Unless he went made it through today. Found the strength from somewhere. Put aside his pain.
The trauma his son had suffered had not been at his hands. Logically there was no responsibility for it on his shoulders.
Logic was a weak fence against raw emotion. Emotion that told him that he had failed as a father, that the protection he was supposed to give had been lacking, just that once.
Nobody agreed with him.
That made no difference.
So, he would not compound failure with failure. This was his last chance. He would take it.
He had tried all other avenues. Therapy, prayer, medication. Nothing worked, Yet what it had done was show him the way. It had made clear the path he needed to tread.
So he took a deep breath and rose from his seat. He nodded to the doctor signalling his readiness. The doctor frowned but kept his piece. He opened the door and let him enter his son’s room.
The room was sparse, clinical. His son lay curled on top of the bedsheets, motionless. Awake but unresponsive. He did not look up or acknowledge his father’s entrance.
There was a small bedside table to the left of the bed on which sat a plastic beaker of water. The bed was positioned by the window. Sunlight tried to make an impression on the coldness of the room but failed. The only other furniture was a white chest of drawers and some empty white bookshelves.
Then there were the books.
The books, many many books, that should have rested on the shelves or strewn on the floor. An impressive collection for one so young.
They hung impossibly in the air.
He sighed. He knew what came next. It had all become familiar to him. This time though he did not avoid it. He did not flinch or try to defend himself. This time he smiled at his son.
The books flew at him. As if thrown by immense strength and anger. The hard spines whacked into his flesh like dull nails. Again and again and again. Raining pain upon his body. The books that hit him fell to the ground limply, twitched like dying flies, then were suddenly whisked up and flung again.
There was no let-up.
He could feel his body being pummelled into a bloody bruised mess. But he took it. Stood calmly, raised his arms towards his son and kept smiling. Gave all he had left to him – gave him his unconditional love. Took the punishment not meant for him.
The books whirled faster as the rage grew. Like a tornado of leather and card, they descended on him, pounded him. The pain passed over what was bearable to no longer being processable – so he no longer felt it. He knew he would not last much longer – if this continued his body would fail him. Darkness crept inwards along the edges of his eyes. He kept smiling, locked his legs and stood, arms out.
The whirl became a darkness that was trying to beat his flesh from his bones. He felt like the bones themselves were splintering beneath.
Then it stopped.
Suddenly all the books fell to the floor. Sunlight sprang into the room as if a lock had burst.
His son looked up and held out his arms for his father.
Always descending, never ascending. Moving downwards, moving down. I can’t get used to this feeling Moving downwards, moving down. Is it really like this? What are we doing? Do we really want this? Is this the thing to be? The chains that pull the valves and the levers, That drive the steam through pipes of dreams.
Dream worlds falling, morning calling, Pull the chains on, shoulder the yoke. Down to business. Down to labour. Moving downwards, moving down. I don’t like this, what am I doing? I don’t really want this, what is to be? Enter the shaft that takes us downwards. The light is dimming as our dreams descend
Keep them on the verge Of being panicked Keep them unsure And afraid Whip them into a frenzy Then collect the coin they make Prod them where you need them to go
I am not one for biographies myself – I only read this one due to the fact that he was featured in one of my favourite old time Science Fiction series – the Riverworld books by Philip Jose Farmer. A series where every single person who ever lived is resurrected on one world all at once – just a fantastic premise in itself.
Farmer uses Burton as the main character of the first book (and others later on.) He writes him with such passion and paints him in such an interesting way that you can’t help but find out more about him.
So I delved into this biography. Farmer had only painted a small part of his life!
Sir Richard Francis Burton, in reality, was – complicated.
He was a man of extremes. In many ways, he was extremely admirable. On other extremely reprehensible! Unforgivably so.
He achieved more in his lifetime than many of us could on six, seven, eight lifetimes! But is beliefs were bigoted and selfish, to say the least.
For example:
He was an avid supporter of slavery! He believed women’s places were in the home or the bed! He was vehemently anti-semitic and wrote several books that still cause controversy today!
