Archive for the ‘chaos’ Category

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A Consequence of Reflection

July 15, 2017

Who is more dangerous to you as an American citizen?

A president who lied to Congress about an extramarital affair.

– or –

A president who lies to America about colluding with an enemy state.

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I Remember One Saturday Night When I Was About The Age For Middle School

July 31, 2014

 

It must have been a Saturday night. According to a Rule of Life as revealed by the Wisconsin PBS on a Three Stooges television episode, my twin brother and I each took separate baths. I was in my bath.

We didn’t share baths, not anymore, because we were growing up and had become conscious of our anatomy. I don’t know who got the tub first and that does not matter. We never used the same water – Wisconsin is far from California. H-two-O comes to the Midwest from underground springs. And this was my bath.

I was soaking alone when my now-deceased dad barged in. The man had to, “Crap.”

I am pretty sure that’s what he explained and he used that word. He couldn’t wait or even ask how long I might take and finish. The option to abandon my bath never occurred to me nor was suggested by my father. He rushed into the unventilated room, dropped his drawers and immediately squatted upon the pot.

Gad, the odor was horrible. I swear I smelled death coming out of the man. Yeah, by my age then I knew precisely what dead things smelled like. At the same time, I remembered my dad coughing up blood before, in the same house. He left his diseased phlegm in that same un-flushed bowl. His liquid stew was now added to the contaminated cauldron. Thinking back, I recall my family had not yet lived in that house long.

I am certain the bowl had been flushed a number of times between these incidents. And I do mean I imply there anyway grew some infectious disease. Such was my imagination as a child. And being a sharp kid, I rationalized because my family no longer lived in the country or depended on a septic tank, the danger was carried by the city sewers, professionally strained and dumped a decent distance away into Honey Creek. Us kids or those before us, I can’t claim credit, nicknamed that thin waterway, “Shit-crick.”

At home and in my bath, I protested my father. “Why can’t you use the toilet in the basement?”

Nobody hardly ever used the toilet downstairs – it was used that often. The antique throne was in the laundry room. There was a lock on that door.

There was also a lock on the door beside that second toilet, which admitted, the exit opened into an attached garage. The architecture of the house and its plumbing was fashioned upon the foundation of the original stables of the city’s fire department. As were many abodes in my hometown, its prominent features were often cock-eyed.

The second toilet was taller than it’s younger upstairs cousin. The porcelain was cast that way, way back in… I don’t know when. It was old but it worked. I know in order to properly sit upon that particular John, in order to feel as if you have retained your balance and traction – Hey, those about to poop know the movement I’m trying to invoke – one had to sit on the tips of his or her toes.

I loathe to think my dad told me, “The toilet downstairs is broken.”

I knew it worked fine, but I think he said something in that respect. He didn’t know. Dad never did laundry or park the car in the garage.

“How could he know,” I grumbled to myself and held my nose. I am sure I answered something equivalent. Such was my attitude back then.

I crouched naked in the tub and grew anxious I retain some peace and dignity. Yeah, the man was unquestionably my biological father but I just did not know him well. I slept on the sun porch each morning he woke before dawn and smoked himself hoarse in the adjacent kitchen and I just never really knew enough to trust him. I didn’t want to know him, especially after suffering the second hand odiousness of his lungs. I would not because of random absurdities like this evening.

I didn’t like what I did know about him. For example, I knew he had not even considered using the second toilet because he was short guy. His legs would have dangled free from atop the seat. Swept like blowing curtains, his squashed and inverted trousers would have brushed silverfish and daddy longlegs across the bare and cold concrete floor. My own feet then already touched the ground but barely.

He hated being conscious of himself. He was that guy who refused to try on new hats because he believed his head was too small, smaller than anyone he knew. And dad never hunted for alternatives. He never explored, ask other people or just pick a different hat. Dangit. His static self-destruction was infuriating. Religion cemented my distrust of him.

For on that Saturday night years ago, I interpreted the Curse of Ham had come down and been revisited upon me. Satan engineered my damnation beyond my control. For that night, as had the iniquitous son of Noah, I glimpsed the Junk of My Father. I wondered if my dad or mom knew my tragedy. Neither of my parents regularly attended church and they usually went only on Christmas and for weddings. So I doubted either understood me.

I knew right away I was preordained for Hell. The United Church of Christ helped me realize everyone’s general fate. Here was mine in particular. The shameful vision was all that was required. The sight of the man’s spud-ish cudgel knocked me into the Lake of Fire. I felt the shame of Adam, and I sat naked, cowering beneath the noxious and invisible cloud of an indifferent god.

