Category: Wagging Tales

The Hedonist

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On January 6, 2017

In Wagging Tales

Just after midnight, easing the door shut behind him so as to not awaken his parents, Roland slipped out of the house and into his own life. At last!

Today was his birthday. Today changed everything. Yesterday he was a minor, a child under the control of his mother and father. Especially his father. His forever preaching moralist of a father. A Christian Fundamentalist pastor who never failed to shower him with unwanted advice. “Roland, can’t you see how selfish you’re being?” or “Your senseless pursuit of pleasure is only going to lead you to a bad end!” Blaa blaa blaa. And his mother wasn’t much better. Completely dominated by her husband, she rarely spoke and when she did, it was usually to apologize for some imagined offence. A sorry mouse of a woman. Well. No more of that! Today he was an adult under no responsibility but his own. Freedom! From this time forward he was going to do whatever he wanted. And what he wanted was pleasure. Sex and drugs and whatever kind of music he damn-well wanted to listen to. No more rules. No more denying himself just because someone else said it was wrong.

Money was no problem now. The vast trust fund left to him by his long-dead grandparents was now in his wallet in the form of a debit card. Roland was going to party!

And party he did. For years.

From New York to Miami; from Houston to Hollywood. He indulged himself in every way he could imagine. Fine food, fast cars and faster women. He quickly rose to the level of connoisseur when it came to exotic drugs. He began to travel around the world. Australia, Asia and India. To Egypt and to France. To any part of the globe where his hedonistic desires led him.

Eventually he became jaded however. The time came when felt like he had tried everything there was. Years of adventure. Endless parties. So many women that he could no longer remember them all. Bit by bit, the color drained out of his life and he found himself to be sad more often than he was happy.

And it was then that he met her. Lucy. Special, special Lucy. They met in Cannes during the summer and the two of them became inseparable. Love! All along it was love that Roland was looking for. Not just to take and experience. But to share and to care for someone in the deepest way. Lucy was good for him in so many ways. She was a quiet woman, raised in a good, Christian home. Morally upright, she could not tolerate his dissolute habits. For her, he quit drinking and smoking. For her he exercised regularly and began to watch his diet. He was loyal to her and she was loyal to him. He was healthy and happy. They married and just one year later little Carlie was born. He finally had everything he ever wanted.

More years passed. With age and experience, Roland began to see that his father had been right about a lot of things. He had been selfish in the past but now he wanted to do right by his family. He started a small business using the money he had left. He took some classes. He joined a church.

Lucy rejoiced to see him return to his old-fashion roots. She had a similar background and did not take offense when Roland declared himself the head and leader of their little family. “But I would have you know, that the head of every man is Christ; and the head of the woman is the man; and the head of Christ is God.”, he was fond of quoting. She silently accepted this. After all, it was in the Bible. Plus Roland was always happiest when he got what he wanted.

More time passed and Roland decided that he wanted to serve God. He yearned to do the righteous work of the Lord. He took more classes. He became a Baptist minister. It was something he truly desired.

The work kept him away from his family but he secretly felt that to be a relief. He still loved Lucy of course, but she had become a bit drab over the years. Boring even. More servant than lover. And Carlie! Carlie had been a kind, studious child but she had developed a wild and independent streak as a teenager. He had caught her drinking lately and had smelt marijuana on her breath. And he could not abide that boyfriend of hers. Tad with his sneers and cigarettes. He feared for her soul but just couldn’t get through to her. Worry consumed him sometimes. His life had become somewhat empty. Somewhat miserable. This was not what he wanted.

One evening Roland returned home to find Carlie sprawled drunkenly on the porch swing. “Hi Dads!” she giggled.
Roland shook his head. “How old are you Carlie?”
“You know how old I am.”
“Your not old enough to drink alcohol and I will not tolerate this in my house!”
“Good thing I’m not in the house then, huh?”
Roland fumed. He started to reply but Carlie cut him off.
“Don’t worry Dad. On Wednesday I turn eighteen and then I’m outta here,” she slurred. “Me and Tad already got a place lined up. So you can just fuck off!”
Roland spotted movement of the curtain on the door window. He knew Lucy was there, crying silently. His anger melting into despair,
he pleaded, “Carlie, can’t you see how selfish you’re being? Your senseless pursuit of pleasure is only going to lead you to a bad end.”

“Blaa blaa blaa,” she retorted.

Then she just laughed.

Sacred, “Gee, I’m a Tree!”

By

On November 25, 2016

In Wagging Tales

Once upon a springtime on the floor of an enormous forest, a small and tender shoot broke up through the ground. A pair of tiny leaves opened tentatively and felt the warmth of the sun for the very first time.

