Monday, August 29, 2016
Take counsel for you do not know whom the Lord has sent forth— nor who be his servant (slave or king)!
For it was He who gave despondency and desolation to the devils and their kind!
Put them under stones and rocks, in crevasses, and grottos, and cold chambers within the earth’s bowels where they now worship!
Have you forgot who slayeth the prince in his youth and rulers at their marriage-feast, and made slaves grow old in bondage?
Who made kings and queens, politicians, and the powerful, their secrets known, and their unknowns, known to the many, for vultures to devour in their sleep…?
Take counsel, for you do not know the Lord’s next move, perhaps the worm is unhatched that will consume thee!
Behold! In his anger He can break temples, make them into ruins—
Pillars snap and bow, walled cities fall!
And should the ruler be a jackal, the toad shall be judge, if he so wishes, and the jackal the servant, and at the end, the dung of the lion shall be thereon his testimony and saga.
Behold! Take counsel while you can, for the Lord God has ordained every shadow over thee—
And as for darkness, know that there is such a place thereof?
Where light does not dwelleth!
Know it because, God gives wisdom to those whom seek it, and to those wick souls, He keeps it.
Lo, God has deprived the hardhearted of wisdom, and they live in vain without fear; thus, he has not departed to those understanding, but rather to those hypocrites in heart, heaped with wrath, he has blinded, and bound.
And his thoughts are from eternity.
Know by reason of your dismay, which words come from the Lord, and are for thee!
#5346/Written 8-26-2016 (7:20 p.m.)
Note 1: Wisdom and reason, for this poem sought from the Book of Job and in part from George Sterling’s book, “The House of Orchards” that also entails wisdom from the Book of Job. The secret often sought after, for me anyhow, is why the blind are so blind, when it comes to perception, insight, and penetration of God’s will.
Note 2: Being blind to a fact, the author means in essence, if all the proof in the world was brought to you, volume after volume, as might be the case in proving that Jesus Christ did really exist, blindness will not allow you to see this fact, as might be the case in American Politics, and in of course in other countries as well.
Sunday, August 21, 2016
Copernicus, also known as Planet 55 Cancri e, or the Diamond Planet, twice the size of earth, some forty-light years away, that has an orbit so close to the sun, its 2000 c at its surface. The planet takes eighteen hours to circle its sun. Its mass, eight times that of earth, and it is rich in carbon, inferring rich in graphite, coal, limestone and petroleum and above all, diamonds, all commercially important molecules for earth. It is said, the smallest diamond is the size of a large thumb, and the largest—of which are many—the size of a five to six foot stalagmites. The problem for Donald Rump Olton, billionaire industrialist, is that its atmosphere is much too condensed with hydrogen cyanide and prussic acid, thus poisonous, and no water, and very hot. Hence, one can see with the clap of an eye, this planet is for the most part, sealed off to any earthly invasion. Or is it?
As the old saying goes: if there’s a will, there’s a way! And Mr. Donald Rump Olton, was going to find it one way or another. From earth, it looked no more than a common pebble, a closer look, it looked like a chicken egg. Then Mr. Olton’s scientists discovered a crack, a large crack in the larger end of the planet, like the Grand Canyon, and as deep as the Colca Canyon in Peru.
For the industrialist, Mr. Olton, of New York City, diamonds began to run gradually inside his head, wheels made out of diamonds, he had to perceive, recognize the unperceivable, and create a mechanism to mine them. There came that industrial devil’s whisper of a hundred flutes in his head: faster and faster the diamond wheels revolved. Then came a thought, ‘Did not Solomon put giant demon to work for him in building his temple?’ Yes indeed so legend says he did. “Why can’t I?”
Thus, he called to the Master Demon, Arch Devil Belphegor, who dominated the netherworld. When he appeared there was a terrific suction, an unseen current more powerful than a 6.5 earthquake, had there not been gravity and a thick atmosphere above Olton’s head, he’d had been plunged into black frigid space.
As well as I can recollect there was no loss of time in the meeting and at its end, Mr. Olton had signed his soul to the devil’s dominion: “Nothing for nothing” said Belphegor. And hence, the forces of the netherworld had a job for twenty-years to look forward to.
