Me -- My Soul

The two-by-four's vigorous pounding energy mortifies my existence, smacking the back of my hand with wakening blows, bruising, all the while penetrating the clear vague darkness of my scared and impaired mind. The pain and sorrow felt. The craziness of the learning game, rustled, rattled, opened, and peered in -- too the dismaying anxiety. It is abandoned.

Sparks fly as ideas soar, interacting, and sometimes crashing. Words sing, rapidly spitting their excited voices. Poisonous emotions drip from the corners of my mouth. The free willing ideas left to soar, flowing in intensity in the solitude of my vein rich mind. Bonding and trusting in the shared intimacy that is evoked in laughter, and sometimes tears. The unprepared experiences of life awkwardly struggle from the simple gray matter, mistakenly received by the impotent fingers, mocking in a black spear of color, it so joyously entangles. It may sound silly, but the envelope of ideas spar in a fist fighting battle, the stimulation produced, bouncing, jousting, aimlessly looking for a reason.

Quickly sealed, running from the horror of life perceived. Pointing fingers and asking questions. The potent callous pain that is felt from the smooth soft idle edges of the blooming yellow rose. The bolting thorns of life drown in the obscure, blurring dim waters. The teaching obstacles are seen and felt. I scramble and fight and sigh with despair at the effort necessary to combat the feelings that reside in the narrow, obviously concealed, tormenting mind. Putting legs on the heart, it wanders in the suns dawning light, now surveying the beautiful earth.

Looking. . . seeking to unmask the quiet feeling of emotion that have been camouflaged, yet now detected, in that secret place deep inside, nervously supporting. Until you absolutely release and lose yourself, you're unable to see who you truly are. It's an amazing feeling. Having let go of something so emotional. How loosing something so dear can give such a fulfilling attitude. The happiness that can be felt if you just set yourself free of the constrains that life has thrust upon you.

"The past should be a springboard, not a hammock -- Ivern Ball." "When one door of happiness closes another one opens, but often we look so hard at the closed door that we don't see the one that has opened for us." "Choice, not chance determines human destiny."

My words have no knowledge. They are just an aggressive and descriptive way to express my passion, showing the understanding of my experience. Knowledge comes from the expanding interpretation that is conveyed from the person listening to the sing-song words that tremble from my fruitless fingers.

Waking-up!

Jim awoke one bright summer morning. Streams of light poured downward from the sun's glowing efforts. Glossing the dirty dried water pellets that stained the outer part of the window. The rays were strong. The cheerful light was hazed with clouds, as it parted the blinds. Jim's mind was left in a confused state. Stretching to loosen his muscles, he was motionless. Jim felt he had been sleeping for months. Slowly but surely, his mind began to move. Jim didn't bother opening his eyes. He knew he was in a cool, dry room.

Relaxed, he felt completely rested. Jim was content, not full of life, but most definitely pleased with life. Lying there on his back, in that daze/awake state, he felt alive, blissfully happy -- brilliant. Jim could feel a hint of a smile spreading on his face, as he thought of what this beautiful day was going to bring. It was sweet.

April freshness. He generally smelled this purified cleansing aroma when he first woke, but it wasn't dancing on his sheets this morning. An abrasive, heavily starched material rubbed Jim's arm. It was ever-lasting, a scarring sheath. I'm sure my wife will have something to say about this, he thought.

Getting a little more comfortable, Jim began to roll on to his left side, trying to snuggle with his wife, when the mind impairing torture of his life began. She wasn't there. He felt something gently rub his right shoulder! Ignoring it, he continued to roll, but it kept him from turning. Ever so slowly, he opened his eyes, looking to see what it was. He screamed, "What the Hell is going on!"

Frantically he tried to look up and down the bed. This effort was difficult because there was a thick net. A rope like something securing him. Brutally pushing him into the linens. The pillowcase was solid. Was it a coffin? His mind raced. Oh, now he was pissed. He'd been kidnapped; quickly he surveyed his surroundings. He rolled to his right side and saw nothing but a smooth dry wall. There were no pictures. Nothing. The wall was dead, just glossed with white enamel paint. It was dismal. Abruptly he returned to his left side, much quicker than his previous rotation. Still there was nothing but a brown curtain wall, dangling from the ceiling.

