6 Months and Nothing New ... Almost

I have to admit, having gotten distracted by my epic erotic novel and trying to figure out responsible ways of dealing with it, I've left this blog languish and made it seem as though nothing new has happened in the Dungeon.  But that is not altogether true.  For those who can't seem to get it to work over there on Lulu dot com, here is my short story entry, which is a free download there, even if you can't get it to work, because you couldn't get it to work, or maybe you did.

Bobby, By Any Other Name

By GRH Wagner

He is older than I am.  He has always been older, and always will be.  And he is smarter than I am.  He knows everything, and what he doesn’t know; he is able to figure out.  He really is quite brilliant, and he is my secret best friend.

When I was younger, when I first met him, he told me I couldn’t tell anyone about him.  He said I would get into trouble if anyone found out that I talked to him.  I asked him why, and he said grown-ups wouldn’t believe someone like him should be a friend with someone like me.  I didn’t have any other friends, so I asked if there was something wrong about being my friend.  He said no, but that there was something wrong with me being his friend.

I didn’t really understand it all, back then, and I’m not entirely sure that I do, now.  But I trusted him, and so, I never told anyone about him.  Until now.  And I should say, now, his voice came to me as a thought or a feeling, not verbal, but an understanding that fed into my mind and a sensation that touched my heart.

I can still remember that very first day.  I had come home from school, jumping off the bus in a fit of agony, and running to the very top of the hill behind our house.  I did so quickly, before the tears in my eyes overwhelmed my vision and I was unable to see where I was going.  Then, I sat on a rocky western ledge and cried my heart out, wishing only that I could die and disappear from the face of the earth.  My chest ached so terribly I thought I could die of broken-heartedness.  And when I didn’t, it hurt so bad I thought it would be more bearable to throw myself from that lofty ledge and crumble into a mangled heap below; food for the scavengers.  At least, then I would serve a purpose, and have a reason for being.

But I was a coward at the age of eight, and there I sat, and wailed to the birds in the bush, and the rabbits what could hear, and the deer amongst the trees, and the bees what would care.  I cried to the point that I was spent and, having no strength to spare, I closed my eyes and hugged myself, sopping wet from my tears.  And then, I slept upon that rock.  A boulder is what it was.  And I awoke to the touch of a hand smoothing my hair and caressing away my cares.  I didn’t move, but stayed right there in that tender and soothing embrace.  Only when the warmth of the setting sun threatened to chill my skin, and the darkness of night came on and I should have long since been home, did I at last sit up to see who came to comfort me.

He was someone I had not met, and yet, I felt I already knew.   And in his eyes I saw his smile, and it touched me through and through.  Then, I turned my head and looked down the hill, and when I turned back to him, coveting the peace he did instill, I realized with dismay that he had distanced himself from me.  And without a word, he sent me back to the life from which I had run, and yet with the knowledge that he would be there should I find need of an invisible childhood friend.

Copyright © 2011 GRH Wagner

All rights reserved.

At this point, I should say that it started out as a new novel because the epic one I have been babying along was not so well received on a writer's website that has, up until now, consumed far too much of my time and energy.  I think it best to refrain from saying any more about the site, except to note that I was not completely ignored or disliked; there were four or five people who actually had nice comments for my writing. And so, one must realize that you cannot please all of the people all of the time.

The rest of those lost months were spent mostly on my novel.  I had sent it to some select friends and relatives in order to get some honest opinions, and while that wasn't a good idea, it has redirected my attention to specific editing issues that are within my abilities.  Realizing epic novels can be made up of more than one book, I believe I have been able to break mine into two, which will be of good news to those who like to wade through my ramblings.  If all works out to suit me, my readers will be able to get book one as a free download.  The bad news is that book one does not end, and is continued in book two, and the really bad news is that I've been told book two does not end, either, or it ends poorly.  Which is true, I'll not deny it.

I had ended my tale somewhat desperately at 900 and some pages, knowing I had gone on too long.  The orginal editing did not eliminate very much, nor very many pages, and I brought it to an end, when I really should have just taken a break and gone back to it later.  However, everything for a reason and all things in their own good time, I have started on the third book of what is now to be a trilogy.

