The Park

The park is almost as empty as my life. A young couple with a toddler sits in the grass, a towel as a makeshift blanket. Nearby, a fenced playground provides a false sense of security to a few young girls and their mother. Funny, I chose this place to escape from the suffocating tension waiting for me at home. A student walks her dog and an old man slowly shuffles along the paved causeway.

A solitary picnic table provides me a respite, as it appears to be the only one in this twenty-acre park. Paint has peeled from its top, giving a preview of better days, before vandals, weather and time took hold. The lights of the small pavilion overhead have all been broken; I’m guessing the result of bored teens. The entire scene is quite grim.

It’s not really a park, not in the traditional sense. As makeshift as the towel, this unwanted military facility has found new life as a recreational area. Probably and idea brought to life by some well-meaning politicians, if that is even possible to find such a creature. A park, nonetheless, if you call building a ball field and keeping the grass mowed a new life. Old brick buildings litter the compound, most unused, but free from the normal destruction associated with abandoned buildings. A few of them harbor cars in their small parking lots, but I have yet to see the drivers of said vehicles.

I force myself to close my eyes and go to a picture in my mind; another park, another picnic table and you. You! The smile on your face more beautiful than all that Mother Nature has to offer. The park, much different than this one, was alive with people enjoying a cool summer evening. Your daughter laughed easily, my son was smitten and the evening was extraordinary. I have looked many times upon that picture I slyly snapped of you many times since then. It was just a few miles and days from this very moment, yet feels as if it was an eternity.

But, alas, I’m rooted here in this moment, engulfed in loneliness and desperation. Self-doubt begins to overwhelm me and for a second I wonder if you’re real. A couple, walking their dog seems to suddenly appear. I swear, I just looked over my shoulder a minute ago and no one was there. What is going on? Is it my state of mind that is directing this play or is this play directing my state of mind? In this very moment, immersed in thought and wearily observing my surroundings, I unable to separate fact from fiction.

I know you’re real…you have to be! I need you to be real!

A firefly drifts so close that I can almost touch it. If only I cold feel your arms around me, right now, this very instance, if only … then I wouldn’t have to wage this war inside my head. Sight, hearing, touch, taste, smell; the five senses seem to make all a reality. But what about the power of the mind, the imagination, thoughts, are they not real. Intuition or a gut instinct, both have the ability to make the hair on your neck stand up or goose bumps ripple down your arms. Fear causes the heart to beat faster. But fear is not as tangible as any of the five senses. So who is to say that the war in my mind is any less real?

Why do you seem so far away from me? I know what your face looks like, but the picture that forms in my mind is blurry. Memories are no more corporeal than fantasies. What is the deciding factor that makes one more factual than the other? Neither is here in the present. Like radio transmissions floating in the vast expanse of space, they are gone from this dimension, time making them forever out of reach. If life can only be lived in the present, why does the past hauntingly control the here-and-now?

No! You are not an illusion!

What is now an illusion, it the life I thought I was living for the past twenty years. I thought I was part of something, but in truth I was just as inanimate as an object in the room; more like a piece of furniture. I believed that I was actually living, but I was deluded … confusing quantity with quality…pretending to be happy…pretending that I mattered.

Is history repeating itself? Am I just as insignificant in your life?

No!

No! What we have is real!

The firefly is gone and a spider has taken its place. I hope that the spider keeps its distance. I’m not fond of spiders at all.

Being discarded as easily as an old couch, has caused me to question my own judgment and clouds my sense of reality. Every thing that I believed to be true was false. It is like a bad movie that replays itself over and over in my mind. A movie I wish I had never seen, but once viewed, is forever burned into my memory.

The sun is going down and I can barely see the words I’m writing. The broken bulbs overhead will not light. Strange, how darkness is now representing truth, the truth of the present.  For my inability to illuminate shattered bulbs prove that this moment is not a dream. 