A nightstand, right there, it was at the head of the bed to the left. A phone. Jim tried to move swiftly towards it, but he couldn't get it. It sat to the far right side of the stand. He had a hard time moving his body. The kidnappers had drugged him with something. His left side was almost totally disabled. Somehow, the fingers of Jim's right hand slowly crawled on the maple veneer wood, sluggishly toward the phone -- a snail's pace. He grabbed the dull white sheets of the bed with his left hand, trying to help pull himself closer. The phone just sat on the deserted island of a nightstand, all by itself. Taunting him. After minutes (hours) of effort, Jim finally achieved the impossible. He was able to touch the handset cord. He felt invincible. It had taken days, but he didn't have time to stop and think about that achievement.

The kidnappers were on the prowl. Unintentionally, he yanked the handset off the body of the phone. Slowly he pulled it closer. He didn't want to knock it off the stand. His life would have shattered with the small pink plastic pieces that would've bounced from the floor below. Hah! It was within dialing distance now. Jim began to harshly rub the numbers on the touch pad. Who am I calling? My wife, Ginger! Shit, what's her number? Is she at home or work? What time is it? What's our home number?

Encumbering questions. Too many things were unanswered. They scrambled his mind. Jim didn't have any answers. He didn't know. Hell, he didn't even know his own home telephone number. Jim wasn't sure of anything. Those drugs the kidnappers gave him were really doing strange things to both his body and mind.

Nonetheless, Jim lightly began pressing a few numbers that twinkled in his mind, hoping they would bring a signing avalanche, a beautiful tempo that would belch out the numbers. Wrong. No luck. To Jim's dismay, the phone just rang with a constant beeping sound. He hung up to see if it was broken. Shoo, It wasn't. He got another dial tone. Jim figured he would just dial zero and speak with the operator. She'll get me the number, he thought. "Hello, this is the operator, may I help you."

"Yes," in a hurried slurring voice, an almost incomprehensible inflection of speech, "I want the number for Ginger Smith."

"How do you spell that?"

More questions, he wasn't sure. He wasn't even sure how to spell his own name. Some intense drugs -- when will this all wear off? After a few seconds the operator said, "I'm sorry, I don't think there's anyone here by that name." "What room is she in," she then replied.

Jim told the operator, "She's not in a room," he hoped. Had they already operated on her, he wondered. "No, I want her home number. Can you do that for me?"

Politely the operator said, "Sir, let me put you through to the operator." "Shit." In frustration, You are the operator, rocked through Jim's mind. But only "Great," came out his mouth.

Finally, Jim got the stinking long-distance carrier, but wait, there was a clipboard attached to the side of the stand with his name. The phone number, Jim haphazardly began dialing. The phone just rang. Okay, he told himself, I must've misdailed. He hung up and tried again. Once more, it had a constant, unending ring.

Shit, my wife's not home. She must be out looking for me, or they've already killed her.

He didn't want to think those thoughts. Unknowing and frustrated, he placed the receiver back on top the phone, and again he rolled to his back. He tried to think. What possibly could've happened? He couldn't remember last night at all. Drugs again, he guessed. Jim lay there puzzled. The net was almost touching the end of his nose. With each breath he took, the restricting net stooped, descending closer on his big Hungarian nose. The florescent, slightly heated rays from above, cast beams of light reflecting through the holes in the net. A thin shadow was cast from the net onto his still body. Jim began to think.

Ahh, the net. What's holding it in place? Jim looked to both sides and saw metal bars supporting it above. Those damn bars, just welded together, annoying his eyes. What's holding the net to these bars, he now asked himself. While still on his back, he slowly maneuvered his body to the right side of the bed. Jim grasped one of the strands and slowly followed it with his fingers to the underside of the bed. Hey, there it is. The net was secured to the bed by some type of metal 'S' hook.

Hooks. Jim rushed to remove them along the right side. After he had a number of them taken away, he pushed the net upward, towards the foot of the bed. It seemed to be a pathway to freedom. The light at the end of the tunnel was now shinning down on him. So Jim thought. He couldn't look at the overall escape plan. He only eyed the next duel that threatened him. Jim had to concentrate on each situation as it presented its ugly face. And it was now time to get out of the bed.

