Sir Kalen

I can do it! I can do all of it!

But I never said it was feasible. Or Probable. This we will say! I'm blind. Mortally. And this is how it all starts. We welcome the late hour, we embrace rhyme, we welcome her sister reason, but sanity never RSVP's, she never comes to call, nor does clarity. And so we must beg, for clarity to come. Please, come clarity. Take me somewhere, for this dream we live in, has become a nightmare. Yet what does the morning have to offer us? A savage ravaging? A mass murder of precious petty pretties? To whom do we run? to time and her healing hands? To each other's arms? Whom do we curse? the dizzying world that orbs around us? or the gods that mock our feeble attempts to patch our reality?

Why is it? Yes you, why is it, that we succumb to the arms of time, to the music and dreams of the night, awaiting the morn and the fresh opportunity she will bestow us? Is it not hope that we seek to embrace? Delicate fragile hope! Crushed daily, a beauty to be marred! Oh redundant repetative hope, in thee we trust? Her strength being in numbers? Blind! Blindly we walk straight with a clear resolution, begging life to be temperate, to be warm, to abstain from being glacier! Trod underfoot by the blinding impetuousness of life, the beauty of hope rises again and again, As some horrid monster that will not die. As some visage that will not fade! Oh sweet hope, you are both beautiful and hideous! Sweet paradox and dichotomy! you are married to hope in blasphemousy polygamy!

"Its in my hands, the sky, so bright its burning. Its for me to decide, in flames we'll reach heaven tonight."

"In your heart, I hear one other thing, that "I don't want to be the executioner" oh lurid sentimentality! He was right. Life is brutal to those who dream. What fragile dreams we have born. Delicate burdens. We are crushed as we bear them, and quelled when they are broken, we are spared, when they come to fruition. Oh sweet ideals of hope and heaven, I beg you, on my knees, betray us not. In pitiful desperation we have sought thee. Why? Why are we scorned and outcast? What have we done? What wrongs have we omitted? What tragedies can we be innocent of? All we wanted was to hope.

Now all I seek is the end of all hope. In bitterness, I am plagued with revenge. Poisoned with a jealous vengeance. Hope despised me, now am I justified in wrecking the life of hope? Tender justice, where is your frigid blind blade? Please?

Its not this, no more, no longer. Gone are those black nights of rage, insanity, and wrath. We are spent. We have lived and hoped. Our dreams are spent, our lives empty. Vain, it was vain to rage. Passion has abandoned our hands. Leaving us a paradigm of blearing pain. Where we cry, that it rips, and burns, it sears and hurts. We are answered with a derisive mocking question, "How does it feel? To be so alive?" Oh please, we beg and weep. Where once we would rage and war, We now beg and weep. When once we strove and rationalized, now we submit and blunder. Why once we would hope and dream, why now, we are empty, and despairing. We once drew pictures of innocent times, yet lacked color, inside the lines. We beg to be taken, somewhere, anywhere, for we cannot abide to live, in a dream, not even for one more day.

Oh please, we beg, just quietly, To take this life, we wait right here. Yet somewhere in a breath, one dares to breathe hope, to stay a while and breathe us in.

Where is it that it hurts the most? That in every turn, every bend and contortion we breath rationality. That in every ravaging desolation, disparage, and despair, we cling to something hopeful? Or will we never change, and only grow old and weak? How can we blindly and believably tell ourselves every night and morning, to hope, to dream. At the cruel weeping sound of every dream being pulverized, we whispering in disbelief, to dream yet again.

Dream on, dream on. Hope and aspire. Stagger along life's rocky road and dream on precious little one. Hold tight and cling to the one you love, and dream. Dream for her, Dream for you, Dream for we. Dream on dear little one. Remember life is precious? Tender aspirations. Gentle reveries, for all these dream on. For unbridled youth, boundless hope, for life, for joy, for her, dream on dear little one, Dream on.

Gently lie down, release thy mind to the shadows of the night, that whisper in the wind. To the mystique of the moon, to the dances in the moonlight, away dear little one, away, dream on away.

Dream on....

"Go home sweet angel, Go home." Those were my last words to her, her breath laboring in her chest. "Go home sweet angel, and dear Lord, welcome home, one more angel." I cried, kissing her forehead, that last kiss, she never felt, my tears on her cheek, she couldn't smile for.

It was today. It is today. Now is the moment, the hour, the fatal breath when I look out on the crowds, and call, "Behold! My grandmother." And no soft gaze does she give me. No smile of recognition, Her arm doesn't extend to take my hand. She's gone…..