Love, another ethereal entity, reminds me that you’re real. Soon, you will be on break at work and my phone will beep with that familiar noise, signaling that I have a text message. The grim setting of which I am in, will, for a moment seem brighter. My thoughts will be just that; thoughts, untouchable visions.

Amazing how a few characters on an electronic device can be so powerful, how they can startle the mind and pull it back from the abyss.

I think I am going to sit here, alone, until I hear that recognizable beep.

Wormsloe

The Isle of Hope rests just south of Savannah on Georgia’s Lower Coastal Plain region and is home to the historic Wormsloe Plantation, founded by Noble Jones in 1736. Originally indentured servants supplanted slavery, as it was not permitted until 1749 when the ban was revoked. As a plantation, Wormsloe never proved profitable and Jones turned to real estate to amass his fortune. The following is a true story. The year was 2000.

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 “Rastus git yore neggar ass over here! Aiigh tole ya to clean up those d’ere leafs yesterday.” The words flowed easily from my husbands mouth.

“Yuh…Yesum, master.”

Normally his southern drawl isn’t so pronounced. Eddie was walking in front of me, alone, talking seemingly to only himself. The sunlight filtered through the thick avenue of oaks and the Spanish moss hung like smoke among the branches. I could hear him laughing; strolling in a side-to-side gait, and kicking the dirt like a child. There wasn’t another person in sight.

“I’m fixin’ to whup yore ass boy,” he was now chuckling.

A slight breeze brushed the bare of my arms and for a moment, I felt chilled. I stood there, my mouth agape, eyes squinting…confused. My heart was slowly pounding.

This visit was unplanned and now I was beginning to regret coming here with him. He stopped talking. It was quite now except for the rustling of leaves and acorns beneath my feet.

This was not the first time I heard him talk like that, nor, I’m sure, will it be the last.

My late Aunt Bonnie always said, “It is not black on the skin, but rather black on the heart, that I find disgusting.” Those piercing blue eyes of hers pegged Eddie the moment she saw him. If Bonnie was here right now, I’d be humiliated and she would be furious with me…furious for not saying something to this bigot walking in front of me. Even so, despite her disappointment, I wished she was here with me right now.

“Eddie, stop that.” I chided him.

“You live in the South, honey, better git used to it. This is how things are, taint no room here fer yore way of thinking shoogar,”  he replied smoothly.

I continued to take photographs and tried to ignore the offense. “Concentrate Becky! Concentrate on anything but him!” I keep telling myself.

The ruins of the tabby house stood just a few feet tall. It had never occurred to me that one could use oyster shells as building material. What is this ash that is used? Ash from what? I continue to read the brochure hoping to find an answer and a distraction.

“Best I grab my whip and set Rastus straight. Don’t have time nor worry for any thoughts of rebellion.”

Why does he keep do that? It is quite frightening.

The quietness and beauty of the landscape masks the sadness of Wormsloe’s history. But, alas, it seems as if Noble Jones had found a fitting recipient for his spirit, even if for only a moment. From appearances, Eddie seems quite content, even at home here. He is rejoicing in the history.

Again, that cold breeze on my arms. The birds are now quite and I can hear the slight lapping of water against the shore. Nothing else. Just the repeated quiet splash like a distant, faint clap. Maybe there is a reason for my unforeseen visit here today.

I want to just walk over to him and punch him in the mouth. Why do I stay? What is this hold that he has over me that keeps me when I’m so offended and disgusted. Why do I just stand here? I am so angry, but my feet won’t move, words won’t form. I remain quite and still; rooted to this very spot as sure as the oak looming overhead.

“Damn!” That cold breeze whips again and this time goose bumps cover my arms. Eddie has wandered off and I am standing here alone. There is a fear that overwhelms me. Not a fear of the sounds and the shadows, a much deeper terror; one that burns deep within my soul. Despite the chill of the air, I begin to sweat.

