Archive for personality

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

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Stained Glass You

Posted in odds and ends, Philosophy, quote(s) with tags , , , , , , on August 19, 2011 by Tim R Wilson

 

“‘People are like stained glass windows: they sparkle and shine when the sun’s out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is light within.’ – Elizabeth Kubler-Ross”

Throwaway People?

Posted in quote(s) with tags , , , , on March 28, 2011 by Tim R Wilson

A really great quote I came across

“People, even more than things, have to be restored, renewed, revived, reclaimed, and redeemed; never throw out anyone.”

~Audrey Hepburn

Amen!

The Shamrock Test

Posted in holidays with tags , , , , on March 15, 2011 by Tim R Wilson

Hey!  Why not with St. Patricks Day coming up and all ….

http://www.blogthings.com/theshamrockpersonalitytest/

My result:

Your Shamrock Says You Are Loving

You are balanced, nurturing, and sympathetic. You understand people and love to help them.

At times, you get too involved with what’s going on in other people’s lives. It’s hard to remove yourself.

You consider yourself a lucky person. Luck always seems to be on your side.

You are stylish, in a classic sort of way. You are particular about how you like things.

“Stylish, in a classic sort of way”? Does that mean Old?

Hmmmmmm

How many Cannibal’s could your body feed?

Posted in humor, quizzes with tags , , , , on July 2, 2010 by Tim R Wilson

This just may be one of the most unusual quizzes posted yet! However …According to the site, it’s “the most important questions you’ll ever ask yourself” Anyways, here goes it …

http://www.oneplusyou.com/q/v/cannibal_lunch

My result: How many cannibals could your body feed?

Alrighty then

Beauty of the Butterfly

Posted in odds and ends, Philosophy, quote(s) with tags , , , , , on June 4, 2010 by Tim R Wilson

We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty.


~Maya Angelou

What Font Are You?

Posted in humor, odds and ends, quizzes with tags , , on May 23, 2010 by Tim R Wilson

Arg! Another stupid quiz about nothing.

I must take it!

Click here: Quiz – What Font Are You? (Standard Fonts) – Quizilla Quizzes

My result:

Arial – You’re pretty normal. That’s certainly not a bad thing, as a lot of people like you.

Arial??? How boring ….