free thinkers

We are the free thinkers of the yesterworld. No one knows of us because they can’t see us. In this world we exist with the rest of you. Because of the belligerence of the powers that be you have been cast into shadows and mistaken it for reality. We do not condemn you, we have come to help. Our world was once like yours. It was dark and confused. It was a place that was completely artificial and almost everyone failed to take note of what was, or worse, what wasn’t.
It was then that the great intelligences came together in secret counsel. The great intelligences were not as the engineers and economists of your world. In fact they were hardly recognized because they had been forgotten. They were the gods that had created our existence. They spoke of what had become of the world over which they were stewards. It had become as your world is: blind, afraid, oppressed, but not completely devoid of hope. But caused by the fears and terror which drove the masses the world itself became a frightening place. Dark clouds cloaked the sun all hours of the day. Trees, withered and leafless, loomed eerily against the dark backdrop of the veiled horizon. The ground was not of soil or earth as it is here in your world. It was replaced by something made of men, something solid and uniform, dry and lifeless.
And then the gods spoke of a few men; a few men who had not been fooled by the world, by its lies, by its threats, nor by its vanity. The gods knew their hearts and that they could see differently, but why they understood not. The gods were puzzled as to what these few could see and that no others would in that same fashion. They looked through their eyes as only gods can do. They were startled that the world through their eyes was nothing like the world that even they could see. The gods saw the same world that everyone else saw. These few men had a different vision. They saw the world as they wanted it to be, for everything was lush and beautiful, even the sky was blue. This is what puzzled the gods.
“They are fooled by the unreal imaginations of their childhood fantasies!” cried one of the gods. Another muttered below his breath, “Do away with these miserable dreamers! They are not helping us.”
But one of the gods stood up, walked before the counsel and scowled down upon the others, “You are all gods with many gifts yet even you do not see! Look! Who are the miserable? Who are the dreamers? They are not one in the same, but they are two. These few men, have you not recounted, always smile. They always offer aide to those that stand in need of it! Who are you to cast them out? Whether they be dreamers or not, they are bringing more to their world than any of you are bringing to this counsel. They have no fault. Our concern is the world of unhappy souls. They are misled here and there, disappointed and mistreated, and you, the gods of their world have not given them the sustenance required to survive it. And now, you would cast out the very beings that could restore all hope to them?
“This world does not have much time before the end.” Then there was silence. He had spoken his mind and called the error as it was before him. The silence continued for a time until the thoughts were completely absorbed by all and all had meditated upon them.
“He is right. I see it now,” stated one of the gods. “These few are to be our resources.”
“Yes, it is true. It is also true that we must try to restore hope among men. Hope for a brighter day. For so many believe in the gloom that their own world has become as they feel! It has even blinded us! It is terrible. We must correct this at once,” said another.
The passion of the message began to burn amongst all the gods in the counsel. They put their minds to work. Once all had agreed that these few were in fact the solution they decided to bring the few before them, also in secret. They were to be the hope of humanity in our world. The would be called the ‘free thinkers.’

emma 1

When the sun rose that morning Emma stepped out onto the creaky, wood porch of their mining camp home. The air was crisp and cold, clear and the sky was glowing of fire. She stood there long enough to acknowledge that that day would be the first of many alone. He was gone, burried the day before, slain by brigands and their rounds. She had cried herself to sleep, having not the desire to cover herself in the cooling night, nor the strength to light the fireplace wood. But what good would it have done? the most important part of her life was taken from her as though some stranger had given her a box with her own heart inside and forced her to burry it. What hope was there?

The tears of the night had left visible marks on her cheeks, once soft and smiling, now distraught and confused, lost. Her funeral dress of black still clad upon her trembling frame. The street was empty. Friends had offered to keep her company through the night, the first night but she refused insisting, "No. Please, tonight I must be alone."

As she went home that night, they all watched, fearful of what the next day would bring, fearful that she would not last the night, in the darkness with her sorrow. And she shut the door before them, they watched over the house through the night. No light was lit from within. No sound was heard from without. A young boy recounted that he had heard crying inside when he passed by the darkened house, "Mama, why is Miss Emma crying?" He understood nothing of death in his young life. But all those standing watch fell away as sleep took them one by one and they returned to their own homes.

And there she stood. There was no need to make coffee. There was no need to cook breakfast. There was no need to clean. There was no desire. Emma could do nothing. She let the cold permeate her body. The thoughts of him drifted into her vision. And soon they flooded her memory to the point that she was soon overwhelmed and fear and anguish and terror took her and the tears began broke their dam.

She held out her empty hands, wrists bordered with black lace, and saw them, empty. Her eyes screamed skyward so loud that the other townsfolk were awakened, startled. Screaming into the burning sky with her empty and quivering, outstretch fingers she fell to her knees. Soon she was nothing more than a sobbing heap on the porch, outside in the cold...

the flimsy poem is the life half lived

The flimsy poem is a life half lived
And that may be due to this
The life lived through the other eyes
A life left to only its imagination
Gazing out the windows
Of an active procrastination

The tired hand wields weakly
A tired pen upon worn pages
The futile words of others tales
A short poem from a tired imagination
Frail ink upon loose leafs
Brings forth no culmination

Have I written such a poem?
A poem of no significance?
Have I failed to tell my tale?
Used more than my imagination?
To tell of something true
To describe my fascination?