And the best part of entering the Lulu Short Story contest was finding out how things work over there, familiarizing myself with the UPUB thingie and cover designs (just imagine it is blue), which I never did figure out to my satisfaction, and most of all the little details of epublishing, an entirely new world to me.

The long and short of it is, I did not take a vacation, or die (though I was sickly for part of the time) and I am back, and I will try never to leave you lingering for long, ever again.

I've actually missed you, but I'm back in The Dungeon and ready to reveal more Dark And Dampy things.

There’s More To Reading And Writing

I missed posting here last month, as I dove headlong into my book, my baby.

And I should say that it is finished, and edited to the best of my ability, and

copyrighted, all legal and proper.  And one would think that would be the end

of it, but I do so love what my pen did write that I can’t seem to help re-reading

my words and spending my precious time with that past what kept me company

for all those years.  I just absolutely adored the people and the life that nurtured

my spirit and soul, and the feelings that I discovered along the way, and the way

that I discovered to live and die, and live, again.  It was lifetimes ago, yet, in the

stillness of the night, the essence of it all calls to me, and I have had difficulty

tearing myself away and coming back to reality.  In deed, I have given serious

thought of returning to that life, and it is in working through the details of such

a whim, that I must realize that world no longer exists except in my writing, and

I must live in the here and now and only visit that world, that life, when I read.

There’s more to writing a book than placing words in intelligent sentences that

communicate thought and idea.  An author once autographed his book to me as

“to appear before the world with your pants pulled down,” naked as a Playboy

centerfold, and yet, it is so much more personal and revealing than to just have

your thoughts read on the world stage.  In well written text, especially fiction, the

author’s upbringing and education is spotlighted, as are personal characteristics,

preferences, and some of the most intimate bits and pieces that make up a person

as the whole.  In every character within a story, the author brings to light all the

things that make you notice and get to know that character, and thereby reveals

the how, what, and why that makes that author notice the people in their world.

The plot and circumstance of the story can so easily tell the tale of what haunts

or torments the soul of the author, and while the story may take place in another

time and location, with people whose names have necessarily been changed, a

reference point can be found within the text with which the author identifies.  A

well written sexual encounter can disclose what excites an author, or what the

author has found excites those that author has encountered.  The fabric of a shirt

or skirt, when described in detail, can hint of the preference of cloth to be worn

by the author, or by a character with which the author has taken notice.  Take a

scene, any scene, and read into that setting what delights the heart of the author,

from the description of a table setting and the food that was consumed, to the

scenery and all it had to offer the senses.

Some decades ago, a young local man put pen to paper and, freeing the demons

within his own mind, published a book based on his teen-age trials and errors,

and there was this great rush of those of his age to read what he did write.  There

was this curiosity of what secrets he dared to tell, and the hopes that many held

that he had written them into infamy as characters, and the fears of others that

they would not out-live their own deeds of teen-year grandeur.  There was great

disappointment that some did not rate a place within his ramblings, as there was

relief of the few that they were not mentioned at all by name or reference.  In the

short years after, there were other similar annual rushes to land a copy of his book,

the curious nature of younger siblings to discover what needed be known of living

and surviving those hard-fought adolescent years, that most difficult transition

period prior to the safety of adulthood.  When at long last I sought a copy to read

as research, the book had mysteriously disappeared, the last known copy had left

our public library and never was returned.  Well, it was controversial, and there

were some who wished it out of existence because of its content, but we finally

obtained a copy through inter-library loan and, while it wasn’t to my own personal

liking, it did serve a purpose.  And so it was, and it still exists, and should, because

life goes on and what we can glean from whatever an author finds reason to write

can find purpose, and it is in the magical comprehension of words that the world

is brought more into focus.

This all brings to mind the day a friend sat reading my, at that time, unfinished

manuscript, and suddenly looked up at me as though to ask, ‘Are you certain you

want to write this?’  His raised eyebrows and the surprise on his face prompted

me to ask what he found wrong, to which he responded, ‘There’s an awful lot of

you in here!’  Of course, there is!  If I learned nothing else from all those How-To

books on writing, it was that you should write about what you know, and so I did.