Maybe it is my spirit that is tormented, not his. I can hear the oppressed of long past whispering to me. Eddie is just acting, unaware of the ghosts surrounding him. To me, they are softly speaking a warning. Listen Becky! Listen to their wisdom.

“Run! Run now! You life is over if you stay. Oh you might walk about, pretending you’re alive, but you’re just the walking dead. Even if he shoots you, either way you’re just as dead as if your body is living, everyday, breathing in the smell of blood and salt air.”

The ground releases me and I start hurriedly down a trail, not sure of where I’m going. The grey, gnarled base of a tree stops me. There is a strange face amidst the curves of the dead timber.  It looks like the head of bird. The eye, a black hole and smaller opening to the right, for the nostril. A young eagle. I can see it now! But why an eagle? Why here? Why now?

“There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you.”Eddie’s voice startles me.

At least he is no longer speaking as if a cruel slave owner. A smile comes across his face and he moves closer to put his arms around me.

“Don’t run off like that sweetheart. You had me worried.” He says gently.

I show him the tree and point out the resemblance to the eagle but he doesn’t see it.

“That’s nice baby. Now com’on, I want to get back before it gets too late. We promised Dan and Kim we’d meet them for dinner.”

The sun slowly sets on my back and fogs begins to creeps across the ground. He takes a firm hold of my hand, and we head back, from where we came.



The Family

Jeanna is spoiled. Little Eddie is self-righteous. Carol is a illogical. Gena is selfish. Eddie is abusive. David is painfully honest. Austin is introverted. Anthony is arrogant. Holly is afraid. Bobby is honest. Cal is dim-witted. Natalie is vain. Ashely is serious. Terry has low self-esteem. Tony is snobbish. Dana is foolish and Ciro was a an oppressor.

This family is not unlike any other family. A group of flawed human beings connected by love, genetics and marriage. I hold this mirror without judgment; I cannot look at myself without seeing them. There is no malice in my heart; only love. How can you truly love someone without total acceptance of their imperfections? And, yes!, I have loved this family! Loved them indeed, in spite of and because of their flaws.

Not a member by birth, I was permitted pseudo acceptance a mere twenty years ago. Everything is temporary if given enough time and my dismissal was like a chronic disease finally taking its rightful course. It never occurred to my heart that the wagons would circle and I’d be left with nothing more than a picture. Regardless, my love for them prevails. I guess you can’t choose who you love, it just is. But, alas, some surprises were pleasant.

Jeanna surely astounded me when she graduated college. It just goes to show what one can accomplish when the Family allows others to think for themselves. Someday, when Little Eddie quits worrying about the world’s perspective of him, he will truly thrive. He has the skills yet something stops him just short of accepting the cards he’s been dealt. I know that day will come for him, when his smile is genuine and the hurt no longer lurks just beneath the surface. Carol has destroyed more than enough brain cells by years of smoking pot, yet one can never say that her heart isn’t in the right place. The selfish one of the bunch, Gena, has managed, albeit a mystery to me, to balance that self-centeredness with kindness. There have been moments, when I’ve seen glimpses of the goodness in Eddie and it was quite wonderful. If only he could get out of his head and just follow his heart. While it was Eddie, my husband, who proved the dangers of being controlled by ego, it was the honest one who helped to recognize the true gravity of the situation. Bobby, a true-blood black sheep in this Family, is the only member who sincerely understands unconditional love and the responsibility it bears. To him, I say “Thank you. Your kindness I will always hold dear.” Austin is the dark and brooding one of the Family. He is very creative and has immense ability for empathy. The tears he sheds are not rehearsed and his heart is forever on his sleeve. Anthony is as beautiful as ever, reason for which I’m sure he is arrogant. His thick, dark eyelashes deepen the brown of his eyes and heavy brows are barely visible behinds mounds of curly black hair. His big, full lips exaggerate his smile and make it brilliant. The only thing bigger is his laugh. Holly has the same gorgeous dark eyes, so prevalent in the Family. For her, life is an exciting, yet terrifying journey. I hope that soon, she learns that there are moments when it is okay to put herself first, above all others. Cal will grow up some day, I’m sure of it. Thank God for his charm and gentle laugh, for it is the only thing that endears him. The two red-heads, Natalie and Ashley, bring some diversity to the Family. Both beautiful girls, who at times get lost in shuffle, but find their way to make their marks anyway. If I’m ever stranded in the woods, I’d want Terry by my side. His illiteracy is the major contributor to his low self-esteem, but put him in the natural elements and his is king. Tony hardly says and word and of all the Family, I know the least about him. I do recognize how attentively he dotes on Gena and for that I certainly give him credit. I imagine that can be a full time job. Dana comes and goes, almost as quietly as the wind. Maybe she isn’t so foolish after all. She doesn’t fight the rejection, rather just accepts it. Ciro, is long gone and it seems only hurtful to talk about him now. Snippets of his personality and lesson he taught, both good in bad, live in each and everyone one of them.