Now I tell my tale
Of something that lingers
Not in the dark of course
But beyond my imagination
To a place where the raven tells
My soul’s story of emancipation.

Into the desert high up
sitting is a sandstone cliff
dwelling is the breath of echos
My soul ties me to imagination
As I wonder about this thing
This place of great creation.

It lingers still
This thought of my venture
Upon fresh sheets of white
Traversing my imagination
Through hand to pen
thought’s purposeful articulation

a friend passes

tonight, when i got home, my nephew told me of the death of a class mate. I graduated with many people, approximately two hundred and fifty. One down. Two hundred fortynine to go. I will miss this existence. People vanish into thin air. People die. People will follow their will into oblivion. I will ocntinue my useless course through this dispensation of time. I cannot comprehend the horrible trauma constricted upon my friend. I understand he had been broadsided in an intersection in the valley of Salt Lake City a few days ago. He could not hold on any longer and left this world with a goodbye.

So what of him now. He will have a death ceremony. His life will depart into another realm of existence. We will all do that one day. Maybe not as quickly as he, but in our own due time and our own fitting demise. I will never understand life as well as those whom have passed along into the vultures crow because it is far easier to decipher something from a standpoint having nothing to do with it.

Mister Tyrel Demon, though an adopted child, was no outcast. He had his friends. He had his peculiarities. He was a person of his own mark, of course, ideally the same as us all, material wants and physical desires. I cannot end his life in a mere few words and sentences, but some where in my writings I will immortalize all the deceased I have known.

barista notes

Sometimes I talk to people about what is going on in their day. It seems as though the only people I talk to are working, going to or coming from work. But when these conversations take place I am working. I am serving coffee. This is a wonderful thing, coffee conversations. I have come to know many people and faces of those who have disappeared. I have grown to care for them all. They have become part of my life whether they know it; whether I like it or not. I hear incredible stories. I think incredible things. I wish I could get all of everything on paper, on screen. All these thought and conversations have increased my social apparatus.

The echo of stories told to me linger when I think of a person. One man stands alone. He has told me of things magnificent and extraordinary in his life. I like to listen. I have taken a liking to this character. I look up to him and I see him as an inspiration. He gives me knowledge, I give him coffee. A simple exchange of things. But this man is not the only person I have come to know well.

Collette, a British girl, beautiful and as mystical as the beautiful woman in black who stands alone in the distance.

desert short 3

It may be the answer to many of life’s issues, dilemma’s, and conflicts. But unfortunately it was distorted in the beginning and confused with other things. Resulting were indulgence, indolence, and wars. If there were anything that had been so misunderstood it would have little consequence beside the matter of this one thing.

When the voices of the past echo across the plains and the grasses ripple as though they were a collective mass of water… I feel it.

… when the red walls look down upon me.. I feel it.

.. when the rain bathes me and I have no inhibitions to laughing at the chaos of nature I feel it.

Down one of Ed Abbey’s canyons that he never wrote about… down with the ghost of the man Everett Ruess… in the care of a friend… in the state of wonder… enveloped by everything dear.

There are a million places to feel it but there is one place, the place I want to be most to feel it. And there are places that I know the direction to, but to this one, who knows for the destination is unknown. It seems left to the winds and the sands and the rains and the chaos. But all seek it. All want it. None can live without it.

It sustains hope… it sustains life… it is there. But how to find it? Maybe after the wars and the pride, after the deals and the success, it will be the only thing. We will start anew?

desert short 2

There’s an aching in my soul. I have one remedy. There is none other. Everett Ruess knows it. Edward Abbey wrote about it. It is an echo of a whisper of an ancient voice. Its source is somewhere in the country of blue shale and red stone. It is not found in the mountain or on the plains, nor on the ocean or underground; to the city it is a foreign voice with no meaning. To most it is nothing. They will never feel it.
The call of the desert has been with me since I was young. My earlier writings reflect it although my fascination at that time was with Jack London’s escapades in Alaska and the Yukon Territory and his stories there. As it was I still wrote about the desert. I long for its beauty, its romance, its unparalleled indifference toward man and his ways. The desert is patient. With her yellow and blue sands underfoot I trod lightly in search of adventure.
Before me she has painted the walls in the colors of war. Black streaks and red bodies on monoliths of stone ward off the faint of heart. In the distance she has heaved up the stone to appear as the teeth of a beast. And there, few venture. In early days the inhabitants forsook the land. Later, men who sought wealth also went there way out of the desert deceived. Today, on certain oases peopled by few there is trace of civilization and all that that means. But after a time they too will leave.
And the voice of the desert will tempt more men to come. They shall. Will they also leave? Will they also leave their trace? Will there be a day when the desert exists alone and sole as an outcast of the rest of the world? It seems that no civilization can abide its torrid patience.
But to those of us who are called by the echo of the ancient whisper there will be no other place of peace, solace, and security. We would die there than live without. The days of late have been especially trying because survival in this world has its requirements. Those demands have kept me here indolent to the echoes. But soon, to the desert I go again seeking that which cannot be found, only peace and fulfillment will I find. Neither of which can be found here.