And so I am in it, me, and my friends and the journey we did take, and while it is

all fiction, well, most of it is, I can spot me, and no doubt, a friend or two would

be able to spot themselves.  They were all real people and deserved to be treated

as such, even though I changed their names and gave them a world of fantasy in

which to romp and play.  And I was kind, too kind, in my descriptions and details

of my characters, as some of them became bigger than life and others grew into

the heroes that they only dreamed of being.  But I’m sure their egos will permit

them to identify themselves quite satisfactorily.  And for those who raise their

eyebrows and are surprised at the attention which I lavished upon them, purpose

can be realized in the entertainment value, alone.  For those who cannot seem to

dispel the shock of my sensual, romantic nature, I can only say that you never

really knew me, after all.  And if in reading my words and sentences, and pages

of paragraphs some sense of purpose or reason should actually become apparent,

I can best hope that it would be that loyalty and love and self-sacrifice triumphs

over betrayal and hatred and greed.

This Past That Created Me

Those who do not know, people who do not understand what it means to

live in the past, must live in their own little world, and have surely never

lived in the present.  Day to day, the only thing that really separates us

from last week is the setting of the sun so many times that we can refer

to it as the past, and that which separates us from the future is the sunrise

which we have yet to see.

Thirty-some years ago, I tried my hand at writing a novel.  I gave all of

my friends fake names and embellished their characters; some became

gods among their mortal companions, and I placed them all into a setting

somewhat removed from their usual environment and circumstance.  It

was only meant to be a test of the waters, but got completely out of hand.

What was meant to satisfy my yearning for a tale that I had yet to read

and digest, turned into an obsession that I could not put down.  In fact,

after having a good start of it, it became the most important thing to me,

and I took it with me everywhere, and through everything.  It went with

me from one of house to another, from a husband to a lover, and although

time did not stand still for the story, the story endured for decades.

Twenty years, from hesitant start to frustrated finish, as it threatened to

consume my life, I laboured over each line and chapter.  And then, with

encouragement borne of my friends who had found it irresistible and

delectable, I braved that path a bit too far, and actually sent out query

letters to agents near and far.  And as is usual, after so many rejections,

I locked it away in the Dungeon, supposedly never to see the light of day.

Another would-be author among all of the would-be authors of the world.

I was in good company, and ever after, when asked if I had ever written

anything, I could say, with some satisfaction, that I had written a book

once, but nobody dared to publish it.  And to all the raised eyebrows, I

just smiled, until one day, someone asked me why.  After all the usual

answers of ‘well, it’s not mainstream subject matter,’ and ‘it’s too long,’

and ‘I never got it edited, and it really needs editing, bad,’ that someone

said, ‘what are you waiting for?  To die, and leave it in your estate for

your relatives to make money?  Bring it to me, I’ll edit it.’

!!!!  I’m scared.  I’m nervous.  I’m hopeful.

Thirty years ago, I started out with pen and paper, and all of the books I

could find on ‘how to write the next best seller’ and ‘the elements of a

story’ and ‘characters and scenery’ and so on.  And after tormenting

myself over all the details and lessons of writing, I decided to just write

and tell a story that would be of interest, and worry about the proper

technicalities, later.  After hundreds of pages of long-hand scribbles and

scratches, I was able to afford a cheap computer.  Back then, operating

with a cheap program in DOS, you saved your files to 5.25 disc, and

while it served me well, it was far from ideal.  And then, one fateful day,

I went to the computer and turned it on, and the screen flashed once,

then nothing.  I had a virus.  The computer was locked up, and I was

stopped dead in my tracks… except that it was all still hand written on

paper.  And as the computer store worked on my computer, I continued

to write.

With a thoroughly cleaned computer, I started over, re-entering my story,

and printing it out on a newly found printer.  With another lover gone,

and my soul-mate finally found, my tale became a novel of great length

in another dwelling in another town.  Over nine hundred pages and two

decades later, I put to rest the story of a girl and her friends in a time that

had long since been forgotten and was of no interest except for the human

interaction and the mystery the characters had endured.  The endeavor I

had pursued was, at long last, accomplished.