Belphegor selected a force of twenty giant demon, mostly complainers, complaining while on the job of numbness, painful tingling’s, blisters and rosiness from the 2000c surface mines on planet, 55 Cancri e, but in time they got accustomed to it. The good news was, the demonic labor force needed no water, or pure air, and therefore steady and slowly they could plunge through the sun’s flames as the planet circled its star, somehow these unfamiliar spirits became analogous to the sun in a short period of time, adapting to its unpleasantness quite well, and not so unlike the earth’s molten under crust of magma, and mostly unaffected by its heat, just a tinge irritable with the fluttering of the sun’s fire that burned into the planet’s surface, more often than not.
The whole world could not guess where Donald Olton come up with such large diamonds, and until his death the demonic force throbbed with unnamable energies to dig them out for Mr. Olton, to build his towers and skyscrapers, the world over. But all good things come to an end, consequently, on his deathbed, he lay with an alien sadness, it was all so short lived.
Written: 2-17-2016/5073 / Copyright © February, 2015 by Dennis L. Siluk, Dr. H.c.
((A Primitive Story) (in Poetic Prose))
I live on the planet Pluto.
I live like mist, vapor in a kind of impregnable bright bubble, as thick as the old walls of Troy.
Waiting, I’m always waiting, it is all I know.
I see the cold stars of night and the glitter of the sun—
At times I see the blue planet called Earth, it is nearly as old as Pluto.
It is hard for me to explain who I am, when I really don’t know what I am, or how I came about.
I need comparisons!
And I know of none!
Thus, I cannot explain.
I am lonely and old, I know that.
Sometimes I feel numb, like the thick ice on Pluto.
The atmosphere drifts off the planet like someone smoking a Lucky Strike in an open bar, I got that information from listening to old radio waves from the Planet Earth.
I sense the cool silence of the long days here too, as long as Earth’s week!
Perhaps today is the day I will no longer have to wait?
A question to myself.
I see a metallic object from a distance.
I hear metal clashing with debris.
I can hear and I can see.
And I hear voices from afar, four-billion miles away.
“All right” I say, Earth voices are commanding the object!
Some of the words are familiar, can this object send a living being down?
It has an insignia on it.
If it lands I will look like a big eye to them.
But the object is just circling Pluto.
What are they doing?
It is a tireless task waiting.
Its construction is weird.
It took seven years to get here!
I’ve waited 10,000-years for this?
Now I know who I am! I think?
And I am nothing like them.
Man makes due anywhere, simply because he’s man; here there is only me.
I don’t breath like them, and I am per near inexhaustible—
Perhaps that’s the price one has to pay for longevity.
I hear pain and fear and sorrow in their voices, some rejoicing.
I hear they get sick too, I don’t.
They have happiness that of course is a byproduct, you need to make someone happy to be happy, it takes two, and this I don’t have, as I well know.
Their probe didn’t even see me, I wonder if I’m even visible to them?
I think what I am is some gravitational collapse of what was once a sufficiently compact mass form of something, and I’m the leftover, but what?
They have shadows, I don’t; I have words, and they have actions; I waste time, they can’t, it is a sin for them, and for them, time is a clock, and it is ticking.