You could argue he was a product of his time but he was an intelligent man and there were plenty of contemporaries who were seeing past the constraints of their society and challenging the established views.
He was a womaniser – had affairs, frequented brothels. He was a brawler – fought at the drop of a hat earning him the nickname Ruffian Dick. He disregarded authority of all kinds and went his own way, expelled from University and often AWOL from his army career.
However:
On the flip side.
He was one of the foremost fencers of the time inventing some new moves.
He was a masterful linguist – he was fluent in 24 languages – and in many of the different dialects of them. So much so he could pass himself off as a local in many places. He learnt much of it from prostitutes!
He was a master of disguise – not just in the fact he could dress up, makeup and talk like the locals. But that he understood them, he took the time to know their customs and etiquette, the foibles without which he would have been betrayed as an outsider. He immersed himself in their culture.
He made seven pilgrimages in his life. Studying and being accepted into various religions – understanding their teachings while not believing any of them.
He was the epitome of an explorer, making dangerous journey in strange lands, suffering illness and injury, going back for more and pressing on.
He explored and brought to light the many sexual practices from around the world. He brought much middle eastern and eastern culture to our consciousness. He brought us translations of the Thousand and One Nights, the Karma Sutra and the Perfumed Garden.
So as I said, complicated.
It brings up a problem we often have with heroes. We want them to be perfect. We want all those good qualities without the bad. But life is not like that – people are not like that.
We kind of know that – we try and accommodate it. Modern day fictional heroes have their flaws, they are dark and brooding and have emotional baggage. But nothing we can’t handle – nothing really reprehensible.
So it got me thinking. I have a real problem with Sir Richard Francis Burton. I admire what he achieved. I dislike what he was as a person. I certainly would not like not have known him personally.
And I see a reflection of modern men in this dilemma. I have written here about how men (and everyone in fact) are demonised in modern media. On the other side, we are brought up with a set of ideals about what a man should be what we should strive to be.
We end up with conflicting views – an ideal – heroic man to strive for, and the wretch the world tells us we are.
The conflict I feel when thinking about Richard Francis Burton is the conflict we feel about modern men – he is a kind of reflection of us.
We should, I think – start to accept our flaws more, try to improve and eliminate them, yes, but give ourselves a break. They are a part of us, a part of our nature. Nobody is perfect – natures abhors perfection as much as a vacuum. Perfection does not exist so let’s stop trying to achieve it.
We are blind to the truth Everyday Suffering goes on And we deny it all Unable to find a way Through the maze of our modern lives To a place where we can be ourselves And hold out that hand that helps our neighbour
Instead we clench our hand in a tight fist Holding tight onto what we have gained Not seeing what we are losing What slips away from our grasp Diminishing our souls Focused on our goals With such passion That we are simply Blind
We have handed over our passport Battered down the hatches In a siege of our own designing Some feeling smug justification Others wondering if they should have done more All responsible All of us Remember this Huddled behind our walls When the hunger strikes
Fortune favours the bold Risk equals success People stop seeing risk And hand over their cash Their time Their labour Their lives The minority shine The majority are mesmerised While they fall
When I was just sixteen
I wanted to change the world
Bring peace, fix all the problems
By twenty one I knew that was not to be
Instead, I would leave a legacy
Something by which the future would remember me
By thirty, the world was down and dirty
I was fighting for my place
By forty I was planning for those to come
By fifty I was fearing the legacy we were leaving
Now
I only crave peace
Run up and down the scales
Patience they say is the key
To be a master of music
Run up and down the scales
Run up and down the scales
Repetition and I don’t agree
It’s just not how I learn
Run up and down the scales
Run up and down the scales
I like to hop, skip and soar
Produce something bad and improve
Run up and down the scales
Run up and down the scales
It’s still not a tune
Not even pleasant to the ear
Run up and down the scales
Run up and down the scales
When will my guitar gently weep?