There, the story ends, but for the fact that my book has been freed from

the Dungeon and has seen daylight, again.  The first ten chapters have

been delivered to my first editor, and I wonder now if it holds interest

enough to make the next ten chapters in demand.  In the meantime,

technology has grown in leaps and bounds since that first page was typed

on a keyboard and saved to 5.25 disc.  My story’s first format is obsolete

and I undertook the task of re-entering it on a modern computer in MS

Word.

As I type the names I gave my friends, and put their challenges in front

of them, I am reminded of how much each one of them shaped and molded

me into the person that I am.  Even now, I keep in touch with a few of them

that are still alive.  My first lover has passed away, dead and buried, but not

the memory of how much he contributed to the me of today.  Heroes are rare

and hard to find, and yet rarely recognize themselves as such.  It almost

always takes a nobody like me to point them out to the world.  While it is

difficult to point out a villain, they do exist and give purpose to those who

protect others.

We are all a product of our past, the incidents and accidents that affected us,

the friends and foes who influenced us, the people who sculpted us to their

purpose, and those we resisted for our own sake.  And pressed between the

hundreds of pages of the tale I told, like flowers saved in remembrance, my

friends call out to me, and I miss them dearly, and wish that they were here

to read what I have rote.

That Would Be Me

There is so little time and so many lessons in life to learn, and re-learn,

and learn yet again.  Sometimes I feel as though I have made no progress

at all, coming face-to-face with myself after turning a corner miles down

the road from where I last once was.  My moment of realization last week

was cause to make me tremble, my début upon the world after decades of

relative isolation and invisibility.  I turned loose a picture of myself, just

one, but a huge step forward for me.  The image is starting to become my

self image and I can see plumage of the creature that would be me.

I never thought myself an attractive child, but it didn’t matter because I

was raised in a family that accepted me; the ugly duckling nurtured by

glorious swans, I was convinced that I would grow into something and

eventually find my place in this world.  What that something was, I didn’t

worry about, as long as it was honourable, respectable, within my moral

compass.  Only that could not be compromised.

We lived out in the country, and went to a country grade school, and I was

so blessedly happy there.  But a few years in, they closed the school and

bussed us into town.  Naturally, we were different because we were from

the country and we were bullied and belittled, and it seemed that even the

teachers didn’t like us.  It is then that you learn that not all scars are on the

outside, and that which hurts cannot always be healed, and I felt more than

ever that I did not belong in the world outside my nest.

High school was one torment after another, and it is with wonder that I can

look back on days without end that I carried my broken heart from the bus

back into the world to which I was birthed and given a place to reside and

hide.  It was in that chaos and madness that I found a magical person who

would save me, not only from myself and an early demise, but from the

insanity that would threaten my creative nature and banish all hope that I

had purpose and was of value to the world.  It all sounds so dramatic, but

to the mind of a confused and lonely teenager who has no idea of how the

world and the people in it work, to awaken every day feeling unattractive

and unwanted, isolation and fragmentation is more than just physical…

and so is beauty.

It is a gigantic leap to get from where I was to where I went, and it did not

happen overnight, and yet, suddenly I was there, like the turning of a corner.

One day, I was crying my heart out with gut wrenching sobbing, begging

on my knees for my God to release me from this cruel and vicious world.

And in the space of incalculable time, I had constructed a protective wall

around the beautiful person I finally understood was inside me, a barrier

that only God could breach.  Understanding is in the knowledge that those

girls who called me names and said I was ugly were the ones who hid

behind made-up imitations of what they wanted the world to see and ran in

packs for security.  They identified themselves with the girls they hung out

with and had no identity of their own, and I was excluded because I knew

who I was, and I wasn’t one of them.  I didn’t fit in because I was special,

I had a specific purpose and a reason for being, and I would never be one

of the crowd.  And the boys who made fun of me, picked on and abused me

because I was different and wasn’t like all the other girls, those boys would

never measure up to the standard worthy of the person that would be me.

