Archive for life

Can’t Live Without

Posted in Philosophy, quote(s) with tags , , on November 24, 2011 by Tim R Wilson

Can't Live Without

Just no other way really is there?

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Thinking of Mexico

Posted in story with tags , , , on November 22, 2011 by Tim R Wilson

Another short story from the archives ….

Thinking of Mexico

A cacophony of noise rumbled around the small area, everything from the cluster around the pool table to a few random knots of people ‘covertly’ glancing at those in other groups. The lighting was dim, except for a few neon signs here and there. The mirror behind the bar reflected the stories of another day. It was pretty much the same tapestry every night; all the other things can come either as bonus, or disappointment.

“You want ‘nother Sunrise?”

“No, I probably should be getting home.”

“Family waitin’ on you?”

“Just three obnoxious kids and an unappreciative significant other. Let’s not forget old Buddy-dog with a bladder control problem.”

“You don’t wanna another drink? I’d be drinkin’ the whole night if I had that waitin’ for me!” A bar rag swiped across the counter, chasing the stains.

“If I could lose myself in sweet Sunrises, I’d be swimming by now. A crumpled ten spot drops on the counter. “But, may the good Lord help me, sometimes I still love the mess called home.”

“Ever think of just getting’ out, just packin’ and leavin’?

“Every time me and Brawny are picking up another puddle.”

He chuckles, picks up the wadded bill. The cash register sings its tune and receives its prize.

“Say you pack up, no regrets, no guilt. Where’d you go?”

“Some place warm like Arizona, sunny Southern California, Mexico … Somewhere to get out of this god-awful weather for sure.”

“Gets to a person don’t it?” Nothin’ but dark, grey, ugly sky. Mexico sounds nice … I’d love to have a bar down there on the beach.  Dazzling women wearing next to nothin’ asking for drinks. Me a flirtin’, them leaving big tips. Man … That would be nice!” The bar towel traces three circles around an adjacent peanut bowl.

“Beachside. That sounds real good! I can feel the rays splashing on my skin, the water tickling my tootsies, and the drinks being brought out to me nonstop. Let’s not forget the cabana boy.” She glances at the vintage Budweiser clock on the wall with the Clydesdales which reads 5:45. “I guess I have time for one more. I’ll just say I had to work late. Not that dinner would be waiting for me or anything like that.”

“Ain’t that the truth.  Comin’ home to a home cooked meal, not some boxed food comin’ out of a microwave.  People just don’t know how important that is no more. Last time I had home cookin’ was when Mom died three years ago!”

“Anytime I get a home cooked meal is when I cook it myself. Even on Mother’s Day. Everybody has their excuses why they can’t do it. Yeah … Mexico does sound nice. Hand ground tortillas filled with fresh beef, homemade salsa and garden fresh veggies. Someplace where the family appreciates all that you do for them”

“At least you have a place with a family to not appreciate you. I go home to a dead house.”

The bar towel finds a resting spot over his shoulder as he saunters down the bar to serve two suits that just sat down. She swept the ends of her side bangs over her ears, and watches the proceedings reflected back in the mirror. On his way back he fishes in the peanut bowl and fishes out a few.

“In Mexico I wouldn’t have to listen to the kids whine that they don’t have the latest X-Box game, or that they can’t find anything to wear. Or the dog barking at its shadow, or not making it outside in time yet again.” The tête-à-tête continues as though there has been no break. That would all be drowned out by a Mariachi band, or perhaps Jimmy Buffet, and the waves crashing on the white sands.”

“You’d have the sand and the sea, palm trees and sunshine. None of this concrete, insane traffic or crappy weather.”

“No flipping deadlines, no 8 to 4:30, no business lunches to wear a smile to and listen to the same lame jokes, no little league mothers, no grumpy ass husband. My toughest decision would be to wonder which sunscreen level to wear with each swimsuit.”

“There would be fresh ocean breezes to inhale ‘stead of stale cigarette smoke, there would be these fire tiki torch things ‘stead of neon lights.”

Sighs echo, the now quiet jukebox is changing songs, the only sound the thwack of the nine ball zipping towards the corner pocket. They exchange glances …

“We could do it don’t cha know.”

“Do what?”

“Well … You got the business know-how, I got the bar know-how. We could take all the money in this till and make a dash for Mexico. It would take less than two days.

“That would make for one hell of a road trip wouldn’t it? No looking back until the Mexican stars are over our head, and Mexican sand under our feet.”

“How ‘bout ‘La Cucaracha’?”

“Why name the place after a cockroach? That can’t be good! Eew!”

“How ‘bout ‘’Livin’ La Vida Loca’?”

“That has a good ring to it.” She gave a laugh that left champagne bubbles and giggling thoughts in its wake. An audio work of art.

“Leave behind the arguin’ kids, the sexless nights, the pissin’ dog. Leave it all behind!”

