The abandoned garden continues to grow, though a man may die in its making
Seen from afar its dereliction is beauty
Vases break, roots create...
What was always going to be form
I can still see the marks I made
Now others are wielding their spades
They make these outlines out to be their own
But I still see my work as set in stone.
A fullness lush has blossomed
I always knew one day I wouldn't hold it
A young mans work to toil and dig
To take disappointments in HIS stride
Maybe one day I will enter
See my form beneath brambles
My masterpiece yet to be reclaimed
When you invest years in a cause you cannot maintain, this folly will always forever be a part of you...
2015 / David Haygarth
Tuesday, 14 April 2015
Tuesday, 7 April 2015
THE SUM OF ALL PATHS - PART 5 - Exedus
Suddenly he was truly awake. It had all happened too fast. It was always nice that way. A reflex reaction to an emotional attack. Jerry's quick counter reaction, however childish had unleashed an unstoppable torrent upon his opponent. Two can play the hurt game he churned over in his mind. The result of course was that the tables had been turned on nominal nice guy, and it could be guaranteed he'd not like it. A taste of ones own medicine never went down well, especially if that medicine was a none to well disguised poison. And as if Jerry didn't know the difference by know...
None of this helped today though. Seeing his once friend Mitzi resurface as the weapon did nothing for his mood. In fact it seemed to set a new mood for a new age. Times had changed, boy had they changed. Somehow he had stagnated in Libya, got lost in a time warp, drifting without knowing or reason, still the recent ( well they seemed that way ) memories were everywhere. Oh, the idealism. Democracy and Dictatorship. Who cared which back then ? Today a new evil, yes evil had spawned. He had never admitted that real evil existed. He always found a sane or arguable case for the actions of all the varied spectrum of dubious humans he had encountered. Knowing these various factions mind sets had paved his way in the past to dancing his way out of trouble.
Today a new blackness had emerged from the jungle of freedom. It was unworkable with. Unusable and dead. An absolute, once obsolete ? It should never have returned from ancient history, or was that fiction ? No. fiction could not have written the actions of the group he called ISIS. It pained him to admit that there was no wiggle room here, and he was scared, really scared. The defeat of this group and the regaining of his friendship with Mitzi were mingled together in a terrible black picture of hell. It was not a case of sorting out either, those days were gone. It was a case now of how to walk away. To mess with either was a trap. For the first time in his life a lack of action was the most powerful action. How very Tao he laughed slightly to himself not wanting to believe a word of it. It was only then that he realised he was responsible for sowing the seeds of both situations. Well, they were heady days back then.
And then there were the dreams. It always started with him holding back a wall of card that was stretching and bulging with a force behind that suggested an immenint breach. Then came the vision of what was behind. Oriental warriors, dark hair, clad in armour, flags flying, black, red and yellow colours most prominent. Next came the hordes of regimented children, so many uniform children who clutched simple right angled pointed hacking weapons. These weapons were the worst of the dream, held by small hands, many hands, all unstoppable. The breach never came though. Awaking provided escape, but not relief. What did this fantasy army symbolise ? The Army was Oriental, but he was in Libya. Nothing made sense today. Nothing had made sense for 5 years. At least a fade to entropy would have brought some release...
The sudden slump of a realisation. All was lost, time to return home, whatever home was or had become in his absence. The blind Cherubs briefly came to mind. Surely he was no wiser in his new directions. Bishop Beasley briefly came to mind. A future in the Church maybe ? Well fanaticism was the flavour of the day. His recent re sampling of Magick cast his mind back to the crazy days of Cornwall, especially Tintagel. Such things seemed of a past life, but what better point to re-enter. Before he knew it he had dumped his Phantom V12 in a temporary airport car park gathering dust. It would gather a lot of dust before it moved again. He had no plans to return. He had no plans to kill again. God, even his reasoning was sounding like a cheap action film sequel promotion. He smiled and dropped his minds voice several notes deeper, and several beats slower. He found himself giggling. It really was time to leave.