"Sweet angel, welcome home."

These arms which tremble now, are the same arms I told her about. Consoling her, reminding her, "its ok grandma, I'm young and strong, I can carry you." I carried her, to her deathbed. I set her down gently, I placed the pillows under her head, I comforted her, as her eyes no longer gazed into this world, but strode a far off, to some land behind and beyond me. "Its ok Grandma, I'm young and strong, I have you, you aren't going to fall." Some sort of twisted grim reaper that I am, I carried her to her deathbed.

These trembling arms, caressed her forehead, stroked her arm.... These shaking hands, they felt for her pulse, listened for her heart. They told me she had gone home.... That she had left us. That she was free! Free from her cancerous body. Free from the pain....

Its not real is it? It can't be. Just last night, I stayed with her. It cannot be. The body before me, I see as my grandma, is naught but a shell... I'm all out of tears, I cannot cry, I cannot cry. I remember, the last thing my grandmother said to me, as I bade her goodnight. It was the most beautiful thing I ever heard. "Its ok Kalen, Its ok, every teardrop is love."

If only the sobs and cries could ease her passage, yet I'm all out of tears. Fresh out of sobs.

She abides in heaven, before the throne of her savior. She smiles, she is happy, as always. She is glad. She had taken a shower this morning, she is before her Lord, clean, spotless. The ageless work of sanctification is complete in her. It is now, she approaches his throne, and takes his hand, through the ascendancy and grandeur of the heavens she points down, to her beloved family, about her bed, and I know she softly whispers, to the almighty Lord of creation, "Bless them dear Jesus, Bless them."

And down here, as I look upon her body, I can only be consoled, as I whisper, "Sweet angel, you are home."

What is is this? This is written, at 11:15pm, from the bedside of my grandmother. My grandmother, whose life is rapidly being claimed by cancer. I observe her now. At this very moment, I look upon her face, cringed, twisted as she bears the pain. Yet still she manages a weak laugh, recounting the story of her first grandchild.

She grimaces, the pain contorting her body, her eyes are closed. She asks me to gently rub and caress her stomach, pained from the cancer. She seeks rests, but no slumber comes to close her eyes. Only pain, and a false tantalizing peace from narcotics. Her head is grayed, her eyes are closed, her hands, folded on her chest as she quietly prays to God. My eyes water as I beg of the same God, to spare her, that I understand and comprehend. Yes it lends no compassion or pity. Comprehension spares me no mercy or sympathy. I can see her. I silently pray, that dear sweet God, you may have her. What little voice I have with the throne of heaven. What pitiful consent I can give, the powerless voice of my sanctioning… dear God, you may take her. I have said that I love her, I have lent to her my voice, my compassion my sympathy, my life. I have kissed her forehead, I have consoled her, and hugged her. It is not that I have fulfilled my duty, or appeased my conscience, that brings me to say to God, that he may take her. No guilt or some justification, that I have been a part of her life, that permits me to release her. But a genuine desire for her peace. I can comfort her soul, wrap me arms around her, whisper that I love her, and that I’m here for her. I can caress her, help her up, give her my respect, and dignity, gently run my hands through her hair to console her… But I cannot spare her body the pain. I cannot comfort her soul, as Her Christ and savior can.

Sobs wreck my body, twisting and contorting me, yet still, I run my hands through her hair, listening to sighs, mixed with pain and relief from my gentle touch. Her sight is dimmed, and all but lost, yet her keen ears pick up my heavy breathing, holding back the tears and screams of sorrow and futility. She whispers through her pain, she consoles me! Oh sweet angel, who is my grandmother. Consoling my pain, in the midst of her pain. She whisper gently, "its ok Kalen, I know it will be over." She whisper that to me, and I can barely restrain the maddening sobs welled up inside me! Oh precious grandmother, I can only whisper that I love you, and that it will be ok. For I have a hope that is beyond the grave, that stretches further than a mere dash between two dates. I know the reader will look upon this, and only shallowly understand. They will think this is the sorrow of a young lad, a tender soul, a naive boy, a simple man… But its not just that. This is the dear soul, the angel in my life that held me as a newborn, rejoicing as I cried upon entering this world. She has been a part of my life, since I was in the womb. My 2nd mother. And now, after 21 short years, I must hold her hand, observe her ragged breath as she hangs on to this world by a thread. I willingly am one of the last comforts she has. A soft voice by her bedside as she begs sleep to spare her the pain.

