Waiting for the Blink of an Eye.

Watching feels like waiting.

Waiting feels like sitting on the edge, looking for 

something to stand out among the mundane.

Mundane because what I am waiting for is

bigger than any of this.

We have heard whispers of what I am waiting for.

We have been told to watch the skies.

We have been told that we will wish for 

the mountains to roll over onto us.

I am there, waiting.

I have been watching for a decade and some years.

Grown anxious and learned patience.

I have been broken down and rebuilt.

I have rebelled; been dragged kicking and screaming

back to the place where peace can cover all sins.

Reformed into a new vessel.

Even though we have seen what it means for a generation to turn away.

Now I know what it feels like to yearn 

and pant for love, 

like a deer pants for water.

I am listening for the rocks to cry out.

Waiting for the people to turn back around

or... 

for the sky to shout.

Waiting for the blink of an eye.

Although I can not comprehend the the thought of 

heaven without them...

I am hoping for the one thing that will

leave my brothers behind.

I am willing but not able.

The Great Loss: Journals of an Old Man.

I have been writing them for twenty four years now, since The Great Loss.  I was never into journaling before but for some reason now I do.  I guess I hope to look back at them when this is all over and have a place for perspective to teach me.  

Remind me.   

When I say ‘them’ I mean my journals.  My books.  I have lost some of them because of all the moving I used to have to do.  And all the rancid places I have had to live.  Some of them I have lost to getting wet and otherwise damaged.  Some I have lost because I have had to leave in such a hurry, running from The Others.  I have lost some of them because I can’t remember where I had stashed them until I found a decent  and safe place to live.

Right now I don’t need to be reminded because I am hear.  

In the darkness.

Waiting for the light.

For now and for sometime, I have been safe in the trees.

I am old enough to remember when tree houses were used for kids to play in and build forts in and start neighborhood clubs in.

These days the ‘neighborhood clubs’ are more like mobs and the tree houses are more like fortresses hidden among the branches.  

Since I have lost the book that I had written down what had happened to me at The Great Loss I will explain it here again.  But first I will want to say what it is like living in these days.

When I say the darkness I don’t mean it is dark here always.  I mean the people.  There aren’t as many bright and beautiful days.  I miss the ones that start with a crisp breeze accented with  a slow fog being gently evaporated by a warm morning sun.  Days where you can walk through the forests for days and not come across any others.  These days are darkened by the mobs of others.  The Others whom have taken the mark.  Seeking whom to devour.  Not devour in a eating sort of way but in a consuming sort of way.  

Like consuming all things.  Like a wildfire consumes a forest.

That is another reason it is difficult to write my books.  At times it can be hard to find blank paper because they take it to burn.  Some of my books I have written over the copied paper of old books.  Since hardly anyone who can or care to read is left, I don’t feel so bad.  Sometimes I run out of pens and pencils and can’t write until I find some more.  

That’s what most of my days are spent doing.  Searching for food, writing utensils and books.  Preferably blank books.  Sometimes searching for building materials.  Besides my boat, I have all but given up on trying to make electricity.  Electricity is for the elite.  They have a hard enough time keeping that going even with all their resources.  Not like it used to be anyway.

I have built my house on the trees of life on the banks of the river.

When I say house, it’s more like a treehouse.

When I say treehouse, I mean it’s more like a fortress.

When I say Fortress, I mean it's more like a hideout.

I built my house out of things I can pull off of other buildings and trailers and anything I can get my hands on and carry with me, using the small hand tools.  There is no more lumber left in the lumber yards. There are no  more batteries for power tools.  No batteries that I am going to write about anyway.  I was an electrician for a time before the transition.  Not much good that does me now, I guess.  There is not much the same as it was before The Great Loss.

I have built my house up the river from the old city.  So that I can float in undetected and carry anything I find upstream with my solar powered boat.  When I say solar boat I mean it is a jon boat that I have wired four trolling motors together with a few solar panels I have gathered for power.  I try to stay out of the old city as much as I can, partly because it is too filthy and also I don't want to take a chance losing my boat but I do find a lot of blank books there.  And ink pens!

Until I find, which I probably won’t, any of my old books, I guess I will re-write what I can remember up until now.  I am advanced in my years, so I can’t make any promises.  When I say advanced in my years I mean I am only about fifty-eight.  Which is pretty old for this world.  

