His Symphony

All the lights in the house were on.

Dusk had fallen and the boy was once again alone. He slowly closed the heavy curtains so he would not have to see the night sky. If he tried, he could fool himself into pretending the world was still bathed in daylight.

He wandered about the house switching on radios and television sets, in hopes of recreating a sense of human interaction. Two blaring stereos and three shining screens

The noise, to any other ear, would have been deafening.

But the boy sat calmly on the edge of the couch, back erect, feet planted firmly below him. His small, delicate hands raised slowly in front of him and they began to move as if mimicking the rising and falling of an ocean's wave.

A conductor with his electronic symphony.

Somewhere gun shots were heard and the boys left hand imitated the staccato sound. He flicked his right hand and another tv yelled out, "two for the price of one!"

He lifted his hands, the music swelling with him, as a tires screeched against pavement and a laugh track somewhere cheered and shouted.

While static seeped from an untuned radio, the gunshots ceased and the boy heard a woman's dying words.

"You've got to go on. You must."

The crowd cheered and clapped.

And with the certainty only a salesman could muster, a television chanted, "This is what you've been searching for."

This is what you've been searching for.

The boy took in a slow breath as his symphony swirled around him.

But the boy's masterpiece was interrupted by the front door opening and slamming. Dull footsteps echoed down the hall, a heavy coat was dropped on a chair and the man coughed twice.

The music had been ruined.

And now all the boy could hear was this man who had entered his house, casting shadows and making noise. His mere presence was disgusting.

The man called a greeting from the foyer.

The boy's face has furrowed in rage. His lowered hands had balled into fists, and his breathing came in short gusts.

The man called again.

The boy made no reply.

A car stopped. The air, stopped.

The Man in Tweed stepped out.

A Forest Without Promise.

There was a time when her eyes truly sparkled. No matter how late or early she woke, she could smile and breathe and live as vibrantly as anyone possibly could.

Now, in an hour of familiarity, she is a stranger. Her legs are heavy. Her soul is heavy.

And yes, the passing cars shine their lights as brightly as anyone would when traveling a road as lonely as this one. It is late, but each car must be going somewhere. She does not care if the destinations hold anticipation or dread for the drivers. Any purpose at all will suffice, as far as she is concerned. So long as she, too, has one.

(She doesn't.)

The lights are gone, for now. She looks left. Right. Down. Up. A blinking star... an airplane.

Which way is the way?

If I seek to find myself again, then certainly the path will not come easy. It will not be paved, but muddied. Not painted, but cracked.

And that's okay.

(But it sucks. A lot.)

She takes a step back. She turns around. The forest behind her is endless, promise-less, pointless.

This uncertainty, this directionless journey-- this is life, and this is what she seeks.

She steps out of the house.

She steps into the road. The lights are bright. It does not feel like night.

Her face is purple and mottled with cold. Her eyes might be sparkling, but instead are drooping red. It has been a long night.

On the Founding of the World

In the beginning there were three things. (This seems to be a theme, the number three. Everything happening in trios.)

1. A duck named Edward.

2. An all-loving wrathful God, slightly shorter than average at 5'4, with blue eyes, brown hair and a mild disposition. Likes Ben and Jerry's ice cream, long walks on the beach, and the movie "300". Not an extraordinary God, really, but a pretty decent one.

3. A blog. Whose blog? I'm not sure. Time will tell.