Her voice is weak. It is no exaggeration that I cannot help but wonder, will this breath be her last? Is it a wonder? That I could beg that this breath be her last? I once cried, spare me the time. Now I cry, spare her the pain!! She was an angel in this life. Truly she was. It is not bitterness, remorse or anger that prompts this cry. A cry that asks, "Why must she endure this?" No acrimonious rationality prompts such a cry. But a beg, a pleading, of mercy, a sincere soft question begs "Why must she endure this?" A cursed reality asks me how any other life will leave this world?

This rationality asks me, is not my grandmother blessed? To be in the arms and care of those she loved, and those her loved her? That in the house of loved ones, she will breath the sweet air, shared by those she loved, and who loves her in return.

I have left her now. She will return to sleep. I have wept and cried with her. She has blessed me, and held me, in all her fragile strength. She has whispered words of comfort to me, and in return, I only offer sobs. She has tenderly whispered to me, as my tears fall upon her chest, that they are tears of love. That each teardrop is love…

I've whispered in her ear, prayed with her, holding her hand tightly. Thanked her, for being the angel in my life. She has blessed me, held me gently, thanked me, for my caring, love, and being the blessed grandchild…

My grandmother, in my arms, she is dying…

I can do it! I can do all of it!

But I never said it was feasible.

One year later... Oh how time mocks us. As if life is a miserable side show for the lurid amusement of the grim reaper. It's only been a year. What is? Some sore sport and sort of comedy of errors? Where life is paraded by with neon lights of irony? Curse you, you angel of death. What sadistic sport you make of our realities. It's only been a year, and already, you deprive me of 1 grandmother, so soon will you be back to claim the other? Is this some contrite and twisted billboard you send us? You leave me mere hallowed memories, and time will soon make them hollow. Oh I cannot rage, but only beg, beg of you, please, spare me the time. Spare me the time from the millennia's, where you have claimed countless other lives with equal and equivocal care. Spare me yet some more time, let me finish, a shrine, the work of my hands, a shrine, a tormenting edifice, akin to the scared hideousness of the ancient pyramids. Memories and reminders, of death's inexorable hand. Please, her death will plague me enough, contort not the work of our hands, into something we will regret. Regret that we could not finish what we started. Leave us not to recount our days and hours, tortured by hindsight. As a blighted consultant, measuring out and judging the history of our clocks

Spare me the time... I beg of you, Spare me the time. I stand not proud or demanding in your bleak face, but submissive, pleading to your cold hollow heart that holds no compassion. Please, do not let what was once beautiful, turn into a bleak black regret. Spare me the time!

It's cold and crass. To see it now, to observe the mockery of life, twist and contort a sanctuary, into a dwelling place of emptiness, scorn, and regret. To strip a man of the one he loves, and loved, for over half a century. Oh dear Grandfather, the tears I will weep of you. Empty and hollow I will sit with you, to stare into the bleak distance, observing the prism of sparkling life and light she has taken with her.

For this, and all, I dedicate, to my Grandmother.

Once, I could say with pride, "behold, my grandmother." For there was none like her. And there still is none. But now, it's an eye of pity I cast upon her. A fragile embrace we endear, when I hug her. The life slowly leaving her body, retreating, yet still that life, in her dim eyes. A tottering walk, hesitant, unsure of the ground before her, yet confident of the life in front of her. Yes with pride, I will now say yet again, "Behold my grandmother" I feel time has cruelly withered her hand, paling her skin, for she, is an angel among us. A sweet angel of compassion, care, love, and gentle hope. "Behold My Grandmother!"

I fear, that close at hand, is the day, I will speak to the masses, "Behold, my Grandmother," yet not a smile will I illicit from her face. No weak gaze with dim eyes to the direction of my voice. No smile to light up her countenance, as she recognizes my voice as I step into her limited sight. No gentle hug from her, as I introduce her to the woman I love, as her husband has loved her. She will have left us. Gone will be her soft voice, of "Kalen is that you? Or is it Les?" Her laugh, as she realizes it is me, and how I've grown, into the likeness of her own son. Oh cruel irony of life. Spare us your mockery now. Please, let one, aged, white hair, gentle, tender and compassionate, pass without your burning satire.

Render me not helpless. Keep me compassionate. Render me not useless, left with words pasted in my mouth. Observing her, as she gently rocks in her chair. Loose my tongue, free me, to pay homage to a life, that has showed me who angels are. I know I cannot hold on to her forever, that would be a grave injustice to her on my part. Yet still, I want to be free, to let her pass, to know and feel, free somehow, inexplicably some how...