Over the years and throughout many transformations, the ugly duckling has

grown secure in the knowledge that there will come a day when I will be

recognized by those like me.  As time passes, I look back on the pictures

of me and I don’t know who that person was.  The camera cannot capture

the beauty I have inside; only the shell I was given to protect me.  In the

perspective of hindsight, I can see where I could have been lead astray to

make my dreams come true, if only I had been given the outward beauty

that so many of my classmates were born with.  I tremble to think what I

would have compromised and the direction I could have taken had I had

beauty in my arsenal, and it is with pity that I look at some of those same

people who tormented me and realize the unhappiness with which they now

live, lives gone wrong, ethics and principles unworthy.  Mine was the road

less traveled because of how I looked, and it has made all the difference.

A few days ago, while out with my sister, there was a girl at a high school

event, crossing the street, alone.   My sister remarked that the girl was “a

most unfortunate child,” and when I looked at her, I saw my self of forty

years ago.  A plain, non-descript, if not unattractive creature she was, and

yet, something in her carriage spoke beyond the ugly duckling shell she

had been given.  I could tell that there was already so much more to that

duckling than the world could see, and I smiled that she appeared to have

already become the creation she was meant to be.  I suppose we all grow

into our plumage at various stages in life, and I always figured that at the

rate I was going, I could eventually brag of being the best looking little,

old lady in the nursing home, but I may beat that schedule by a few years.

As far as beauty goes, skin is shallow, and attitude and personality are the

deep wells from which God’s beautiful people spring.  Thoughtfulness and

compassion are the graces by which God leads.  Ethics and integrity are

what choose our path.  Loyalty and truth divine our ultimate goal.  And the

scars earned from the battles in life add character and knowledge to those

creations who lack man’s pretty appearances.  There was a time when I

wondered if God knew what lay in store for me due to the way I looked to

the rest of the world, if God had any idea how much I would be harassed

and belittled by my own kind, if God even considered how unfair life was

for me.  Now, I am aware of how fortunate I was to have been chosen to

be different, to have been tested and strengthened, and to realize that I am

special to the world, and I am blessed to be the person that would be me.

Bumps In The Night

The wind blows or a mouse stirs, and the shutter that bangs against

the house or the Jello package that teeters from a shelf in the pantry

becomes the monster in the closet.  You turn over in your sleep and

the bedding becomes the spider’s web across your face, the pillow

is the wall that blocks your escape from the nightmare.  And you are

trapped as the wind gusts or the mouse skitters around, or that silky

jacket that was haphazardly tossed on the arm of a chair succumbs

to gravity’s pull and slides to the floor making a sound similar to a

knife slipping from a sheath or a sword being loosed for carnage.

It is the dreams that cause you to spring from your sleep, with heart

pounding and sweat upon the flesh, your mind still racing from the

chase of unimagined demons through a landscape that you fail to

recognize.  They are seed of the next great horror, chair-gripping

terror from the latest creator of mind-boggling, imagined panic, and

yet, they seemed so real, and you resolve to stay awake until all is

normal again in the safe little world in which you live, awake.

You sit and wonder where came that dream and why you chanced

to dream it.  On the surface, it makes no sense to your well ordered

life and doesn’t fit in the strictly structured schedule of daily events.

And so, you reject it as complete nonsense, and yet, the pounding

within your chest still has not abated.  Puzzlement soon turns into

curiosity, and examination is urgently applied, generally, at first,

and then in more detail, in search of that which would connect the

dream to you.  To have caused such a reaction, surely there must

have been a connection.  If not obviously, then one minute detail.

When you entered the dream, you might have been sitting next to a

relative, sharing some popcorn, watching a show.  Came a sound,

the clap of thunder, perhaps, startling, unnervingly close.  You both

rise to look out the window.  You separate, you go to get a flashlight,

your relative to get a candle, and as you come back to the room, the

mouse scampers across the floor, his toenails gripping the hard wood

flooring in a sound similar to a bolt of lightning burning its way to

the rooftop.  The shutter bangs again, the thunder cracks, the mouse

turns the corner, the electricity fails and the TV goes off with a sizzle.

All in darkness, you grip the flashlight for security as a movement

across the room catches your attention.