#4914/11-20-2015 (Reedited and revised slightly, 12-27-2015)
The Hyperborean Mythos
“The year is 2045 A.D., and man has come to the point that he can, and does qualify as tenements of the new so called metallic-bodied beings, their brains incased in a spherical domicile; beings within shells who now can live a thousand years, so they are told, but that of course is still theory, yet to be seen. Their eyes kaleidoscopically, are made up of some kind of: constantly color changing recherché adamantine material; when the eyes blink, they emit flashes of lightening, bright as the North Star. Their voices are clarion, and still maintain—for whatever reasons—human respiration, although it is an add-on, and not so perspicacious in cost. The globular heads are triangular, the metal beings have a sort of cupola back, and it is very hard for genuflections in the church I am told. The human beings that choose not to buy one of these lasting devises, calling them marionettes-freaks, with brains, are being considered prejudice, not sure if I can agree with that but who’s to say. They are not arabesque. Nor do they need to eat like humans, although they need sleep for the brain to function, and a flow of nutrients likewise. Most folks who have purchased one in their old age, have kept their old bodies in storage, as in an urn, some made them into statues of frozen ash. There is a negative to this I found out, they are subject to the ravages of some corroding acids, should someone take advantage and pour this acid on the metallic-bodied beings, in sleep, of which they only need four-hours per twenty-four. The amazing thing about this new form of being, he has super x-ray vision, diaphanous. And people are complaining of this, especially in the bathrooms around the city here in St. Paul, Minnesota. The democrats find nothing abysmal about this, although the republicans do. There’s no need for gun control, bullets will not hurt these metallic bodied beings; so the issue of gun control is neither here nor there. Inside their torsos, or upper body parts, are frames of spiral rods and arabesque filaments, quintillions; a master Dom of science technology. Some folks who care to be different have even ordered the shells to incorporate a put-on and take-off proboscis, like a trunk for a nose; some have even ordered artificial wings to attach to the back of their metallic shells. I have ordered one myself, being at that age of enlightenment, to avoid the sepulchral, although I think I’ll save the body, I might as well as for memories of how it once was. There has been some dirty dealings with this as often people will take advantage of modern science and its gifts: those with a weird prerogative for the most part: one doctor, I can’t say his name for legal reasons (I’m afraid to be prosecuted, as everyone is today), has crafted one of these metallic bodied beings, and took it a step further, made him into a anthropomorphic, that being: half-canine and wholly diabolic, in that he now craves human flesh, a brain eater; I know you’ll ask, ‘how so…’ by implanting old genetic material from Neanderthal bones into his brain. I told my pupils at the university, where I teach, ‘Nothing is perfect,’ like our president has inferred, ‘and one has to expect some chaos, it’s common, especially during the adjustment period of new ideas, it’s a simple matter of new criterions; change is inevitable, change or drawn…that’s the name of the game’ implying I think, it’s even healthy: like Robert Frost inferred, so long ago: ‘I like a little corruption myself, if it’s amusing.’ Incidentally, with these new pewter-like bodies, for a premium you can get two sets of eyes, kind of comparable to a spare set of glasses; although I hear the second set is dull and lifeless. On another note, I imagine it will be a weird ordeal, and the men whom I’ve talked to have felt as if they were being dissected. And I also heard: after the transfiguration, one’s voice and language tone are somewhat similar to: horn-like intonations for several months, a ‘recuperate period,’ so one has to expect that. My operation will be done in the diurnal period, nighttime is too spooky for me. I look forward to linguistic studying thereafter, when I can learn two or three languages at one time, evidently there is a magnetic force within the shell that helps the brain in multiform wonders such as linguistics, my wife keeps telling me as do her friends I should learn more and better Spanish, well here comes the chance. But the best asset yet in these metallic people, they’ve found—is that one is exempt from all the ordinary biological needs and desires. That is some form of pre-metallic stage I’ve got to see. When this process is complete I can devote my time wholly to reading and writing and research. Although my wife says, I have already done that for way too long, and the infinite grotesqueries which I’ve devised and created with them, are enough for anyone’s lifetime. Some of the side effects I understand can be: anti-social impulses and actions. As I stated before: nothing is perfect: ere a means of retardation as well. Heretofore, all the experimentalists have made that per near a doubtful reaction. The reason being, even if the body and brain are blasted into a million pieces, or fragments, they now have the knowledge to sew the brain back together—figuratively speaking—the body is useless anyhow. Yes indeed, they can reunite single atoms, electrons and protons, so why worry! All one has to worry about is the onslaughts of those brain eaters I talked about, and how many will end up being of that caliber? One out of a million. Well, dear friend, I got to go, see you in a year or so in my new body.” Sincerely, DLS
Friday, August 12, 2016
((For Larry J. Yankovec) (a Tribute))
I guess looking at it, now being an old man of sixty-eight, I remember Lorimar, we called him Lorimar, a nickname, his real name being Larry, and I remember how he made me laugh. We had taken a trip once, slept in the State Fairgrounds the police chased us out and we had to walk home, three o’clock in the morning, and we walked by a farm, and we stole two carrots, we were so very hungry.
We grew up together; he lived next door to us. We’d play pool in his basement, playing Elvis Presley records, one song always reminds me of Lorimar, that being, “Because of Love,” there was this album of Elvis’ that just came out called “Girls! Girls! Girls!” and that song was on that album he had just purchased, and the album was sitting to the left of me, on a table, the record player playing that very album (33-speed) on that very table, and that song was playing, and it seemed like over and over.