When will the crowd cry for more!
Run up and down the scales
Run up and down the scales
I think you are getting my point
Patience. Patience is the key.
Run up and…. sod this! It’s brain surgery for me.
Vacillate, hesitate
That would be me
In a crisis
I know
But I would not be alone
We should be thankful
For the impetuous
In a crisis
In these days
They are a pain
Channel migrants: Thirty rescued as man dies off French coast.
He was running from fear From death itself But Died alone and cold In the sea Because we did not want him We wanted to be left To dine in peace On our cheese and wine
I cannot believe this! If anyone were to stop them, this mob of hungry hunters raging through the forest, then nobody would believe the explanation.
The people of the village, the county planners, the farmers, the surveyors, the members of the RSPB, all are hunting in the night. They are hunting the Green Wizard.
What will they do when they catch him? The question fills me with fear.
What will he do?
I feel responsible. It was my decision. I weighed up all the considerations and reached the verdict.
Whatever choice I made would be opposed. The conservationists urged me to leave the forest alone. Those who favoured progress wanted the forest managed and great tracts of it grubbed out for profit.
I should be used to this. I was brought up in the country and we learned to live with threats.
And I had made this kind of decision for years now. I was used to angry crowds. How could they know that I felt their anger and pain? I always found the best compromise.
Unfortunately, this often hurt the countryside.
What had gone wrong this time?
The Green Wizard, that was what. Ever since I set eyes on him I have sailed seas of madness and now dragged the entire community with me.
Last night I saw him. I was wandering in the evening light near the edges of the forest trying to make my decision. I wasn’t sure that this old forest would benefit or even survive having its heart grubbed out. But the village that nestled twinkling below the forest needed fresh hope. The industry this would bring might make a crucial difference.
Then I saw it! A green light bobbing between the trees. At first, I thought it was a firework for it had that bright magical quality. It was an artificial green like the glass baubles of a Christmas tree. It drew my heart towards it.
I walked in, my fear disappearing as I entered the solace and safety of the trees.
Darkness fell completely as the sun sank but the green light bobbed before me and led the way.
It must be a willow-the-wisp I half told myself but its beauty was far too potent to resist.
I came to a clearing and then I saw that the light was a flame flickering on top of a staff held by an old man. He was dressed in a green robe that shone as bright as the flame, with the same entrancing shade. He looked the way that all wizards look in storybooks. Wide-brimmed, pointed hat, long beard.
Only his beard was green. He was the Green Wizard.
He beckoned me towards him but when I got a few feet he held up his hand and I felt a force block me. I felt the full potential of his strength in that strange touch. He could have crushed me with a thought.
“The forest must not die.”
His voice was deep and strong, trusty as oak and full of command!
I nodded.
“There is life here,” he went on, “that is beyond the comprehension of your people. It is vital to the power of the earth in ways you cannot understand. It will not lie idle any longer. If you threaten, it will react.”
“Who are you?” my voice a scared noise in the sudden immensity and darkness of this forest.
“I am the life of this forest! I am the power of the earth!”
I nodded again.
“An agreement is reached!” he boomed. “If you break your bond your life will be forfeit.”
Suddenly something moved in the leaves. I whirled around and a fox bolted across the clearing. All around the clearing the bushes suddenly rustled and shook with life. I spun trying to see what made the noises. There was nothing.
It stopped. The only sound was my panting breath.
It was dark. The Green Wizard was gone.
I thought I had imagined him but I saw a flicker of green, like a warning, away in the trees.
I knew then what I had to do. I had made a bargain. My life was forfeit if I did not make the right decision now.
All my doubts of mad hallucinations disappeared then. The Green Wizard was real.
The next day those concerned gathered at the village hall and listened to my decision. It went badly. Not surprising.
I had some support. The conservationists were pleased with the verdict. Their precious forest would be left to its natural state.
But most of those gathered were businessmen and farmers whose livelihoods were at stake. They were not going to let some upstart in a suit take that away.
