.an excerpt

"He tapped it with his thumbnail and it rang with a deep and glorious chime which was sustained for longer than seemed possible and when at last it faded seemed not to die away but to drift off into other worlds, as into a deep sea dream."

-D. Adams

.castles in the sky

I long to be a fisherman
Nestled amidst the Isles of the Philippines living each day as the first and last of eternity. Music from stringed lyre of the orient sways to and fro with the waters gentle waves. Fishing is the common affinity, life drudgery, and the restless search, yet together we are the ménage the world searches for with amaranthine effort. Gripping my lifeline I cast my sorrows and dreams into the all forgetting sea waiting patiently for nihility.
If I was a fisherman.

I long to be a baker
An unpretentious shop along the cobblestone, the redolence of the earth emanates from the braids of coffee and baguettes. The extra hours spent scrubbing day old currant off artisan ceramics. Streams scurry between the corridors of Strasbourg where my youth and age lie in tranquil slumber. Sighs of utter complacency between each cigarette, my moxie dissipates into the sinew of the sun.
If I was a baker.

I long to be a pirate
A swashbuckler in the ranks of placid scalawags and scoundrels. Harmonious chorus of the beautiful mundanity echoes along the splintered banister stained with the tea all pirates canonize. Disparate from the rest we eschew iniquity albeit we don’t chivy virtue. Distinctively en masse we scour the sea sailing through felicity.
If I was a pirate.

I long to be a minstrel
In a Chevy chariot wheeling across America searching for souls adrift and yearning to be pulled back from oblivion. Six strings of heaven heaved over my shoulder, each wave of pentatonic melodies scurries about permeating through each élan vital in a frenzy of Phrygian and Dorian assonance. Mesmerized and intertwined by the voodoo aria.
If I was a minstrel.


-Grimmace Gershom

The Good, the Bad and the Godly

Wow, what a year it's been so far. So much has transpired since the Fall of the mighty oh eight that I can't even begin to juice the deepest part of my cerebral cortex to excavate the fossils of darkness and light that are my experiences. So brace yourselves as I do my best to truncate History itself while preserving what shrapnel of its quintessence I can.

.the good
Coming into this year I was eager as ever, eager to be out on my own, eager to grow, and eager to see how my transcendental India "trip" was going to culminate in the trenches of the Real. But actuality is not always so sanguine, and in my experiences it tends to cause more blunt force trauma than opulence. Nevertheless, I had the Almighty as my cornerman and I wasn't going down in the first round.
If it's tasks you speak of I was in prime condition, preened and weathered into Olympian proportions. Zeus himself would have been brimming with envy. Every day I strode into the fields with what people like to call a missions mindset. With ninja stars of Scripture in my apron and a deep bellowing joy in my gut I was living in the boots of Billy the Christian. Although the portrait I'm painting here sounds sarcastically grandiose I assure you that my heart was pure and intentions pristine.
As the bout ensued, I only grew more vicious...however.

.the bad
I was unaware of the amour-propre that was slowly creeping up in me like ivy on mortar lined bricks. As round one came to a close the allure of working life quickly dissipated and I was left with nothing but a ransacked carcass and a feeling that I had been swindled. You know, that feeling when your stomach drops into your loins, except I was wearing glass pants and my stomach was a Looney Tunes ACME-grade anvil. I could clearly see the crude buzzards circling overhead.

Oh how unexpected. Oh how bitter is the taste of a rude awakening.

Behind the gleeful facade of the Market lies a legion of the living dead. Wandering, wandering...wandering from paycheck to paycheck to death.
Zombies don't have an equivalent for hope in their loose-jaw vernacular.
The part of me that hurt evolved from sympathy into empathy. And soon enough, whatever pathogen that had caused their grim demise was coursing through my own veins. I could smell its toxicity, its pungent aroma, thickened by my self-reliance.
Less theatrics please.
I hated work, I hated my situation, and the unrelenting disapproval from my progenitors only exacerbated things. But oh how the Evil One loved his position that he'd even seduce me with the sirens of occupational security and a "get out of degradation free" card.
Now there was an aroma pleasing to 'the me'.
Fortunately, wait I don't believe in fortune...let's try this again
Ahem

.the godly
'Godissomerciful'ly, he renewed my hope, slitting my swollen bruises with the humble penitence so that I could see again. With blurry vision I entered the ring. Awakening 21 written on the marquee. I could see a glimpse of heaven in the rafters. Spitting a scorn-caked loogy, I continued to fight defensively.
Fasting. Crying out. Wrestling. I wouldn't stop unless my hip socket was divinely wrenched.
Never before have I been so spiritually effete and ardent. Yes, this may in fact be the first.
Never before has the Holy Spirit spoken so close to my ear for this long. Yes, this may in fact be the first.
With the end of each round the Sovereign cornerman would refurbish my battered mug, battered but never to be broken. No, not in this stance.
With every prayer, every word of Scripture, and every new day an intricate combination of flurries would be released.
But the Devil too has his own modus operandi. He too can be battered but never broken... not yet at least.
The heavyweight title bout of the century is coming to a close; I have a divine confidence that springs from the promises of his Word that I will last 'till the end.
I have gone the distance.
But now I realize that this is only half the battle, indeed the easy half. Holding out with the belt clutched close, fatigue-ridden but strong in every sense of the Word. I stand aloof to my surroundings thinking about the next encounter, the next brush with fate.

Faithfully optimistic.

-Grimmace Gershom

the end of infinity

falling into eternity,
so small so far, mind disillusioned from the bliss that once was and is
journeyed back from the place of weeping and gnashing,
the path not straight, but puddles of memories after a cold, soft, and ebon rain.
wandering endlessly to Nevermore.


-Grimmace Gershom