Mortified and left alone after a sponge-inducing ten minutes or forever, I collected myself, dressed and shunned the desecrated chamber. There was nothing more to my Fall. At bottom, there was no more to go. Even there, I did not wish my father to Hell. Soon after, a truthful stranger told me the place could not exist.

Almost twenty years after the death of my father and much further away, I do regret I could not say to him what I have tried to tell him so abrupt and at his end. There is nothing my father must answer. He missed me as much as I did him. And I decided I would make my own standards because no true ones were dictated to me. While I took care of the ‘me,’ I needed the man to save himself. Even today, I expect this miraculous thing from a father. I got a stinking memory.

 

– – Matthew Sawyer

 

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Haiku for a Gaunt Rainbow

January 30, 2012

Dream of Behemoth

She was a blind girl
Given sight so she may see
Life is agony.

This is Pamela.
In death, she eats the souls of the dead.
Friends call her Rainbow.

Here, death loves children
Because they’re harder to eat.
They call her Rainbow.

Youth evades her teeth.*
The old grow skinny and die
And restores her life.

Her name is Rainbow
She is an Angel of Death
Whom wears only black

* No, she is not a Vampire – something much worse. She is oblivion. Read Matthew Sawyer’s Gaunt Rainbow


Best Gaunt Rainbow Animated Gif

Books and ebooks available at LULU and Smashwords

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About Me … Again

January 28, 2012

Matthew Sawyer

About me … I don’t have any awards – not even an honorable mention. Heck, I didn’t even go to school to become a Writer – I was going to be a Fine Art Painter. Yet I had to pay my student loans. After college, I worked in Mental Health – as in schizophrenics and other assortment of severe mental disorders. All the while, I painted and drew – and wrote. I’m a Stephen King fan, so that may have something to do with my latter ambition in life. I was reading The Waste Lands (Dark Tower Book 3), much to my disappointment, and the Master‘s words spoke to me. King once said something about knowing you’re ready to write a book when you recognize the fact – paraphrased – “You can do better.” Grandiose, I know, but I knew the story I wanted to read – years of drawing monsters had spun my own mythology and I hoped for something comparable and real.

The book I wanted to write would fulfill a fading desire and breathe life into the chimeras I had sketched into my notebooks. That visual mythology was collectively called “The Mortui Philosophies.” I had tried animation, but the repetitive work only produced frustration. So much in fact, I joined the ‘sane‘ world and switched careers into Internet Technology. Secure, I had stopped painting and focused on a very rewarding career. After a few years lacking expression from my creative self and a disenchanting experience with the Gunslinger, my Pazuzu Trilogy took its first breath.

The trilogy was originally one untitled book – the one I had self-published at Llumina after a short list of rejection letters and a vast database of submissions to which publishers and agents never bothered to reply. I knew I needed help writing this epic and yet none seemed forthcoming – nobody really wanted to read my books, so I couldn’t even find a proofreader. That miserable year has passed and I since found guidance from other struggling authors at Authonomy.com. Still, that resource was drawn-out and improvements were made in small steps.

The only thing that stopped me from abandoning my Pazuzu Trilogy was an inability to find work – yeah I had since quite my job at a popular ISP. I do think my old age ( 44 ) stopped my entrance back into the world of technology. Faced with the obstacle, I worked hard to improve technical aspects of my writing – typing, revisions, reading, etc. My effort generated several revisions of my Pazuzu Trilogy and a story I again believe is an epic and not a horrid tangle of typos, tense missteps and incomplete sentences.

And there is the reason readers should read my Pazuzu Trilogy – it is a unique, blasphemous, scrubbed-til-Sunday epic. The Eighth Revision is the first pass in which I did not make major changes – I found typos and a few obtuse sentences, but other than those, the changes are smattering instances of changing blocks of text into dialogue. If my 4,000+ readers would please try Pazuzu – Manifestation again, I don’t think they’ll be disappointed – it’s the same story now told with an Active Voice and looks downright professional opposed my miserable self-publishing effort to date. I hope readers will enjoy the free ebook version of Manifestation – the first book in the trilogy – then tell everyone they know and buy the second and third books. Manifestation is background and Emergence is when the story really picks-up speed. The Seventh Revision was good, but the Eighth is better.


Matthew Sawyer's Pazuzu Trilogy

Purchase Pazuzu Trilogy Pocket books and Hardcovers at LULU.

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