*sigh* Walks on the beach under a full moon …”

“Homemade food every night.”

“Sounds good don’t it?”

Very good!

The jukebox and erupting cheers fill the silence. A few more bills find their way to the counter. She glances over at him, looking at him critically as he prepares a round for those at the pool table.

“Nah this ones on me.” A pause … Then a sigh to expel the thought. She looked at the floor, half expecting the dark wood to have an answer. “No … My husband would kill me if I left him with the kids. I guess that I probably would MISS them too.”

“Kinda grow on ya huh?” The towel folds into a neat square. “Well I understand.”

”You always do.” She scooches of the stool, reaches to up her purse and jacket, and turns to head towards the door. “Same time next week?”

“You know where to find me love.”

My Sorry State of Mind

Posted in story with tags , , , , , on November 20, 2011 by Tim R Wilson

A story for a Saturday Night ….

 

My Sorry State of Mind

     Escaping into the night from room 114, embarking on another adventure alone in another lost coastal town, I entered some strange and grungy little leisure pit on the Highway.

     “What a mess …” This was my first thought as I entered this god-forsaken squalor of a diversion. The Sailor Jack. That was the designation of this woeful excuse for a tavern. The roadhouse had been well named, for all of its patrons appeared a bit crusty around the edges, save the business type lurking at a corner table close to the door. Why not, can’t dance. I staggered boldly forth into the unknown, receiving strange hesitant glances from the onlookers.

     “Ciao!” I shouted to a group of bystanders over the uproar. They seem taken aback by attempt at human contact. So I shuffled on over to the at home with comfort of a nearby bar stool.

      “Barkeep. I’ll take a shot of your finest tequila and a glass of Bud.”

     “Are you certain Sir?” He asked in his shady backwater accent.

     “Yes, I’m sure dammit!” In fact I wasn’t all that sure, having consumed my personal weight in alcohol watching a large slice of a “Law and Order” marathon in my motel room prior to arriving.

     I turned to soak up my surroundings as best as I could. Somewhere in here lay the solution to my problems tonight. Something or someone in here would be my muse. A lady, a tête-à-tête, a portrait of a far off, nonexistent seascape. Or perhaps a view from a clandestine, untouched, moonlit veranda submitting some place with a fractured glimmer of romanticized illusion, left slightly still contained and cherished within it.

     Yet, it seemed I would find nothing of the sort in here. This ignoble hell-hole seemed to be sucking the very life out of me with every breath I took.

     “Where’s my goddamned tequila?” I slammed my palm on the bar.

     And then he door opened and she entered. The sultry temptress of my dreams. Could she be it? The muse I have so desperately been searching for? Could it indeed be that at this very moment as she seemed to approach? Law and Order be damned!

     Her walk was intoxicating, with an extraordinary, almost hypnotically enchanting effect. Her eyes look as if to contain their own peculiar prowess, and yet simultaneously a suggestion of naïveté as though she was lost in this angst-ridden world, just as I was.

     She drew near … Closer … Closer … Very much in front of me. Directly in front of me. My eyes widened in expectation as to what words those delicate lips would form.

     “Hiya doll, know where a girl like me could have a little fun?”

     It was as though the shear sonic force of her voice was going to shake me off my seat. It was like nothing that I’ve heard before. Her voice fractured all enchantment surrounding her. Her tone was jarring and nasal, and gave the same impression of as that of a drug addled socialite sent to live with the huddled masses as a part of a cruel social experiment.

     “Pardon me Ma’am?” I uttered aghast at this spectacular paradox of beauty.

     “Care to dance sailor?”

     Again her voice pierced my auditory canal, and rattled my skull. I looked her up and down and measured the conflicting qualities of this living; breathing proof that god had graced me with his sense of humor. While her physical beauty in my besotted eyes was unquestionable, nonetheless I determined she was no muse. Still I concluded that she would in fact make a suitable companion for the night. On one small condition …

     “I would very much love to dance, but only if you promise to say as little as humanly possible.”

     There was a moment of silence between us. This crass but inviting strumpet seemed to be sizing me up, determining what purpose swam beneath my alcohol enriched veins. And then …

     She responded nonchalantly, “Sounds good to me.”

     And then we danced, my inebriated state filling me with a furthered passion, my limbs flailing wildly and enmeshing themselves with hers. We were like two frogs caught in the intimate hold of a net. We ordered another round and laughed, chortled, and yes talked and danced some more.

     It seemed that I had in fact been graced with a temporary cure for my sorry state of mind.

Perfect Parts

Posted in odds and ends, quote(s), thoughts with tags , , , , , on November 11, 2011 by Tim R Wilson

A really cool quote I found along the way, which in retrospect is so very true …

“Life’s not perfect, but there are some perfect parts in it.”