His face grew redder on boarding his flight at the thought of England, the sea, the thunder, the rain and green trees. Where Mitzi was he knew. The respect was still there, but it was time to move on. He had, had a good innings and the tears were yet to come, and they would come if he chose to return to the past. He knew nothing of her colourful exploits, just her mundane general movements. He had indeed come a full circle. Sitting wearily in seat 23, his giggling began again. Skidoo, heading for home Jerry, heading for home. Libya -de-de-da-de-de-da Libya. His head swamp as the plane climbed...
None of this helped today though. Seeing his once friend Mitzi resurface as the weapon did nothing for his mood. In fact it seemed to set a new mood for a new age. Times had changed, boy had they changed. Somehow he had stagnated in Libya, got lost in a time warp, drifting without knowing or reason, still the recent ( well they seemed that way ) memories were everywhere. Oh, the idealism. Democracy and Dictatorship. Who cared which back then ? Today a new evil, yes evil had spawned. He had never admitted that real evil existed. He always found a sane or arguable case for the actions of all the varied spectrum of dubious humans he had encountered. Knowing these various factions mind sets had paved his way in the past to dancing his way out of trouble.
Today a new blackness had emerged from the jungle of freedom. It was unworkable with. Unusable and dead. An absolute, once obsolete ? It should never have returned from ancient history, or was that fiction ? No. fiction could not have written the actions of the group he called ISIS. It pained him to admit that there was no wiggle room here, and he was scared, really scared. The defeat of this group and the regaining of his friendship with Mitzi were mingled together in a terrible black picture of hell. It was not a case of sorting out either, those days were gone. It was a case now of how to walk away. To mess with either was a trap. For the first time in his life a lack of action was the most powerful action. How very Tao he laughed slightly to himself not wanting to believe a word of it. It was only then that he realised he was responsible for sowing the seeds of both situations. Well, they were heady days back then.
And then there were the dreams. It always started with him holding back a wall of card that was stretching and bulging with a force behind that suggested an immenint breach. Then came the vision of what was behind. Oriental warriors, dark hair, clad in armour, flags flying, black, red and yellow colours most prominent. Next came the hordes of regimented children, so many uniform children who clutched simple right angled pointed hacking weapons. These weapons were the worst of the dream, held by small hands, many hands, all unstoppable. The breach never came though. Awaking provided escape, but not relief. What did this fantasy army symbolise ? The Army was Oriental, but he was in Libya. Nothing made sense today. Nothing had made sense for 5 years. At least a fade to entropy would have brought some release...
The sudden slump of a realisation. All was lost, time to return home, whatever home was or had become in his absence. The blind Cherubs briefly came to mind. Surely he was no wiser in his new directions. Bishop Beasley briefly came to mind. A future in the Church maybe ? Well fanaticism was the flavour of the day. His recent re sampling of Magick cast his mind back to the crazy days of Cornwall, especially Tintagel. Such things seemed of a past life, but what better point to re-enter. Before he knew it he had dumped his Phantom V12 in a temporary airport car park gathering dust. It would gather a lot of dust before it moved again. He had no plans to return. He had no plans to kill again. God, even his reasoning was sounding like a cheap action film sequel promotion. He smiled and dropped his minds voice several notes deeper, and several beats slower. He found himself giggling. It really was time to leave.
His face grew redder on boarding his flight at the thought of England, the sea, the thunder, the rain and green trees. Where Mitzi was he knew. The respect was still there, but it was time to move on. He had, had a good innings and the tears were yet to come, and they would come if he chose to return to the past. He knew nothing of her colourful exploits, just her mundane general movements. He had indeed come a full circle. Sitting wearily in seat 23, his giggling began again. Skidoo, heading for home Jerry, heading for home. Libya -de-de-da-de-de-da Libya. His head swamp as the plane climbed...
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