The Great Loss came to me in a time where I was already at a loss.  Not that I was poor, I grew up poor but became wealthy.  I became wealthy by any means necessary, some legal and some not.  Mostly in such a way that was wicked.  It was a time when I was overwhelmingly poor and overwhelming rich at the same time.  

Financially I had more than I could spend.  And I spent a lot!  I had more houses, cars and women than I could keep track of.  I had employees both legal and illegal and some in between.

Spiritually, I was in poverty.  Not like poverty in the United States, I mean like poverty in the third worlds.  The poor of the poor.  The valley of the shadow of death.  The spiritually poor of the spiritually poor. I can only believe and pray and hope that the promises that I have read of God are true.

Then Darkness came in the night, like a thief, stealing all that was shining.  Stealing all that was remotely close to light.  That’s when we lost anyone who knew the promises of God. Not knowing God in sense of know who God was, everyone knows who God is.  I mean truly knowing God and following Him.  

When darkness came, even death itself had lost it’s way.  We were left to figure it out from scratch.  Those that thought they knew, suddenly did not.  Others that said they knew the promises of God, used the ignorance to their advantage.  Those of us who can read the words of God are left in the dark to rebuild from nothing.

For us there is just barely enough light to see the trail by the river that leads to the mountain top.  We are bitterly hopeful.

For the elite pretend nothing has happened, they tell everyone to keep watch for the rapture as if nothing happened.

The Others have given up all hope if they had any to start with.  The Others are seeking selfish survival.  Only God can know their hearts.  They have one foot in reality and another in chains, with a bit in their mouths, being led by what is unseen.

The darkness came when I was in the elevator heading down, somewhere between the 13th and ground floors.  The elevator didn’t jolt.  The lights didn’t flicker.  The guy next to me didn’t disappear or turn into a zombie and try to eat my brain.  He let me go first as we stepped out of the elevator into the lobby.  He rushed past me on his phone, leaving a message for his wife.

“I am just leaving, don’t wait for me.  I hear traffic is pretty bad. Loveyabye.”

That's how The Great Loss happened.

They say darker days are coming.

The Shadow Boxer.

He changed his mind like he changed his clothes for the day.
He changed his character like he changed the channel.
He changed his loves like he changed his mind.
But this time the change comes in the form of planting his feet.

This time he will set his stance and his feet wide
and his chin low.
He will continue to throw punches until the inside of his elbows hurt
from throwing so hard at nothing 
like a shadow boxer.

Even if it means he will lose it all.
Even if it means he will fail.
Even if he is shadow boxing in an empty gym
with no soundtrack...
It is better for him to fail and lose
at boxing shadows than to 
throw in the towel before the bell rings.

When the shadows outwit him,
When the shadows get the jump on him,
he will push up from the ground
And He will set his chin low.
And plant his feet wide again.

...and again...

On this he will build his empire.
Like a carpenter with no work and no wood.
He will gather anything he can 
and cast out the doubters and mockers
to make room for the ark.

With this he will stand and fight
that which is unseen.
Instead of the Rambo headband
He will tie a blindfold and fight like a Jedi.

For this he will defend
and lay down his life.
Willingly.

For this is the Redeemer,
And this is Love.


They will mock.
They will condemn.
They will undermine.

They will out step.
They will dodge and weave.

Some will forsake their own blessings
for self gratification.

But he will box shadows.
Even if the shadows are of himself.

Whispers of God and Man.

Face down and reluctant.
Pridefully humble.
Talking and talking like whispers.

Your words truly are whispers,
if I could listen I would hear them.

My whispers are like demands.
Your whispers are like diamonds.

Praying through my teeth,
Demanding my inheritance before its due
is like wishing your Father is dead
is like envy.

Envy is like sin
...is like death.

Death is like...
SEPARATION.

Your whispers are like...
REDEMPTION.

The River.

He was never good at rolling tobacco but he considers it a repetitious sacrifice. 
Like his prayers in the morning. 
Awkward and sometimes ugly. 
Rolled and folded with rips and tears and tobacco leaves poking out 
where they shouldn't.  
Squeezed too hard in some places and too wet in others.
Regardless of cosmetics he lights it up and lets the smoke rise to the heavens
in no particular straightforward path, 
figuring God likes repetition as well. 

This morning he is down by the river.  
Fishing for lunch and dinner.  
Talking, and telling the river his stories and ambitions.
Remembering all the other times he sat there expecting to pull a fish from the water. Regardless of whether he could see the fish or not, 
knowing it was there for him to harvest.  