The eternal outsider looking in, I longed to join the ranks of this wonderfully imperfect Family. There are those who wish to believe that my reflection is bitterness. To them I say, “Self delusion may ease your mind, but it won’t censor the truth.” The reality of life is painful, beautiful, disgusting, overwhelming and I wouldn’t have it any other way!

Now I must find the courage to let go…let go of my Family. By right of their birth, they permeated the shield, their blood allowing them into the world I so desperately begged for entrance. I’ll never enjoy what God has given them and I must, for self-preservation, find a way.

I don’t lament, believing that I’m the only one to survive the pain of a dysfunctional family. The trick is to not carry this burden with me throughout my life. There were lessons learned from the bad as well as the good. A family full of ravenous egos, although a tragic way to live, is wonderfully interesting.

With all their ignored flaws, there is an equal number of recognized triumphs. However, I’ve never seen a family so afraid of their truths. What is there to fear? All masterpieces are derived from great suffering as well as great joy. For without the pain, the happiness has no meaning. So, I hold this mirror up, unafraid, and with the utmost confidence that someday, we will all be better because we dared to look.

Small Town

The mini-mart gas station has bore many names over the years. Now, its bold red neon sign reads Zip Mart, although many locals still refer to it as Zebra Mart, a name given up three owners ago. The ridiculousness of its moniker has little impact on its importance. Situated right in the middle of town and at the only red light, its twenty-four hour service has been a constant for as long as I can remember. No matter how many times the facade changes, the atmosphere remains the same.

Store clerks come and go with the changing of the seasons. For some unfortunate women raised on Stony Ridge, it serves as a proving ground. A few excel in their jobs, learn quickly and move up the ranks from cashier to assistant manager, a position reserved usually for men from the neighboring city. Occasionally one lucky girl will do well enough to afford  some dental work and tuition at the local community college. Without much notice, some do change their stars and fly away, but most just move laterally to another nondescript job at one of the town’s three bargain stores.

A painted red bench sits out front; probably a hand me down from one of the many Baptist churches that litter the county. When the weather is warm, old men and shy perverts occupy its seat. Some sit all day, making mental notes of the town’s comings and goings, others join the ranks just long enough to sip their coffee. I guess it’s a sort of live version of YouTube for old timers. From that bench one can learn all there is to know about the entire population, usually without asking a single question. I once heard the town’s unofficial headquarters referred to as “dead pecker bench”. The name stuck, although I don’t believe anyone has ever bothered to mention the sobriquet to the occupants. Of the habitual squatters, three men of varying ages have taken up permanent residence; Gilbert, a middle-aged man with a broad chest and pleasing smile, one unnamed gentleman who sips his coffee quietly; and Billy, seemingly the most desperate.