I lost my nerve. I couldn’t meet their arguments. Every reason I put forward for the conservation of the forest they pulled to pieces. I cursed the Green Wizard for abandoning me to this. Where was he now that I was fighting his battle?
Finally, I had nothing left. I declared that the forest would be saved. They would not relent. They wanted to know why I had made this decision when I had no argument to support it. They pushed and pushed me until I could stand it no longer.
I told them about the Green Wizard. I warned them of the danger.
The whole hall was silenced. Even my supporters looked at me, trying to fathom out the madness that appeared to have seized me.
Finally one of the farmers said it.
“He’s mad! Or on drugs!”
I bowed my head. Where was this going to lead?
“This is a farce!” said another voice but then everyone suddenly gasped and fell silent again.
I looked up.
There hovering in front of me was a small globe of bright green light!
I stared at it. What did it mean? It was obviously from the Wizard. It was his shade of green, vivid, unforgettable, alluring and dangerous like something was burning that should never have been set alight.
“Is this some sort of gimmick!?” said one of the farmers.
The globe of light rushed straight at him and knocked him off his feet in a shower of sparks. Then it stayed where it was, where it had hit him.
The farmer slid back across the floor and hit his head against the far wall with a crack. Blood flowed immediately. People rushed to his aid. Others turned to me.
“If he’s dead you had better pray that the police get here quick before we’re finished with you!”
They all suddenly looked ugly. I feared for my life and wondered if this is what the green Wizard had meant. Had I failed some kind of test? Had I been chosen to champion the forest and failed?
“Look!” A young girl was standing by the window pointing up to the forest. People stared out and piled from the hall. I followed.
There, high on the hill, the whole forest was alight from within with the strange green glow.
“It’s the Green Wizard,” I said.
“More likely some new age travellers who don’t want their peace disturbed by the idea of having to pay their way like the rest of us.”
At that point, the green globe suddenly shot out of the window, through the glass without breaking it. At impossible speed, it shot into the heart of the forest.
By now people were muttering things about ghosts and UFO’s but the main core of farmers and businessmen were having none of it. They decided to go and find out for themselves.
I followed the frenzied crowd that raced up the hill to the entrance of the forest. I felt drawn, whether by them or the forest I don’t know.
At the entrance stood the Wizard. Tall and menacing but only I had felt the touch of his power.
“Do not touch this forest,” he said but he sounded somehow weary.
“Who the hell are you?” someone called out.
“He’s the Green Wizard,” I replied feebly but was ignored.
“You can’t tell us what to do with our forest!” someone else yelled at the figure.
“We don’t need freaks like you dossing on our land.”
“If you want to remove me then you will have to catch me!” he sneered. With that, he turned and disappeared quickly into the trees. The flame of his staff was still visible.
With a yell the villagers set after him. they became a pack of hungry wolves after their prey. Their eyes burned with fury.
I yelled after them, warning them not to go. They did not listen. Helpless I followed in their wake.
They crashed through the trees and the undergrowth picking up sticks and waving them as they went.
And even now as I follow them I find it hard to believe.
I fear the outcome of this but I am not sure who I fear for most. This horde is wild and out of control. If they catch him I would not be surprised if they tore him limb from limb with their bare hands.
But I have felt the power of the Green Wizard.
Suddenly we are before him. There he stands. Like an old man, weary with the chase, leaning on his staff in the middle of the clearing.
The mob grab him. Their fury somewhat dampened by his appearance but not quenched. They bind him. The rope is tight around his arms but he does not struggle. As the villagers dance around him like demented witches he holds my gaze with an accusing stare.
The dancing goes on and on like a frenzy but slowly people drop. They sit and lie on the ground, tired by the night’s activity. Despite the Wizard’s relentless stare I too sink to the ground. Around me, people are falling asleep and I find I cannot resist the need to join them.
I awake to find myself choking. Something has hold of my throat and is strangling me. I can’t breathe.