As if one could have complete understanding with the hand of death, to denigrate this into a sort of transaction. None of these I would have. But still, I am yet attached to her. The icon of my ideals, observing once again, that dreams from the heart of a child, coming to fruition on the cupboards of precious grandmothers. Forgive me, spare me, and understand me. I must find some hope, small shred of precious glinted light. And this is it. The life of my grandmother, whose mornings, without fail, where spent prayer for all her children and grandchildren. I know now, she has no need for those prayers, for daily will she walk before the throne of the almighty creator, in a new body, free of this life's plague and disease. In her own way, will she take his hand, and point through the clouds and heavens, with eyes no longer dimmed will she point us out individually. "See there my Lord? My precious grandson Kalen? Keep him this day, as you have so faithfully all the years of his life. Keep him one more day my Lord."

A fire smoldered in a stately place for fires, leaving little impact in a room pleasantly lit, offering little warmth for the encroached soul, which sat alone in a chair, hypnotized by the soulful embers. A small draft ushered in a youth, rosy cheeked, capturing a life dancing in the transition of boy to man. Eyes glowing with a curiosity typical of his age, unchecked, dreams and vivacity eloping with his imagination. He paused in the room, assessing it eagerly with curious glances, for this room was not to be part of his house. Unmistakably, his eyes were captured by the encroached soul, who stared back at him malevolently. Our young hero did not falter, in the typical heedlessness strident of their age, but strode forward a more, respectfully questioning the soul, seemingly bound to the chair. One thought cut through the air, "Who are you?" was the rhetorical question, piercing a deafening silence.

It was a misconception that the soul encroached in the chair, was there against his will. That frailty and dignity were cloaks he bore to shadow a broken body from reality. Nah, scorn and spite blazed from his sleeves, lurid passion lusted in his eyes. "Who am I?!" he spat back at our peerless hero, "I am tainted flesh, polluted soul. Torn apart, for a I care no more, Lost to regret, and to ask myself, 'Are you dead yet?'" Now our leer less hero has paused. Startled? Of course, but not from the obvious, not from the acerbic bile flung at him. But at the garish passion with which a twisted soul spoke, that a seeming frail, broken and crushed life could house such strength.

"Truthfully you have spoken, and answered." Demurred the young dreamer, "Why are you?" He further probed. The bitter soul sat back, wondering, whether to cry or fume. Yet neither did he indulge in. A frail and hollow laugh emitted from his lifeless face. Oh he laughed! Cold and cruel, sharp and succinct, long and leering. "Oh sweet naive lad. Precious soul untouched, unmarred, beautiful, handsome, quaint and cute... and WORTHLESS!! Look upon me! For I am you!! Lost dreamer, wandering aspirer, whimsical fancier!! Look before you, behold beyond you, I am you! Scarred, battled, beaten, dominated, and fatefully alive... your future, behold me!" Rage and vitriolic abhorrence incarnate - this was no frail life before our precious lad.

It was now, our priceless lad was shaken, stirred, almost abhorred by this deadnight warrior before him. Yet he lashed back out, passion springing to his eyes and slowly streaming down his cheeks. His voice was unwavering, clear, and acute, "Twisted old man! Warped and contorted by time and vice! I denounce you! You are, and cannot be the vision of my age! You are not the herald in my dreams, nor the voice pleading in the night, you cannot be the representative of a cause! A cause just and noble for which the precious gem of youth will strive for, a cause - for my life!"

"A cause for your death!" sneered the cryptic soul, "The cause for living, shall claim the living, swindling naive and seemingly precious life. What you live for, will take that life! It's not a cause, but a comedy! A ridiculous comedy of errors. A slapstick blunder of hope, a horror of regret... You poor deluded soul, I am you. The delusion of your age, the herald in your nightmares, the voice pleading at midnight, a representative for a cause, a lost cause! The tragic horror and nightmare, the hull of a sunken ship, a leering warning that mocks the passerby. Yes, I am you!"