Motor skills, or lack them, presented a most difficult problem. The situation at hand (no pun intended), was going to be difficult. Nearly impossible! However, with the direct help of his right hand, Jim slowly and methodically gripped his left hand around the metal bar. Jim's fingers were weak. It was going to be tough. Pushing himself higher, almost doing a one armed push-up, he began the journey. Jim felt a power within. Ultimately, he was straddling the top of the bar. Jim hadn't planned things this far in advance. He slowly swayed side to side.

"Shit," Now what am I going to do?

The floor looked to be a far ways down. Jim didn't want to meet it face first. He was scared of heights. And he was finding it very difficult to control his balance. Jim decided. He would shift his weight so he would fall back into the bed. He would then devise a new plan of attack. Wrong, oh, how wrong he was. When Jim tried to shift his weight, he was gone. The small shift in weight caused him to really loose his balance. Wham! His head and back kissed the hard green tile floor. Jim definitely didn't enjoy that kiss. He just lay there on the floor, feeling the intense pain shoot from his head to his lower back. Oh, how that hurt.

Mumbling in pain, "Shit," that really hurts!

Jim had to get going before the kidnappers came back. Pain or no pain, he wasn't ready to die, yet. So he used his right arm. Latching to the underside of the bed, he pulled, sliding his body to the foot of the bed. Jim swung and maneuvered his flesh, as best he could. He wanted to see out the window that was only a couple of feet above the floor.

Where am I? he asked.himself.

Jim looked. There was nothing familiar, nothing but a parking lot of cars. He saw some people walking in the distance. He lightly tapped on the window, trying to get their attention. He didn't want to hit too hard. The kidnappers would hear. The people walking couldn't hear the finger taps.

Rescued! He saw the most glorious site he could ever remember seeing -- his wife, and her mother. They were walking behind a row of cars in the distance. Again, Jim began hitting the window, but this time he banged in a violent fury of spiritual reassurance. Jim wanted their attention.

"They've found me." -- "They're coming to rescue me."

Jim was ecstatic. His wife was the greatest. Okay. He thought. I better get ready for the battle that's going to take place. He slowly moved his back against the wall. Jim was now facing the doorway. The window sat just to the right of his shoulder. Yeah, They're coming. The kidnappers aren't going to like them walking right in. About that time, mom walked through the door, yelling, "Jim are you all right?"

His wife passed mom, making it to me first. "Jim, are you all right?"

"Sure I'm okay. Help me up. I've been drugged. Let's get out of here."

The two women started crying and talking in that whinny voice. Jim couldn't understand them. He told them, "Settle down; Let's get going. Keep quite, the kidnappers will hear you. They'll kill us for sure."

Oh boy, Jim said something bad because his wife then leaned up with a stern, pissed look on her face. She wiped her eyes, rubbing her mascara along her checks. The black streaks left, polished her face. Her eyes were tensely gazing at Jim, as she told her mom to stay and watch him. She turned and stomped out of the room. Oh, no. She's going to fight the battle alone. Mom stayed, making sure Jim hadn't broken any bones in the fall.

Jim's wife re-entered the room, but this time there was a man following her. Shit, she was in on it. She's donated my organs to some undercover doctor, for money. Weak, Jim fought the man as best he could. The man, his wife, and her mom got him back in the bed. Pushing, shoving, and screaming, they re-secured him to the lonely intimidating world of the bed. The net again. It was just inches from his face. They told him it was for his own good.

Right then, without a stutter, Jim spilled out, to each of them individually, a non stop phrase of dooming, vulgar, obscene, attacking, overflowing discharge of damning words. Jim wasn't happy. He felt defeated. All along he was trying to contact his wife so she would come and save him. Only to find out she was part of it. It was discouraging. This was definitely a major let down in his fight for life.

Feeling defeated Jim lay there in the bed, preparing for death. He was a prisoner. Jim kept looking for scars on his left side. He knew they had removed both his left arm and leg and replaced them with some dead person's appendages. A scientific experiment of some sort.

Home. Jim so desperately wanted to go. His wife proceeded to speak with him for hours. She told him about the trauma he had lived through.