All around me are bodies. All held by tree roots or thorny vines! Some struggle feebly for others it is too late. Many are being dragged into the earth by the irresistible power of trees.
The Green Wizard stands watching the process with a blank expression. His ropes lay on the ground, snapped and frayed.
He turns his back on me, not even deigning to notice my dying breath.
What ifs hang on Like poisoned barbs Even in the face of reality All reason tells you Let them go Rip them from the flesh Yet deep they go Sharp their points Beyond the anaesthetic Of mere words So rise up From the river Of doubt Rip that flesh and bleed Step on the shore of tomorrow Healing first needs hurt
I miss you
My favourite
Those times
Oh, those times we spent!
In the twilight hours
The world between worlds
When the world beyond
Was no more
No more cares
No more worries
Now
My life is one long slog
One long fight
Back to find
My favourite
Peace and Quiet
She came out of the store just in time to see her young son playing on the sidewalk directly in the path of the gray, gaunt man who strode down the centre of the walk like a mechanical derelict.
The boy looked up at her once the man had passed, saw the fear, the hatred in her eyes.
“What’s up? What is the danger?”
She looked troubled by his questions, as if he had stirred something in her she did not wish to confront.
He seemed to be seeing this a lot lately.
“He is a leper,” she answered curtly.
“And that makes him dangerous?” the boy asked. She stared at him as if wondering where his curiosity was coming from. And well she might.
That was not important to him now, he wanted answers. The time had come for them.
“You might get it, I don’t want anything to hurt you.”
“So why is no one helping him?”
She shrugged,
“I don’t think anyone can. It’s not curable.”
“So why is he allowed to wander around?”
“I don’t know,” she snapped.
“But why do you hate him so much?”
“Because he could hurt you! You might get it!”
“Wouldn’t it be better the try to help him rather than hate him?”
“Look it’s too complicated for you to understand! I am not a doctor!”
“But you know doctors?” he frowned.
“Look that’s enough young man – let’s get you home and get you a bath.”
The boy frowned. She would not be drawn any further.
He was quiet on the way home. He had come to a conclusion. The mother he had chosen was not adequate – not in respect to answering his questions. Well, there was nothing he could do about that now. That decision was made.
But he could direct his questions elsewhere. He was going to be forced to. If he didn’t get any better answers soon it was not going to bode well for the human race.
The first line is from my favourite book “Lord Fouls Bane” by Stephen R Donaldson, the first part of The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant.
A little explanation need for this one. The quote I always come back to is one from Frank Herbert’s Dune.
The only constant is change
I come back to this when times are tough, to remind me – nothing is forever. Even the hard times will end. But also to keep perspective – I always try and think – will I care about what I am worrying about in 10 years time. If not – it’s not worth the stress now! (I know that’s easier said than done.)
With that quote in mind here is a quick Haiku inspired by it.
Even the mountains
Are impermanent giants
The wise realise
The world clashes with me Or I with it Its movie reel passes before me And I watch Observe But I am not of it Occasionally It brushes me Pricks me Interrupts my view My observations And the things I should enjoy I don’t Until I can observe them Again one day My moments pass Slipping I can never seem To be in them
So last year I had a plan. To not post anything new on my website. I figured that by posting all my new work I was then eliminating that work from competitions etc.
So the plan was, keep the site going by reposting old stuff, while waiting new stuff in the background.
Well, that didn’t really work. I did the posting, but very little writing in the background. I did a few poems and a few short stories but nowhere near as much as I wanted.
So what to do?
I need a kick up the proverbial butt. So I have decided to try another daily post challenge. I did one years ago, a poem a day challenge. This time I will try and do a post a day for a year based on this document. I may diverge from the suggestions but they will be the spring board.
To address my concern about eliminating myself from markets I will actually do two. One I will publish the other I will keep private.
I will also make each prompt a post that people can link back to if they want to join in.
I will also still post old posts. Let’s see how it goes.
Dark, thick between the trees
No light shines off
The dull black armour
Of the horseman as he rides
Slow through the forest of dreams.