"Never!!" shrieked our young soul in tragedy. His eyes flaming with horror and hope, "Never! I am not those! I am the life of a cause, the hope of the gods, the promise of an aspired future. I am the sweet dreams of your youth! The precious reveries, the ones you never had! I am the aspirations of your embittered life! Your bile and cursing is wrought from futility! A wrenching poisoning envy boils inside you at this my life! The sweet dreams that soured your soul, the precious pretties the poisoned your promises! You are naught but ghost! Smoke mirrors and a masked memory! Warped by, and warping through time! To taunt me! Oh terrible amusing travesty! You are naught but an allusion! Cursed to behold a life you once tasted! Torn by aspirations you once believed in! Bound to regret, the life you once lived and could have lived! Tortured! And to escape such torment you have wrecked you body, your life. Tainted your flesh, polluted your soul, left to regret, not asking yourself, but pleading with yourself, hoping to hear the affirmative of 'Are you dead yet?' oh you duplicitous facade! You are no herald, but a ghost, a smoke, blown and twisted! Whereas I! Sweet young and yes, naive little I! What a cause that is worth living, is the cause that is worth dying. Your tormented soul is bound here! And life decries that, does she not? As a young maiden, held captive and bound. She decries it, wanting to run free and live to love! Life must not be bound here! You know it! You are left to regret and question your life. Regret! That you are a causeless life? You are sent here! Not to rail against me, but for my life to crush yours! To fuel your regret! To behold what you once could have been and were!"

At this, the encroached soul whitened, grasping and locking down, with fragile hands, the chair beneath him. His hands twisted, fragile, yet a bitter poison ran through them, lending them an unnatural strength. The wind torn from his sails, floundering, yet not helpless. His eyes cursing over and over, every shred of life and naivety in the soul standing before him. Loathing the tears that streamed down his cheeks, reminding him of life, a life where he could once cry. Of a memory, a virility that once was his. Of the life that was no longer his. Twisted and contorted, he now spoke.

"Can you live now lad? Or have you been robbed? Robbed of your delusion, and a shred of your innocence? Can you bear it? Do you now see it, or not?" his voice low, almost hissing with loathing, yet unwavering, crystal, "Do you see it? The cruelty of life? Raping you of your naivety, for insidiously, she has sent you, as a judge. A temperate life as yours, an aspiring soul unbounded, has been treacherously bound to a chair, a gavel forced in his hand, beguiled into condemning a hideous life. Where is your naivety now? Shirking into a dark corner, squelched by a cause perhaps? Deluded, that life won't claim you, in exchange for a cause. But leave you alone, spent and wasted, a soul, encroached and lonely in a chair, beholden two cursed tokens. A fire smoldering, calmly, accepting the fate dealt to it, contently burning away its own existence. Or a vivacious life before you, mocking your regret, slandering your polluted soul, and tainted flesh. You too will once ask yourself, 'are you dead yet?' How will you live now lad? Your innocence wrecked, the delusion of utopia shattered. I should thank you lad." He chortled cruelly, "Thank you, for being a cruel judge, a cold adjudicator, a harsh arbitrator and a merciless jury. Yet amidst all those, you seem a wise one. Justices bosom is not warm embrace, is it? She is blind is she not? You are but a tool in her hands precious little one. A tool."

"leastways I serve a purpose!" spewed our virile hero.

"BRAVO!" was the acclamation of our acrimonious subject. "Embrace the scorching disappointment! The cauterizing of your innocence! Yes you are me!" with this the venomous soul laughed, a derisive, scathing guffaw. In the presence of this rancorous tirade, our leer less hero faded. The zeal in his eye subsiding, the vigor of his soul brimming. He turned to leave the room. Yet something stayed his hand, for he then returned to face the malevolent soul, beholding him with empty vision. Wordlessly, he stoked the fire, filling the room with a flirtatious warmth, beckoning the occupants therein to tranquility. He then offered the embittered soul in the chair, a meal, turned, and left the objection of pity with the antediluvian.

"Your compassion is calloused. Your pity is implacable!" the aged soul called after our departing hero. Who then turned inquisitively. "You kindness has robbed me, of any more hate I could bestow, and has awakened my worst antagonist, my conscience. How can I loathe or attack the man who spares unto me, the few indulgences that life has stripped me of. Yet I am poisoned, unable to thank you either, and my time here is limited, hope is fleeting, outstripping these old bones… I cannot follow after her."

"Then perhaps what little consolation I can leave you is not pity, but memory. Perhaps, some solace will be found in your soul, in that your memory will out live your life. That in the short, I won't forget you." And so the door closed. And the twain, were never seen again.

One must wonder surely? Honestly, since when has Sir K delved into political blogging? And this is no graceful delve, but a gregarious flailing and splash into an ocean of construed principles, clauses, causes and ideologies.

Now, To sum up the issue, something I am rather incapable of doing. Not just this issue, but summing up anything. Too much verbiage.

Summary: An encroachment of Personal/private freedom? A core ideology of this fair country.