Telling his son about all the monster fish he had caught in the past.
With his son asking if they were going to catch anything that day or not.
"Maybe next time son." he would say 
as they packed up their fishing poles and tackle. 
Knowing full well that it may not be next time or even the time after.
It will be God's timing. 
His son noticed his father’s  jaw unconsciously clenching, 
but didn’t say anything.   
Looking down to make sure not to trip on the bare roots in the trail 
and looking back to his father to see when it stops.  
Wondering to himself why they keep coming back to the same river.
His father knew it will be when the river is ready to give up the fish 
that  they will eat fish for dinner. 
His father knew they needed the river
more than they need lunch for today.

The Eyes of Mathew.

I am Mathew now,
for I have seen the outside world 
without the hand of my mother.
I see differently now into the eyes of my father.
Like a hawk with new feathers, 
looking back at the nest after his first flight.
And he looks differently at me.

I know now what it means to be away 
from my home and my room and toys.
I know now what it means to yearn for home and family 
and to be too tired to play once I get there.
I know now what it means to look into the eyes 
of the energetic and the brokenhearted.
Like a pirate coming home from his first voyage.
Stronger, less timid but happy to see land.

My father can see the difference in my eyes.
He can see the hope
that maybe someday, 
I will be battle-ready.
and his throat closes
and his breath quickens
and his heart lightens.
He knows now, that someday, 
we can be battle weary,
together.

The Matador

Like music entering the room low and slow,
like a thief in the night.
Turning abruptly and announcing its presence with a shout!
Like The Matador to a bull.
Dirt still falling in slow motion,
Anticipating returning to dirt.
The Matador could stand there forever, chest out,
confident and beautiful.
Holding out His cape like a gift.
Frustrated the bull can only react finitely,
with anger and confusion.
The bull, like your heart,
sees the gift of The Matador as a threat.

The bull charges.

Kicking up dirt and dust, bouncing off hooves and dirt and legs.
The Matador waits patiently to pierce the heart.
The bull kicking up more and more dirt with growing frustration and speed.
A fight that has gone on and on and on...
Only this time the heart of the soul is pierced
and the gift of The Good Matador is no trick.
The pierced heart brings life.
The bull no longer seeks to kick the dirt.

The Young Woman, Melinda and an Old Man.

The young mother wiped the counter for the third time this morning and they haven’t even opened the doors yet.  She just needed something to do in hopes that Melinda, her co-worker, would not notice her blood-shot eyes welling up again.  She has grown weary of speculating why he left her.  Why he didn’t want the dreams anymore. Why he didn’t want them anymore.  She had grown weary of wondering what she could have said or what book she could have suggested that might make him love her again.  A book that might snap him out of his slumber and remember why he loved her so much.  She had given up hoping for the miracle of him waking up from the dead and walking out of the tomb to look for her.
She stood up from wiping the lower level behind the counter and rested both her hands on the counter.   Not sure if she was holding herself up or if the counter was the only thing keeping her from falling.  

She jumped when she felt something touch her back, “Who touched me?”
“Who touched me?!  Are you doing okay?” Melinda turned her and saw her eyes.  “Oh, honey. Not again. You have to just get over him and move on.  Don’t let him effect you anymore, he wins every time you get upset.”
She turned away. Not ready to move on and not ready to keep fighting.

Melinda paused and said, “Are you gonna be okay if I open these doors? It’s five after six and Larry is already waiting for his morning coffee.  Can’t keep him waiting.” Melinda tried to lighten the mood shaking her keys as she walked to the front door.  Larry was pretending to not be impatiently waiting for his morning coffee.

“Good morning!” Larry said, “Nice day out there!”
“Don’t start with me Larry. You and I both know it is cold and windy out there!” Melinda enjoyed the banter.
“Alright, just give me some coffee then.” Larry conceded.
“That’s more like it, Larry. That’s the spirit.” Melinda happy with the results.
Larry did his best, which wasn’t that great,  not to watch her as she walked back to the counter and pour his coffee.  “Where’s your little buddy?”  Larry tried to pretend he wasn’t paying attention to Melinda’s sophisticated beauty.  
“She’s probably beating herself senseless in the back.”
“Is she still hung up on that loser?  He better not come around here, I’ll tear him up!”
Melinda looked back at him over her glasses, handing him his coffee.
“I may be 78, but I still got it!” Larry said, showing her his karate hands.
“Why do men over in their 70’s always have to talk about how old they are?”
“Huh?!” Larry said, thoroughly confused by the change in topic.