You call out to your relative, expecting the calming assurance of their

response, but the dream does not play to your pleasure.  You turn on

the flashlight and shine it at the person across the room, only to find

yourself face to face with someone you do not know, someone you

have never known, someone you believe is the monster from the

closet.  You turn and run, perhaps dropping the flashlight, because

there is no use for it, anymore.  Somewhere along your flight path,

you are joined by a sibling or a friend, but in your panic, you don’t

question from whence they came, registering only that you both

must escape, together.  The monster nears and you spring ahead,

but hesitate to leave your slower companion behind.  Pleading with

them to hurry, you turn and reach back to help them along the way,

but your companion has mysteriously disappeared, and the monster

is in their place.

You shriek and the sound carries from your dream to the real world

and awakens you to a state of panic you could not have imagined.

With the storm still raging outside, you dare to check every dark and

shadowy corner of your room.  The monster, there was a monster,

where is the monster, now?  Even better, yet, who was the monster?

Could it have been the relative who sat watching the show, sharing

the popcorn with you?  Could it have been a relative who betrayed

your trust, and so, is symbolized as a monster in your dreams?  And

did your companion join in your flight because they, too, had been

a victim?  Or had your companion become the monster, too, because

you felt they, also, had betrayed you in the end?

Of all the mysteries in the world, perhaps the dreams are the most

perplexing, due in part that they are ever present and inescapable,

and that the nature of the message is in the form of rhyme and riddle.

For who can close their eyes and enter the land of sleep without risk

of dreaming, nightmares notwithstanding, then voice reason to the

unfamiliar puzzles that we are shown?  And who can say that dreams

are just the creative side of the mind turned loose in the maze of

sleepland or stress reflections of life as it affects us, or perhaps the

explanation of events what reasons eluded us at the moments they

happened?  For all their bother, dreams and nightmares exist, as do

all other things, for a reason, though possibly unknown to us.  But

the bumps in the night and the monster in the closet are real, if not

disguised, the things or people from which no one is safe, and are

the constant reminders that evil exists and we need be ever vigilant.

Then again, there are those who make a very good living on all that

sends goose bumps over the arms and chills up the spine.  Perhaps, I

should keep a diary and cash in on my sleeping terrors, write it all

down upon waking, before the plot evaporates with the sweat on my

flesh, while the pounding of my heart is still keeping pace with the

hurried footsteps in the dark.  And those who pay to read or see that

which I dread to dream would be most welcome to pay me.

Re-Visiting A Lesson Not Learned

15 years ago, my soul mate wanted to know that I would find someone

else if something should ever happen to him.  At the time, I thought I

had given it serious consideration and replied that I was human and

naturally, being so, I would probably, eventually, seek out someone

with which to share my life.  Being human, it seemed like a reasonable

answer.  Being human, however, is not so easy, after all.

As it happened, when the love of my life suddenly died and left me so

utterly alone, and left my world so utterly fragmented, the last thing I

wanted was someone else in my life.  It seems strange that we search

and seek out someone with whom to share our trust, body, mind, and

soul, entirely, thinking to live happily ever there after, only to feel so

betrayed by the whole universe when they die.

After entwining my life and world with his, it seemed an impossible

task to even find firm footing in this world, again, much less gather

the whole me unto myself and desire the company of anyone else.

So life goes on, the weeks and months turning into years of finding

out who I was without him by my side, in my life.  With the disaster-

struck existence of us behind me, the dissolving of all the dreams we

had pooled before me, an ocean of which I had no way of crossing.

And trapped right in between was my shattered and bleeding heart.

It is a place no one would ever willingly go again.

Pardon me while I re-visit a moment in my dungeon and share with

you a terrifying event of the past few days.  Three days ago, a friend

called and blurted out that my boyfriend had suffered a heart attack

and died that morning.  This is not something someone with brains

would do to someone who has already suffered a heart attack.  And

might I say, at that moment, there was an icy lightning stab that struck

my heart, right before said friend corrected herself and the name of the

person who died, and made the excuse that she always gets the two of

them confused.

I will never forget the moment of sheer panic that nearly knocked me

to my knees as I ran for the phone that day so long ago.  When absolute

terror struck, it was as though I had been struck by lightning, but not hot.