“Look! Look at me!” cried the little green shoot. “I am alive! The Lord has created me! He must have great plans for me indeed!” Days passed as the little plant continued to grow and strengthen. More leaves appeared. Photosynthesis started up in earnest and she drank from the life-giving earth and pulled energy from the carbon dioxide and sunlight surrounding her. Filled with exuberance, she prayed fervently to God. “Thank-you Lord, for creating me! I know you will do great things with me and I can’t wait until you tell me what my place in this wonderful world will be.”

Just then a baby rabbit hopped up and sniffed at the tender young shoot. Before the little plant had a chance to introduce herself, the bunny bit off and ate one of her leaves. The plant was shocked and horrified. “Help me Lord!” she prayed, and the bunny went on his way.

More time passed and the little shoot grew into a slender sapling. Although she was now much stronger, she was a little less confident and happy because she knew that bad things could happen to her at any time. She continued to ask God to reveal His plan. To ask Him what her role in creation would be.

A year went by. Insects nibbled at her leaves and roots. She suffered these small but countless agonies in humble silence, knowing that God had a plan for her.

More years went by and she grew into a fine, tall tree. Birds and squirrels made their nests and raised their families in her branches. Tired travelers rested in the shade at the base of her trunk. “Look at me now Lord,” she said. “I am big and strong and in the prime of my life. Tell me the task for which You have created me. I am ready.”

Seeds began to appear on her branches one summer and the tree was delighted. Perhaps she would begin a dynasty of fine trees that would a become part of the mighty forest surrounding her!

But autumn came and the wind blew the seeds away. “What are you doing to me Lord?” she cried in her grief. “All I want to do is to serve you and have a purpose but you never hear my prayers. Did you create me for nothing? I am so tired of being useless!”

Many, many years went by but nothing changed. The tree grew old and bitter. One summer a nearby tree was struck by lightning and destroyed. “Was that meant for me Lord? Why don’t you just kill me and end my useless existence?”

The very next spring a man passed by and marked her trunk with red paint. “What is this?” wondered the old tree. “He did not mark all the trees in the clearing, just me! I am special for some reason. Has my destiny finally arrived?”

A few weeks later, more men came with axes and saws. They chopped the tree down. As she lay dying, the men cut her trunk into logs and tossed them into a nearby river to be floated to the sawmill. In her final moments, she railed against the cruelty of God.

“Why did you even make me Lord? Just to have me killed? I tried so hard to be special, to be of some use to You and the world you created. But you never gave me a purpose! You never gave me a chance! My whole life has been a complete waste.”

“I hate you!”

Le Scaphandre et le Papillon

By

On November 25, 2016

In Wagging Tales

His dream was shattered by the harsh clang of the cell door. Opening his eyes, the man on the top bunk was aware of the receding footsteps of the night guard. The darkness outside the tiny, barred window gave no clue to the hour. Only that it was still night.
Beneath him, the bed jostled gently as someone sat on the bunk below.
Coming quickly to wakefulness, he lay listening. Who was his new cellmate? Should he speak now or feign sleep until daylight? He knew that actual sleep would be impossible until he knew the nature of the man below. To hell with it.
“Hey there,” he said in a low voice. A brief silence followed.
“Hello,” a wary voice answered. “I am Jacques. And you?”
“I am Claude.”
“Pleased to meet you Claude. I am sorry if my arrival woke you.”
“Ah, so am I! I was dreaming of the most wonderful place.”
The bed shifted again. Jacques stood up, his head a dim gray blob in the darkness to Claude’s left.
“Claude, do you have a lamp?” asked Jacques. He spoke in an odd, detached voice.
“I have but a single candle. The guard lights it for me in the evening but once I blow it out, I must wait for morning to see again.”
“Oh,” said Jacques, sitting back down again. “I have a cigarette and I wished to share it with you.”
Claude smiled in the darkness, relaxing slightly.
“Thank-you Jacques. We will smoke together when morning comes. For now all I can suggest is sleep.”
“Is that your escape, Claude? Sleep?”
“No,” sighed Claude. “Dreaming is my escape.”
Several minutes passed. “Goodnight,” Claude whispered softly, thinking perhaps his new acquaintance might have gone to sleep.
“Do you love to dream?” Jacques whispered back.
“Ah yes. Sometimes those places seem more real than this accursed cage.”
“Aren’t they?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean don’t you ever wake up in your dreams?
“Wake up from my dreams?”
“No. I mean waking up IN the dream.”
“Oh, I know what you mean! Yes! There are times when I suddenly realize that I am dreaming. When that happens I can make the dream become whatever I wish.”
“And what do you do when this happens?”
“I fly! Always I go outside and I fly through the air.” Claude was smiling now, his head filling with the memories.
“That is real freedom isn’t it?”
“Oh yes. There is no better freedom. I only wish I could experience it whenever I want.”
“But you can, Claude.”
“What do you mean?”
“How do you wake up in your dreams?”
“Well,” said Claude, thinking, remembering, “Usually it begins when I notice something is not right. The last time, there was an iron latch on a door that I knew should have a wooden knob. This causes me to ask myself whether I might be dreaming. Then I test things. I see if I can float or make something appear in my hand. If this happens, I know I am dreaming. I know I can fly.”
“Well my friend, here is a little clue. If you find yourself asking whether a place or a thing is real, that means it is not.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that true reality is readily apparent. Ask yourself if this is real now. Are you dreaming you are in a prison cell or are you really here?”
“Ahh. Yes, I am afraid this place is all too real.”
“Okay, so you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I will try to remember that in my dreams.”
“Good. It will truly help. Now Claude, do you know what the next step is?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I am talking about the layers. What you call real now may be just a dream to someone who is more truly conscious.”
“What?”
“I mean that you can wake up from this dream that most people think is real. The great mystics call it Awakening with a capital “A”.”
“Now you are talking like a crazy man.”
“No! I am serious. If you can wake up from this dream, you will have power over it. Just like you can in your dreams. Then you will be able to really fly!”
Claude sighed to himself. His hopes of finally having an intelligent conversation fading. His new companion was just as crazy as the last one. Outside the window, the first pale rays of dawn crept into the sky. He sighed again
“Okay, Jacques. Whatever you say.”
Sitting up, he swung his legs over the edge of the bunk. “Soon the guard will be here with our breakfast. Then we will smoke that cigarette of yours.” He leapt to the floor, wincing from the chill of the cold stone on his bare feet.
He turned to face his new cellmate. “Jacques?”
The bottom bunk was empty.
He was alone in the cell.