Oh, I suppose I could talk on and on about Lorimar, “Come on, Chick,” he’d say, stepping up and down on his toes, he had one web-toe, jogging around the pool table, “let’s get drunk?” And we’d hit the road and look for someone to buy us a case of beer—we were of course underage.
Once achieving our mission in getting that case of beer, we’d come back and sit down in his patio, which was attached to his garage, and get drunk. Aye, I’m sure his younger sister Nadine thought we were nuts, and I guess she’d be right, we were. He sure was fun to hang around with.
Anyhow, last night more like this morning, November, 8, 2012, I had a dream of Lorimar, —I had only seen him once in the last fifty-years which was some twenty-five years ago, he would now be sixty-six years old, anyhow, in the dream, we had taken his car and went up into Northern Minnesota, and we parked his car at a hotel, and went down to a bar, and on our way back, in a taxi, we stopped at a gas station, I wanted to get something, and I lost my shoe in the gas station, and was looking for it, and the taxi driver came in to ask what was the delay, and Lorimar took off in the taxi, of all things. Well, we had a car, and I told the taxi driver just that, that we had a car and that I just didn’t understand, but if we went back to the hotel, he’d most likely find his taxicab.
Fine, I woke up, that was the end of the dream. In the morning the sun was up and the day was cool, I asked my wife to see if she could find his telephone number and address on the internet, I sensed a needed to. We’re in Lima, Peru, and he’s in Glenwood, Minnesota, remember, and again it’s been twenty-five years since we talked, I was a little nervous. I called the number about 11:30 a.m. there was no response, I figured he was out to lunch with his wife. Therefore, I waited, having lunch with my wife, and after lunch I tried again, his sister answered, I explained who I was, and asked if she remembered me, and she said, “Oh yaw,” I think she remembered the worse part of me, back fifty-years ago, I was a wild one. Anyhow, I said, “Is Lorimar home, I’d like to talk to him.” There was a near flaw to her voice, as if she was holding back tears. At this, as I was standing outside in my garden, my knees started to bend, legs dropping a few inches, and my ankles weakened—I discerned something was wrong, very wrong. She hesitated, it was hard for her to speak I had noticed, nearly tongue-tied, hard for her to get the words out, I asked a second time, and she said agonizingly labored the words:
“He passed away!”
“When did that take place?” I asked.
She again hesitated, I had to ask twice. From her came:
“August 25, 2012, he had cancer, and other complications.”
Then she went on to explain, his wife had left him for a dear friend of his some eight years prior, and she explained ever since, she was living with him: that is, for the past six years she had been living with her brother, and he had many physical complications during this time. I myself understood quite well, it was twenty-five years since I had seen him last and he was at that time way overweight and still drinking and smoking a lot, I had stopped drinking and smoking, myself a few years earlier. Anyhow, at that moment I had gotten a tear in my eye, and the noisy neighbors drowned out some of what Nadine was trying to tell me, but she was feeling more capable to talk now about this and that, but I had to bid her farewell, I wish I hadn’t, there so much more to talk about. I liked him a lot, because, well, just because he was himself, so easy going and yes: he was a lot of fun.
No: 974/Written: 11-8-2012; 1st reediting 8-2013; 2nd reediting January, 20 2014, third reediting 8-2016: with notes)
Note 1: For Larry J. Yankovec. The original story was called: 2012: “Because of Love”; changed to: 2014: “Fairground Escaped”; name changed, 8/2016 “A Friend, is Always a Friend!”
Note 2: Larry on my trip to visit him, in the late mid to late ‘80s, he gave me the booklet he had been given when he received his presidential citation, and I kept it for years, and when I moved to Peru, 11-years ago it got lost. I was very proud of for him, and he was proud of his Chef’s citation. As both of us coming from a rough neighborhood, it was quite the achievement. He also asked me once, when I visited him in Gilmore, Minnesota in the late ’80s that I should wrote my life’s story, I kind of did in a number of books, and an overview of it in “Days”; so I took his advice. I write this for posterity.