Pale the winding path The black knight follows His weary steed plods steadfast As its burden heavy grows Head hung low
This quest was not the glory
He dreamed of in his youth
Like the birds that flew this morning
On dreams that seemed to be
A promise of life and growth
He followed the flighty birds
As they danced upon his dreams
Into this tree locked realm
And the winding path so thin
They drew him deeper in
And the vines of need reached out
With curled dependency
Wrapped around his limbs, his heart
Sinking deep their thorns
The pain shook him from his dreams
To the vines, he must cling To keep his dreams at bay Though they drag him deeper down And hamper his faltering way They are a part of him
He no longer sees the birds
Riding on his dreams
Now he knows the awful truth
That only dragons truly fly
The dragons he should slay
He could unsheath his sword These vines to cut Roar fire and leap to the sky Instead, he forges onward To endure until he dies
What’s inside Distorts and shapes The exterior All those dreams and hopes Hates and fears That make up the interior The moiling Boiling Packed and stacked Stretched and tense Earnest pretence That inside us all Makes us all What we are Rather than what We wish
The humdrum conundrum Of life rumbles on The pounding of A thousand thoughts The tension Between the chains Of convention And the delicious Whips of vice Dreaming ends Life rumbles on On on The beat of the master’s drum
Seafarer wandering over the waves
Fine hair glistening with rime
Roaming and riding forgetful tides
Living away from life
But living
True
A man
Wandering
Along forgotten paths
Following the ancient ways
Expanding his mind in ancient ways
Speaking to the earth and the animal guides
Silent ghosts that leave his heart silent and unanswered
Leather like tanned skin, wrinkled with experience of a life lived hard and loved harder, dedicated waning in strength and yet filled with fire and
sand
It sits right down Sits all the way down Then flies above the clouds Soars high above the clouds And I I can’t get there Can’t weave that Magic weave
The harmony of the heart The harmony of dreams and thought With the making in the world The making of the day I crave Crave that path Sweet blue path Of blues bars
I am Herne the Hunter, Lord of the Trees, and you are a leaf blown on the breeze. Echoes and whispers inside your head, set you on the path you were destined to tread.
Head of a wolf, eye of a hawk, in the forest, the hooded man shall walk. A man of balance not of gold, Is it demon or god to whom you are sold ?
So string the bow and take up the sword, Do my bidding and carry my word. For you are my son Robin in the Hood. You are the king of all Sherwood.
In a crumbling house, we gathered, sat around the ancient fire. Logs burnt slow in the hearth, warmed our expectant hearts. Firelight flickered in the darkening eve, We gathered around the elders. sat in large and comfy chairs. Red light upon our faces. We heard of times gone by, and smelt the burning wood. The shadows held safe the past, we gathered them in our hearts. We looked back upon times gone, held hands and were content. Drinking from the cup of seers, our fears eased, to sleep we went.
Upon the train, I sat, late for work again. Another day another dollar, Tomorrow the same again. But that’s the base on which I build, The foundation for my fun. Work hard, get paid. Play fast, get laid. Tomorrow is another day. So head down, concentrate. Don’t stop, can’t be late. Avoid, the crunch. Let’s do brunch. Work hard, make a dime! Night time, spend a dime. Money opens up the door. More, more, more, more!
Future goals. Way ahead. Sights set far. Future goals. Sacrifice. For future goals. Save. Energy. Spend nothing now. For future goals. Look ahead. Way ahead. Suffer now. For future goals. Work. Don’t play. Rest later. Not today. Save it all. For future goals. For future goals. Sell your souls. Don’t look back. Only ahead. Don’t think today. Think ahead. See the prize. Of future goals. Don’t listen to, the bell that tolls. For future goals.
I anticipate The dissipation Of the all The scattering Of goals The rise of dreams To ride Upon the mists To be blown Upon the winds To reside In clouds And hide In trees To sleep In earth Drink water Sup sunlight Weep rain And sigh
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Scott Andrew Bailey - Author 