                                                                                    ~ Author Unknown strikes again

 

Thank God for those!

 

 

Do It Anyway

Posted in Christian, Christianity, Philosophy, poem, quote(s), scripture, thoughts with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 9, 2011 by Tim R Wilson

I got this poem off my ex-wife’s Facebook of all things! It is something I have to take to heart for sure and just wanted to share it with you all!

Mother Teresa wrote this poem –

People are often unreasonable,
illogical and self-centered;
Forgive them anyway.

If you are kind,
people may accuse you of selfish ulterior motives;
Be kind anyway.

If you are successful,
you will win some false friends and true enemies;
Succeed anyway.

If you are honest and frank,
people may cheat you;
Be honest anyway.

What you spend years building,
someone could destroy overnight;
Build anyway.

If you find serenity and happiness,
they may be jealous;
Be happy anyway.

The good you do today,
people will often forget tomorrow;
Do good anyway.

Give the world the best you have,
and it may never be enough;
Give the world the best you’ve got anyway.

You see, in the final analysis,
it is between you and God;
It was never between you and them anyway.

Read more at Mother Teresa Poem : Do It Anyway

Pictures at the Exhibition

Posted in Family, story with tags , , , , , , on September 30, 2011 by Tim R Wilson


http://browse.deviantart.com/?qh=&section=&q=Pictures+at+the+Exhibition#/d3h4s2q

Pictures at the Exhibition

     The cracking yellowed linoleum floor has not been graced by a mop for more weeks than is entirely sanitary. Cupboard doors have been left open just a touch revealing the dismal amount of food, and the rather dreary menu that seems to consist of cereal, crackers, and tinned tuna. There is a half full bottle of Chardonnay in the ancient refrigerator, which was opened about an hour ago. The desolation and despair of the room is as tangible as if it were another person, pressing down upon its sole inhabitant, who sits at the kitchen table, fingers tracing the rim of the glass perched before her.

     Cane in hand, crow white hair and thick glasses, and looks so frail in the sun filtering through the window. I close my eyes and change her face. The trick is to slow down erasing each line, strictly one by one, until the weathered reappears, and stays forever, and pleads for my eyes to stay closed. The old woman weaves all emotions together, braids all thoughts and memories with her hair, and uses her eyes to smile and care, rather than to see. She hides her mysteries unimaginable, but— endless of possibilities. In this chamber, where the doors creaked, and its windows sealed shut, was this precious soul who lived here still.

     Staring from behind the glass, with three pigeons perched on the outside ledge; she brushes the freckled colors of yarn on her frayed quilt, as she takes a seat. Still and silent, with the wine sparkle and shimmering in the sunlight, she begins to watch the world drifting by. Gazing at the dancing ribbons of people and wonders who they are, and what thoughts pass through their minds, as they tramp along those asphalt streets. An alabaster jaw tightens into a thoughtful frown as she observes the crowd and lets her imagination, the one part not yet defeated by the city smoke and time, take to the sky and soar as it willed, and create for these guests a story of their thoughts. It is like pondering pictures at the exhibition, each brush stroke a part of the whole, each melding together, acting as one.

     The elderly gentleman seemed out of place amongst the hurried youth of the crowd, walking stiffly with his back slightly stooped, clutching a careworn and disagreeable cane. The yellow-glazed eyes spoke nothing concerning submission or defeat, but rather a cool and coldness that were unnerving, something jagged, and something bitter. They are the eyes of a warrior. He had been younger then, with ginger hair cropped tightly to his head, smooth unwrinkled skin and with green eyes that saw the entire world clearly. Intense, sharp eyes that saw friends and comrades fall at the bite of a bullet or tearing shrapnel, eyes which saw the dying moments of countless human beings and eyes which saw the red, red streams that poured down to drench the soil; the smell of which left a coppery taste in his mouth which will not go away. Xuan Loc, An Loc, Dong Ap Bia, names long forgotten at home, but names etched to his spirit and names which colors his person. The burdens of that grief, of that horror, weighed down upon jaded shoulders and made him into the man he is now, shuffling along the sidewalk, his life dependent on a cracked, crooked piece of wood.

     The hectic city street surely was not the easiest place for a single mother to be tugging along two young children, both of whom eager to escape the clutches of her grasp, struggling like wildcats as those steel hands held vise tight. She only hoped that they would be a bit more subdued when they entered the oppressive grey walls of the prison that held their elder brother captive. Praying mightily that they would not tear about that cold, emotionless room where convicts and their families shared to brief, awkward, uneasy moments of being together, and not stir up aggravation inside an atmosphere already choked with the menacing threat of violence. She could only dream that they would not badger their brother with probes about his short lived career as a ‘drug dealer’. And silently, desperately, she hoped that her eldest child, as independent and occasionally wayward as he had been, was surviving in his cage. That the spark was not gone from his eyes, that his shoulders had not been bowed with defeat, that he was the same good young man she had known him to be, and not merely a ghost with her son’s face daubed on it. God knows that his brothers needed him too. Pulling along a sobbing seven year old, and being dragged by a most petulant eleven years old, she made her way through the human deluge to her melancholic destination.