The Wreck

Jim drove the road. It was a beautiful day. Wild flowers played in the median. Frolicking, they danced, briskly, moving in beat to the music of the Northwest winds. Vanity pranced to the passionate harmony of the finely combed spring morning. The clear smell of freshness streamed in the air. This was a day of noted experience.

Suddenly the steaming roar of sirens raced through the ventilating trees. The affair was frightening. The turned earth left dismal chance for survivors. Still, to the dismay of the onlookers, one occupant was left scurrying about the scene. Rushing in an inflamed charge.

Haphazardly, Jim pushed his tennis shoe covered feet ahead. Slamming on the breaks, until the rubber covered petal would move no further. The Michelin sport tires made an ominous noise. Screeching and grinding as they stretched and dulled their open claws into the evenly paved asphalt. Looking to find some sign of fresh traction.

The Camaro tried to dodge the Cadillac. Skidding, the tail of the Camaro swerved. The mortality of the car skewed twenty feet as Jim changed to the right lane, in hopes of avoiding the crash. Wrong. Bigger than life, the metal of the frightful white flash came barreling in line, giving a crushing punch.

The two cars collided in a raging fight. Sparring, they screamed in a life threatening battle. A quick mix of moving gloves sparked. Uninterrupted, in a hateful fury, the Cadillac's attack pushed forward. Without hesitation, the commanding car progressed. The orchestra of metals made a loud clamoring bluster of noise. It immediately and steadily removed the inactive pieces of life.

The driver's side of the Camaro was destroyed. The impeding force of the Cadillac pushed them to the edge of the event stricken pavement. Building an incredible demolishing vault, the Cadillac cast the Camaro abroad. Quickly and effortlessly, the Camaro made a mad dash from the roadside.

Abruptly it progressed, running in defeat along the steep embankment. In an unfit and heated decent down its noble pathway. The quantity of narcotics which the dealing Cadillac hurriedly distributed to the Camaro. The numbing, intense, desensitizing tranquilizers were rampant in their calming effect. Leaving a bright weightless cheering flow of wreckage along the upper border of the highway.

Stumbling, with a keen sheering sharpness of acrobatics, the Camaro moved. Splashing with the momentum of the storm, the sides of the car were left stroking the ground. Leaving glass shattered, on each plummeting rotation. Poking and gabbing with the sharp pieces of the chariot. Death swirled about Jim in an accelerated neck breaking motion.

T-tops, the Camaro unveiled them, so the perusing Cadillac would know to stop. The turning earth was highlighted with a nimble gray. A dizzy red flicker aroused confusion.

Debris flourished the dust stricken land. After flipping once end over end, the Camaro was fixed -- firmly. Perched in the side of an enormously large locus tree. It's decent was complete, terminating its downward movement. The Camaro was left laughing in a solemnly depressed state. Snugly, it reclined in the glomming ravine.

Hillside lines

Visualize the freshly painted green lines
Standing straight in a row,
Tumbling aerobically,

With precision they were created.
Cloned one at a time.
All was equal.

The catalog of the drawing
Constant and durable,
Artwork soaring.

Abruptly the scenery pushes downward,
Rushing to its destination,
stopping.

The feat was complete,
By the road side,
As life created.

Dull and dingy, the interior now filled in a suffocating, richly colored, broiling blackness. The driver's door securely anchored against the seriously incriminating facing floor of hell. It had gravitated to this designed destination.

The stationary painted mortal surface was dead. It now lay inactive in the prevailing course of passage, the visual damage was only superficial. The emanate ravishing destructive injuries glazed all over his face. Jim.

Silenced, his frail world withdrew in the halting stillness. The force of pain administered to the driver was unbearable. Closed and fastened and locked tightly, immediately cramped within the destructively dense crowd, he was oppressed and stifled in the obnoxious and vulgar hushed silence.

The unventilated world peacefully released a constant reserve of closefisted pain upon him. Devoted to his physical and emotional misery, strained and sealed with a drunken tightness. The performance would not go on.

That late morning of June 9th, 1992, every person traveling Route 9 of Loris South Carolina, stopped to watch. There was nothing to be done. The attention beheld the swaggering puppet of flowers. This day was the light of knowledge.

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