Note 3: To be in the book called: “In My Time,” 2017 or 2018 (depending)
Wednesday, August 10, 2016
He, Mr. Trump has inferred what a lot of people have not only been thinking, but actually saying if you've been reading all the incoming news (and to be frank, that is why both Hillary and Trump have Secret Service people around them with GUNs, because people think like that--think what Mr. Rather is implying Mr. Trump is inferring). But as far as either one doing it: one says it, and does it behind dark corners (and you can guess which one), the other simply throws it out half hazard. You can take it in a lot of different ways, and the media always takes it their own way anti-Trump. For a media that has acknowledge they have been extremely biased with the RNC presidential selection, this is another hot headline for them, this is the same DNC, that is fed by Wall Street and Billionaires and no longer for the people by the people, but rather for all the wrongs Ms. Hillary has done (which don’t seem to bother them). One person tried to kill Trump, because his ideals were not according to the DNC, no hype on that, in other words, to make America halfway decent again doesn’t sound good to Democrats, that is, the old Godly values are today worthless to the DNC. Everyone calling themselves Christians, and voting for abortion, anti-Israel, and for gay rights (gay marriages), and everything that isn’t Christian, and Ms. Clinton, a lesbian, and Mr. Clinton a sexual praetor (so expressed by the media), and Obama weakening our country, and here we are, making a big deal over a phrase brought by Trump into the spotlight, and making a big deal over a Wall to boot; Israel has a wall, it keeps the terrorists out, and China has a 2000-mile wall, I’ve been on it, it kept the Mongols out, the rats on the other side. Europe is building walls right and left over this new crisis from Syria, and the White House has a fence around it. I guess none of this makes any sense. Everyone is looking at the surface, and only can see the situation, you must look underneath the surface that is where the problem is. The FBI, the media, these 50-governent stooges, and I can go on and on, all trying to smear Trump, because he’s an outsider, and doesn’t agree with the insiders, and that makes him dangerous for the New Order coming in, Globalism, and the antichrist. Even on the internet, the Democrats want to silence the voice of many thinkers, who do not think their way. As the Democrats, as Hillary has said a hundred times, “Get over it,” get on with business. Dan Rather “Get over it” your newspaper days are over, your opinion is with a forked tongue, and you have done enough damage to America with your most recent jargon. If what Trump said is a threat, he’d be in jail. But then so would Hillary and Obama.
Trump said, inferred: the second amendment has ‘political power’ and it does. And it has more than that. Should the Government take over the States without due process, or should there be an invading power, the people need to be armed. Obama and Hillary want America disarmed. As Trump said, “Give me a break,” in other words, everyone is picking out the worse side of his speech, and adding to it, whatever they wish. Why, well, we all know why, the Democrats want to abolish the 2nd Amendment, as they have not upheld the Constitution at present, and bypassed Congress in every move, and are afraid if Trump is elected, he’ll do as Obama did, abolish all those Executive Orders, like Obama did to Bush. And the media along with Mr. Rather immediately is lit up with accusations that Trump has put out a hit on Hillary, how silly can you be, when the other side has catered to the BLM, the Islamic extreme crossing over our boarders, with little if any worry of what harm they can cause. Normally you ask a person for his or her interpretation of what they meant by what they said, before you jump the gun; that’s called Journalism, Rather should know that, that’s journalism 101. I’m a licensed journalist, and you put out the facts, not your personal opinion, or feelings: in other words, “He said this, and he said he meant this” period. Mr. Dan Rather and a whole lot of folk, took it ten-steps further. When a group is unified, the group is stronger, meaning the 2nd Amendment folk; unlike the RNC at this moment, in which need to get unified.
Rather quotes Lincoln, how noble, but instead of going to where all the unrest started, he goes to the opposite end: the horrific violence is here, where did it start? With Obama, and where is it going, with Hillary. Can there be cohesion and peace with Hillary? The issues are getting sidetracked, but personal hits by both sides, and Mr. Rather sees only “We can’t let it that happen again.” I suppose inferring Trump again, so you know he’s biased. Quoting a Republican to rupture a republican. But the name of the game is go around in a circle and don’t answer the deep questions, but turn the question into a question, or answer with a statement-question, but whatever you do, no not bring up, whatever Hillary will not be able to wiggle out of.
To be honest, I’m chagrinned Mr. Rather has stooped so low in journalism.
Saturday, August 6, 2016
I went paragliding yesterday—
It was as if a great condor
Had lifted me up, gently
And flew me over the cliffs of Lima!
