I drink a much brighter cup of coffee than I do now? Obviously I don’t need “decaf”, my coffee is of the “WHITER, BRIGHTER” kind. Fastidious and precise... At the moment I sit staring at the strangest distraction. There is a speck of something on the screen at space twenty-nine. The thought of removal crosses the mind, how diligent this brain “thing” is. The mind immediately acts to annihilate the object of distraction. A vicious fiend of a man strikes the very screen before him. Where are the compassion, the humanity, and the sensuous sight of scattered dollops on the head of a pint of Guinness? Damn it all to hell, the speck is inside the machine. What more is there than to be eternally distracted by a speck in between screens, in space twenty-nine? Nothing, I tell you nothing, no sir not me. Not a sound from these lips shall penetrate the air to cause the ever present silence to be vanquished. No jury will ever find me guilty of murmur (rumrum for you KING fans). Silent as the speck on this damned screen that keeps its presence known to my now twitching eye. I do not wish to be Herbert Lomb to this specks Peter Sellers and no my dog does not bite; it is not my dog but my cat that you have recently mistaken for a cockroach in the corner waiting to be dealt a death blow from your hard stepping heel or toe, heel than toe Fu Manchu under glass slipper-ed Cinderella “wanna be” Did I ever really see you step on me? S—T—A-F-F-E-L—L couldn’t cut it quite as well as the planet closest to the son and daughter. In the event of an emergency break wind, glass shattering in the immediate area could be detrimental to ones vision and on some occasions a hassle to clean up. Cyril, oh Cyril, make—up please… Such a “dilly-dally” “0”. 1234567, where in all creation is Heaven? (A silly rhyme is sometimes useful in this situation; not unlike pillow talk. You’d say anything for adoration wouldn’t you. A condom for the shift key, please… It turns the number eight into an asterisk, which can mean anything; so it’s best to be safe. Shift key envy...). Sitting perched on the edge of her pillow; the ever- cunning (you were thinking of Aer Lingus weren’t you) cockroach cat watched with undivided attention the wreck less flight pattern of the dreaded, I shudder at the thought of one, white moth. Such a fierce rivalry in the annals of nature cannot be compared to that of the cockroach cat and the white moth. If a confrontation occurs, surely there will be only one survivor. The scene becomes a heinous collage of terror and violence as the two engage in mortal combat over ones domain. After a moment of flying fur and powdered moth wing flesh, the contest is decided as the bloody and battle worn cockroach cat emerges the victor. In the realm of all things natural, no two creatures can share the light of the all powerful television screen. The cockroach cat rests easy this night with only the battle wounds of the day as a reminder of its great victory. Outside, by the light of the street lamp, flit the clan of the white moth; mourning the death of a valiant soul that dared to challenge for the many colors of the television screen. As the night progresses, be certain of one thought in the minds of all moths; cockroach cat must die! On the surface of a many sided ball made of plastic; rests the thought of sleeping undisturbed in the arms of a lover quite content in being desired for passion and virtue and the humble confidence in Zed. As a means for all ends not restricted by the binding abilities of resignation to the perception of ones personal flaws in light of the lack of confidence in ones own perception of palatable taste or comprehension of matters pertaining to the ever decaying flesh and the effects of an over-inflated, under—nourished intellect that walks with an altered gait into an over crowded room entertaining the thought of supreme existence by way of written decree bestowed upon the shoulders of the bearer via personal monetary exchange is nothing more than personal extortion and the complete opposite of wisdom and beauty. To stand before the room, naked to the eye, you could not; for all would see the markings of a leper, a liar and cheat. What distance did you roll your soul; and into which corner did it rest? Mark your face with paint pleasing to the eyes of your peers and a complete mockery to the lines you try not to fall between. Cover that head of yours with a hat full of names well dropped and feverishly memorized. So well you know them better than your own name. Spell it perfectly, form it with proper pronunciation, and describe it as if Webster, you were, but be certain that you will never know it. It is that which you know so very well that you can never know. Cyprian Feck, Chi (pronounced Ki as in eyeball) for short, counted the fingers on each hand over and over again; until she was quite sure there were ten. Completely convinced of the stability of the figure arrived at, she ceased her counting and reached for the handle of the drawer of the bedside end table. Blindly fumbling about in the now open drawer, her hand came upon the object of her desire; bringing to her face a sharp and excited grin. The easy workings of the scissors excited the situation to a greater height, making the climax of the endeavor at hand grow ever closer. With a quick and precise snip the job was done, followed by an ear-shattering scream filled with the strains of unimaginable pain and horror. Chi sat on the edge of the bed with a soft smile on her face, in her hand the recently severed right hand middle finger of the man resting beside her. Before the man could say anything, she ripped open his throat from ear to ear; indulging in what she needed to be. As the man lay motionless, slowly sinking into death, she placed the severed finger in the cavity of male virginity. Looking deep into his dying eyes she whispered,” How does it feel to be violated?” then sat and watched for death to take its hold. The wait was not more than a minute. The home she created would have to be left now. She knew very well that once the act was committed in her own place a new one must be found. Without hesitation she left the rented apartment and its very dead occupant, driving off into the quiet of the night. With each passing mile, only one thought filled Chi’s head, another city, another asshole. “A conscious effort towards the better understanding of stupidity…” This is a policy not yet approached by any man or woman of means yet the confrontation of the subject could possibly develop into somewhat of a revelation on how to extend our existence on this planet. This maybe harder to perceive as a possible reality when the vast majority of our politicians, civil leaders and world leaders, positively reek of stupidity. Let me say straight away that I’m not speaking about stats’ and figures intelligence or the well read and memorized mind; more so the lack of basic common sense and the inability to know the difference between what is right and what is blatantly wrong. You don’t play golf while the human elements of society are not only depreciating, but also dying. How often will Nero reappear in society? The cacophony of his dirge is deafening and becoming all too familiar.
Copyright © 2001 Anthony Dean Capotosto |