Wildfires are slower than the gossip chain that regularly engulfs this town, originating from that bench. When it is my turn to be the subject, I soothe myself with the idea that my predecessor has found reprieve and shortly my light with fade. Whatever drama that takes my place need not necessarily be more salacious or even new, rather just have different players to qualify for top billing. Funny how the perceived reputations of us all rest with such a few unwitting individuals. Of late, I’ve managed to escape the attention of center stage.

It is hard to find that place where who you are and who they are is compatible; a place where even a tenuous relationship is acceptable, as long as searing judgment is not part of the equation. Here, this place where all-white professed democrats are in truth closeted conservatives; this place where church is the only order of business on Sundays and people disguise their true desires and actions by a thin veil of moral superiority. Everyone ignores the obvious. Ignore it indeed; that is until personal benefit can be gained by shining the spotlight of shame upon some unsuspecting soul.

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Despite the sometimes unattractive human element, spring always reminds me why I live here. Eighty-seven perfectly spaced Bradford pear trees line the nearly six acres of my piece of this world. Their pungent white flowers are the first to bloom each spring, followed by the dainty pink buds of the eastern redbud and then the sacred white blossom of the dogwood. Somewhere in between, the feathery wisps of the cherry tree spring forth before blanketing the ground like sow. Robins, blue jays and wrens, among others, dance amidst their branches, busily building nests in preparation for mating. My late Aunt Bonnie would readily identify each species, all the while shoving an Audubon Society book into my hands for immediate study. Rather, I just enjoy their musical offering without curiosity. It is enough to know each bird by sight, if not by name and I welcome their appearance each year as if it is an absolute surprise.

Mornings are cool and quite, except for the distant roar of the state highway, the symphony of wild birds and the honking of geese. A gray dove has once again chosen the arbor supporting the wisteria as its spring nesting place and a wood duck hopes to make the two-acre pond in the back yard its new home.

Every year it is the same. Winter holds fast; the grass is brown, the trees bare; all is silent. Crocus impishly peak through, then the daffodils, and one day it begins to rain. All day long and most of the night the gentle showers soak the ground. Then next day you wake up to find this wonderful secret garden suddenly at your doorstep. Of the four distinct seasons that present themselves each year, spring is most alluring, mesmerizing; definitely delusional.

The harsh reality of Mother Nature occasionally reminds me to keep this place in perspective. A few years ago, a black bear killed a six-year-old girl and mauled her mother and brother not ten miles from this very spot. When my son was only ten, I let him and his friend hike that same two-mile trail while I sat on the sandy shore line with my younger child. At the time it never occurred to me to be the least bit frightened that he’d find more trouble than maybe a rash of poison ivy. I had already dismissed from memory the drowning of a boy in the same mountain-top lake the previous year. The poor young man swam near the spill way and right into a nest of water moccasins; being bitten several times before succumbing to panic.

This place has a way of luring you into a false sense of security. Its beauty is a beast.

Lucinda Elrod

What is her name? It all seems so strange. The high resolution digital photo is clear, but the message it portrays is so very confusing. When was this photograph taken? And by whom? A million questions are racing through my mind and I suddenly find it hard to breathe. To my surprise, I’m not angry. I think if I weren’t so shocked, I would actually be very hurt.. But, for the most part, I am just curious.

I can see the new couch my husband bought a few months ago, and there is no doubt that this is my house. To me, the couch always seemed uncomfortable and oversized. I wonder how it feels to her? Orange walls, although irritating, are a perfect match to the colors of my husband’s favorite college football team. Maybe she is watching the football game.  I’m not sure if she is smiling or not, but her pose presumes that she is comfortable and at ease in my home.