“What’s wrong dear? A bad dream?”
“Sort of, I guess,” mumbled Jacques, sitting up in the bed. “I was in a prison or something.”
“Well you’re free now,” murmured his wife, putting a warm, soft arm around him. “Now lay back down and go to sleep.”

Per Ardua Ad Astra(l)

By

On November 23, 2016

In Wagging Tales

“Grampa?” asked the little boy, “Whatcha lookin’ at?”
The old man looked down from his rocking chair on the porch and smiled.
“Hey Abe. Your mamma know you’re out here this late?”
“Yeah. Her and Daddy are just watchin’ a bunch of guys shootin’ each other on TV. I don’t like seein’ that stuff.”
“Don’t blame you boy. Don’t care for that stuff myself. Scares you does it?”
The boy climbed up on his grandfather’s knee. Putting his head back on the old man’s chest, he wrinkled his nose and said matter-of-factly, “Naw. Daddy says its all fake. They use ketchup that looks like blood. I don’t like stuff if it’s fake.”
The old man started rocking the chair again. His gaze returned to the velvet night sky overhead.
“Whatcha lookin’ at?” repeated the boy.
“Just making sure all the stars are where they should be.”
Abe laughed. “How many stars are there Grampa?”
“Well,” said the man, taking a draw off his pipe, “They say we can see about 2000 of them. But the universe really goes on forever.”
“Yoonverse?”
“U-ni-verse. The whole big place we live in.”
The boy opened his mouth as if to say something more but then changed his mind. The two of them rocked in silence for a while.
“Grampa?”
“Yes, Abe?”
“How many are there?”
“Stars?”
“No, universes.”
The chair stopped rocking. The old man kissed the back of the boy’s head.
“Now that’s a good question.”
Abe grinned. “Are there a lot of different universes, Grampa?”
“Infinite,” whispered the man.
“What does that mean?”
“It means they go on forever and ever.”
“Just like the stars?”
“Just like the stars.”
The boy was quiet for a minute. Then he asked, “So everything’s real? None of it’s fake?”
“What do you mean, Abe?”
“Well, if everything is forever, then whatever I see when I close my eyes must be real somewhere.”
“You mean like dreams?”
“Yeah! Make-believe stuff must be real somewhere.”
“Umm, well, I wouldn’t go that far, Abe.”
“But I can! I can go anywhere and I can be anything and it’s all real!”
The old man said nothing for many long minutes. Then he tapped out his pipe and put it in his pocket. Rocking forward, he gathered the boy in his arms and stood. Then, casting one last look up at the infinite sky, he carried the boy inside and put him to bed.

Later, sometime in the night, the god-boy died, the ghost of a grin on his cold little lips.

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