     The young man turning the corner was certainly looking a little worse for wear. Although the business suit was impeccably pressed, it only served to show how abysmal the man looked. His eyes were bloodshot in spite of the Murine, squinting in the bright morning sun, his faced scored with pain, on his haggard cheeks a river of sorrow and miserable bitterness. His jaw was stained with stubble, and a tiny trail of blood led from his mouth, flaking off in chips of the darkest of scarlet. Dirty blonde hair was in disarray, as though he had just suddenly woke up from an alcohol fueled slumber, sticking out at incompatible angles, and falling in such a way as to obscure the vision in one of his eyes. Yet another fight with his wife had left him sleeping on his sister’s sofa for what seemed like the thousandth time, listening with a shattered heart to the sounds of an ecstatic couple sharing low whispers in their bedroom, and the giggles of children who were supposed to have been asleep many hours ago. The thoughts are scrambling around in his brain, like a jigsaw puzzle missing a piece or two. The fragile fabric of his marriage had been ripped apart by jealous accusations, punctuated by tear choked screaming, which pierced the night, the wounds of a love destroyed. Looking for love in a Looking Glass world is pretty hard to do, keeping it has proved impossible. His head tells him to surrender and give up, that his heart has been shredded to many times, and it was kinder and wiser to let it go. But his heart has foolishly held on to what they had had, and back they had returned to the relationship of shared abuse that had broken them both so many times. Stumbling forward, with tears beginning to form again, glazing his eyes, he continued on his way trying to remember how it had been, and how it was supposed to be.

     The two women were as parrots among pigeons, brightly covered with smiles in their eyes, and laughter beautifying their lips. Sisters. They had the same extended, outsized beaks, the same awkward, rangy physiques; there could be no mistaking that familiarity between them that could only signal kin. The head’s resting on each other’s shoulders, the flicking of another’s stray strands of hair, the easy brush of fingers as the Styrofoam Starbuck’s was passed between enthusiastic hands. Mouth’s working feverishly; they held a conversation at a speed a man can never seem to comprehend, managing to stuff so many thoughts and comments in such a brief period of time, which was miraculous in and of itself. They had always been close. When the younger had been but a child, the elder had sat by her bed and sang away the dread, rather off key, but still delightful in its sentiment, the voice a gentle peace in a darkened room, and the key to the realm of dreams. Years later, when the elder had entered the field of parties and late night revelry, the younger had always been there  in the morning, equipped with the special hangover recipe of scrambled eggs, Tabasco, a large glass of Ginger Ale, and two Anacin III’s.  Of course there had been fights; screams and wails which would echo throughout the small house, sneakers and high heeled shoes rocketed with surprising force at heads, complete with the slamming of doors which sent many a framed photo and keepsake falling to the floor. But they loved each other sincerely this pair; apparent in the easygoing manner between them and the silent interaction between them that nobody but themselves could hope to fathom. Making their way through the multitudes, they could be easily tracked with their outrageously bright clothing and bangles, and her eyes followed them as they vanished into the colossal mouth of the shopping mall, where the sparkle of irresistible packaging and the lure of shopping for deals are supreme.

     The faces on the street were her gallery, a thousand paintings in her own personal Louvre, with a thousand tales that glided by like ripples in the water. All she had to do was extend her fingers and grasp the narrative from their faces, and what was reflected in the eyes of the passerby’s was grand in their inconsequence, yet beautiful in its sensitivity, and splendor in simplicity. She looked straight through the old, warped glass of the window that ran along the wall before her, and straight through the spreading, gnarled branches of the overgrown oak tree on the other side. She was gazing sadly at something which could not be seen, at least not to the eye of an onlooker. Regrettably, there appeared to be no onlooker. The lady was all alone, destined to be another picture at the exhibition.

     The painter was finished, but certainly not satisfied, the painter will never be done. The painter tipped the brush into the paint and continued …

The End

The Waterfall That Sings

Posted in odds and ends, Photography, scripture with tags , , , , on September 10, 2011 by Tim R Wilson

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A “secret place” I happened across. Here is Henline Falls, located in the Santiam Foothills by the Cascade Mountains in Oregon. The streams of these falls run a different volumes and together they sound like an ethereal chorus! I found the trail to these falls quite by accident, and alas alone, but next time I have to bring someone special with me yo enjoy the beauty and sounds of this wonderful area!

Psalm 42:7 NASB “Deep calls to deep at the sound of Your waterfalls; All Your breakers and Your waves have rolled over me.”