The box-dyed redhead relaxing on the sofa has no identity … at least not a name I know. Her thick legs appear disproportionately large considering the angle from which the photograph was taken. I would have stood up to capture a more pleasing image if I was the photographer. However, I’m guessing that the person who snapped this image is temporarily blind to any of her flaws. Looking at the results of a camera lens is entirely different than seeing the world through another’s eyes. Not petite, nor heavy, she just seems average. Maybe brown eyes, though the red-eye reflection from the flash of the camera makes definite identification unclear. I’m guessing brown. Upon second look, it seems that she may not dye her hair. I’ve seen many a red head with mounds of course, wavy hair that generally appears unruly despite efforts to control the tresses. And the abundance of freckles lead me to believe that may have been wrong in my first assumption. Her casual dress and lack of shoes tell me that this is not a formal meeting. Where was I when this photograph was taken? Her attempts at beautification enhance her appearance, yet there is nothing striking about her. It is hard to guess her age, but I would say mid to late forties. But then again, maybe the perspective from which I am looking at this situation is blurring MY judgment.

I only know pieces of this puzzle now that this photograph has enlightened me to the idea that there is indeed a mystery which needs solving.

What was the occasion that brought her to my home on this particular day? My head is spinning. It seems that I have met her before. Was it last year? No … maybe the year before … I’m not quite sure. But faded memories tell me that friends of ours brought this women into my life. A barbecue? Yes! That was when I first saw her. I even welcomed her. It seems that another man accompanied her, but that is in doubt as well. Things are becoming clearer, I remember … last year, I opened my home to Dave and Kelly for a barbecue after their rafting trip nearby.  Should I call them? Will they tell me? Are they truly my friends? Instincts tell me that Dave plays an important role in this scenario, but again, the details have yet to be determined.

As I sit here looking at the pictures contained in this digital camera, slowly, it is beginning to make sense Now that I think about it, I always wondered why my husband bought a new camera. My expensive, top of the line digital camera sat under my desk, unused, most of the time. It was impossible not to notice the rift growing between me and my husband. I’ve even heard rumors about his infidelities, but denial caused me to quickly discredit them and/or their source. Now I have to wonder the motivations for my husbands carelessness. He must think that he is in love. Men like him rarely discard one woman without having another waiting in the wings. I’m sure that he left this camera sitting on the desk intentionally.

The time frame of their affair is not known to me, but the end result is obvious. This picture does make that perfectly clear. I wonder if my husband’s promises to her appear as heartfelt and introspective as they did to me all those years ago? Of courses, promises of late have all gone unfulfilled. I wonder what lies he has told her. Maybe he didn’t lie to her at all. I really have no idea, just photographs. I would love to make sweeping judgments of her character and intentions but that would only render me the fool. I certainly don’t want to steal that title away from my husband.

     I know all to well his ability to charm, but behind that charismatic façade lurks the devil himself. Twenty years of experience has also afforded me the painful surety of his adeptness at deception. Many a time I have sat and listened to him recall an event and wonder “Where was I? Because I was at that same event and nothing he said rang true, albeit a well told story.” However, usually he would get the date and time correct. He was always very concerned about the time. I could never get him to understand that habitual lying only makes one immune to truth.

In some strange way, I believe this unidentified mistress, sitting in my home, is a better match for my husband that I could ever be. She obviously seems relaxed in another woman’s home. Maybe that is why he is drawn to her. Could I so easily laze around, playing the role of mistress? Just the thought knots my stomach. I was never one for potential confrontations. I’m sure that she conforms to his way of thinking, or at least lacks the will of self-respect. Like begets like.

Eddie Didona

No longer the young man pictured here, he believes that, finally, he has everything he ever wanted. It would seem that there would be a skip in his walk as he whistled on his way to work. Yet, a permanent scowl mars a reddened face. A crease in his forehead is now eternal and the scars of acne are more pronounced. The bags and the heaviness of the lids shut the already narrow slits of his eyes, so much so, that the iris is completely black. Strange, the resemblance to Dante’s Purgatory, in which the envious had their eyes sewn closed with wire because they had gained pleasure from seeing others brought low. Although I see nothing as grotesque as wire-sewn eyes, something is definitely forcing them nearer their final position.