Cold, an icy cold that ravaged my soul and split my being, as though in

his passing, he had taken with him each and every piece of me that I had

given him.  And there I stood, momentarily paralyzed, the blood gone

from my head, and shot through with holes, trying to gasp a breath.

Some time later, I called my boyfriend and told him about her call, to

which he responded that he, too, someday, would die.  Now, I suppose

this is all too true, but it is not something which I am prepared to face,

today, or any time soon.  In fact, I had determined that I would never

go through that again, not after the earlier ordeal.  I had determined to

keep myself safe from any such occurrence, and how I came to be in

this place at this time, under these circumstances, is totally beyond me.

I swore I would never again give my heart to another and become so

attached to someone as to permit myself to be hurt, again.  One lesson,

learned, and never again.  So, what happened?

I remember him coming into my world and loitering around the edges.

Next thing I knew we were talking, then he was flirting, and I was…,

well, I was flattered,… and intrigued that he was interested in me.  And

he kept coming back, night after night.  Then, I invited him to dinner.

Oh, duh!  Why did I do that?  I should not have done that.  But at the

time, it seemed harmless.  He seemed lonely, as lonely as I, and what

harm could there be in two lonely people spending time together and

sharing their company?

That’s how it happens, isn’t it?  And it all seems so human as to be quite

natural, the making of one out of two.  Then, it takes you by surprise

when mortality yawns its ugly head, and God makes you one, again.

As you can tell, I’m having a bit of difficulty with this lesson.  I know

that it is not a lesson to teach me to stay alone, and yet, that is what I

determined to do to handle avoiding the pain.  And I know that it is not

a lesson to teach me that there will be times to let go in life, of life,

because that is the way of life.  Eventually, there is always an end.

Perhaps it is a lesson that teaches the handling of the pain of loss, the

ache of separation, the manner of grief.  Of these things, I am familiar,

but admittedly, I fail in the managing of the handling.  I am a passionate

creature, and my feelings run deep, and instead of accepting that I, too,

will die someday, I prefer to think that someday I will be taken from

those who love me, kicking and fighting, and screaming out loudly that

I have yet something more to do before my time is through.

Then, again, perhaps it is just a lesson to teach me how it feels, so that

when others have lost a loved one, I’ll know how they feel.

"Welcome!" From The Dark and Dampy Dungeon

January 31, 2011.  It is the 3-year anniversary of my first heart attack.

I say “my first” because most of my relatives are known to have many.

Now I, too, will have more than one, and then, I will be no more.

It is with that in mind that I unlock the Dark and Dampy Dungeon

and share my strange and unique thoughts and view of things.

I was once asked what “From The Dark and Dampy Dungeon” was,

and why I used such a depressing and off-putting tag as my signature.

I hesitated to answer and explain because anyone who knows about

a dungeon and has one, also knows that anyone who doesn’t would

never understand.  I turned from the question without comment, then,

but I have since realized that dungeons are more plentiful and more

misunderstood even by those who have one than I originally thought.

Many don’t remember the Boogie Man and all the things that go bump

in the night, those imagined evils that really existed and caused pain

and misery and terror in our sleep, everything that degraded or belittled

us, and every awkward moment or unfortunate incident that ever made

us think that we didn’t belong in the world into which we were cast.

It is a dedicated decision to remember or forget a moment of despair

and such hopelessness that can make one wish to curl up and die.

Some push such moments to the very depths of their minds to forget,

an event survived and best never revisited because of its hazard,

and because there was never really any way with which to manage it.

I know of these things because I do remember.  I choose to remember.

There are no dark corners in my mind in which to store my torments.

I prefer to have them accessible and easily retrievable for future use,

because I believe that everything experienced is a lesson to be learned,

and any lesson unlearned will be taught again and again.  And so,

there is a place where these lessons exist, where tears never dry, and

agony and sorrow that left open wounds in my heart are tended by

cautious attention and constant care until they can be managed, and

the solution to the lesson is realized and heals each wound to a scar. 

The place is known as a dungeon, and my dungeon has a name:

From The Dark and Dampy Dungeon