Either his hands or his feet are in constant motion. Even if he is doing nothing more than sitting, they move uncontrollably. But it is his hands that are the most telling. Weathered and worn for their age and small for a man of his height, he constantly places them on his face, usually obscuring his mouth in some form. The most common position is with his forefinger vertical, alongside his nose, the tip almost touching the eyebrow, with the rest of the fingers bent in front of his lips and the thumb securely under his chin. This is especially true when he is being deceitful.

Who is this man? I’ve known him for more than twenty years, but the man that stands before me now is a stranger… worse, unrecognizable, almost inhuman. When did this happen? Was he always like this? There is a darkness that surrounds him and when he speaks, I swear I can hear a faint constant hissing. They say that if one looks for the bad in others, one will surely find it. Yet, I’ve often wondered why, when looking at him, searching for the good, that my mind was suddenly filled with blackness. Neither thoughts, nor words would form. It is as if his ebony spirit blocks out all the light.

Slowly working his way through the Seven Deadly Sins, he has nearly mastered one for each decade he has walked about, with seemingly only gluttony and sloth escaping his proficiency. In Dante's Purgatory, the remorseful were bound and laid face done on the ground, symbolizing their sin of concentrating too much on earthly thoughts. But that would imply that once had Godly thoughts, and there is little evidence to support thereof, although, his inordinate desire to acquire or posses more than he needs is apparent.

Yet, it is more his avariciousness that consumes him. Achieving personal gain by means of betrayal, bribery, theft or manipulation are portrayals of his true abilities.

He has no desire to compete with a God that he neither acknowledges nor accepts. So, he plays this dangerous game without fear or compunction. Excessive love of self and desire to be more attractive than others, controls his tongue, causing him to orate falsities worthy of accolades usually reserved for the most competent of thespians.  These fables, which he repeats only for his own amusement, often appear to be direct experience. Listen to him brag about the rigors of being a Marine to a young hopeful. With his hand squarely on his face, covering just the hint of a smile, he’ll tell of the trials and pain of the worst of situations, followed by the exuberance of victory. The listener’s face falls as he empathizes with the sadness of the told defeat…then the corners of their mouth start to creep up, first a slight grin, then a wide-eyed, teeth-baring beam, maybe even an audible laugh or gasp as purported triumph is revealed. Yet those of us who know sit agape, with the knowledge that he didn’t even make it out of boot camp. Our silence fuels his extravagances and the few who dare to speak the truth are quickly cut down by his charm. I’m sure that one day, a noticeable hunch will replace the now straight spine as the God he ignores forces humility upon this most reluctant follower.

If the man be bereft, give him solace. If he be in physical torment, give him medicine. If he be to the desire of death, give him hope.” Reason, encouragement, and faith bring hope, therefore use them liberally.—Francis of Assisi

Would this man, the one who believes that the universe is conspiring against him, even understand the words of a saint? Cynicism and impending doom are his mantras. He has neither the ability to grasp the concept of hope, nor dispense it. Maybe he is becoming more proficient of sloth. This absence, or insufficiency of love, particularly the ability to express it thereof, endangers his soul and destroys those who extol optimism for his salvation.

Currently, self-service rules his heart while lust ravages his mind as he courts his fourth wife. He hopes to make a fresh start... even before he is finished with his current marriage. He courts her even though he knows that his wife is watching, even though he knows his disregard is hardening her against him; he is unable to stop himself. This repeated pattern may very well mark his fourth attempt at matrimony. I saw how his wife slowly dissolved his mask. Misguided by love, she truly thought the façade hid a beautiful soul. It was heartbreaking to watch the horror come across her face when she realized the true image unfold.

He has searched hard over the past five years for next object of his obsession. Two previous, intended mistresses momentarily accepted the role before escaping, wounded, but intact. I don’t think the current one will fare so well.  His love of self is so perverted that in transcends into hatred and contempt for others, even if that is not his conscious goal. It is as if he is Dante’s chosen student and without much concern he has been the most willing pupil.