The wind spiraling—
The edge of the ocean
People below me, small as bugs
On a duck.
The lighthouse was there, then got
Lost as if misplaced,
Someplace in the windowpane.
My body cradling in a pen
Wrapped in belts like a spider’s
The highway below, all its cars
Clear like backs of toads…
Muffled sounds of the wind
I’m in a vortex, it’s all breathless!
And Rosa my wife below, I know
She’s still holding her breath!
#5327 (8:53 a.m.) 8-6-2016
Wednesday, August 3, 2016
Join the Cock Fight (Washington D.C.)
With two-thousand years of Christianity behind us all the Democrats can say to their un-conforming rivals, or persons, is: “Watch your step!”
Or to inform them to keep their mouths well shut.
In fact if possible, and in spite of everything, to get into the service of the Democratic Party.
These folks are a cunning line of crocodiles.
Metallic sort of brutes.
Obama is afraid should Mr. Trump, become president, day one he’d do what he did to President Bush, erase all his works.
And he’s right, Trump would.
And that is the very reason he has stopped working his paid job as president to run a rigged election for Hillary.
Rigged, meaning (but Trump can’t say it) billionaires, the FBI, the CIA, all but the NSA, are in line to do whatever it takes, even invent, the unintended, to win.
The NSA said it wasn’t the Russians who leaked the information of her diabolical little tweets, but them.
The NSA is the world’s most informed spy alliance.
Russia says it wasn’t them, although we all know they have them.
However we came to having two such unlikely persons to run for president only God and the Devil knows, but we got them.
Part two will inform the reader what I think of both of them, if one cares to read it.
But no matter who wins, the point of no return has been passed, we are in new waters, we are the new Babylon, and remember, it fell, out of pride, indifference, and polluted leadership; as did Rome from the inside-out, and then from the outside.
The insects, and the rats will out survive us, as they did with the dinosaurs, it’s just a matter of time, unless Christ, himself puts a stop to all this nonsense.
(U.S., Presidential Rivals for 2016 AD)
We have two rivals for President of the United States at present running which deserves special mention with this analogue.
Both I believe are rotting with fatigue—
With Black Rot!
Both on the verge of collapse.
Both appallingly keep going.
Both a vast mangy mole.
If I could make them both healthy and scrupulous with one stroke of the pen, I would.
Both rave or have someone rave for them tremendously on the slightest provocation.
Both talk in circles, from the base of the spine to the top of their necks.
Both have bloody fingernails.
With one free hand left, I must vote, we all must vote, right or left, in the darkness of a booth or wherever…
It turns my stomach sour to have to even vote.
I must pick the least contaminated.
This will be a burdensome job, like carrying balanced on the top of my head a great pannier full of raw rubber—
This is not unusual in the jungles, and we are now in the jungles!
It’s a show, with 650-million goggling eyes.
One side says “Pick up your troubles we’ll keep the ball rolling.”
The other side says, “She’s a devil!”
And the sad thing is, she is!
Soon one will have to bow in defeat!
Here, there is no true law in America to oversee the makings of the roads through the thick of this jungle to the prudency.
The news today on either one—overgrown by the media, will vanish very rapidly tomorrow, and from day to day until the elections in November.
And what will we get with the winner?
I hope it’s better than nothing, in this vanity race, anything is better than nothing.
At present, it is just another form of amusement, as both the DNC and RNC have made it, organized it.
It has to be difficult to keep the contest going week to week!
It’s the third of August, 2016 now, four months to go, thereabouts.
Their ratings are going up and down like the temperature in the Congo, “Hey, look at mine…!” (Fox News, catches every clap of an eye)
To escape from all this, where does one go?
So I’m reading, writing, watching the “Game of Thrones,” and occasionally fighting with friends, that were never really friends, otherwise we’d still be friends.
I guess that’s what I normally do anyhow, just now doing less of it.
This election is: overkill!
But who can vote for a she-devil?
Tuesday, August 2, 2016
I dreamt, I was
I awoke to find
The blood of the
Was out of me!
It came to me then:
“When the many
Stop fearing the
Few, what will they do?”
So many people impressed
Strip one OF
—his or her vanity—
And one’s coffer
Will be like the many!
For the high and low
No one will ever know.
And falsehood will be
Stripped away, as will pretense.
And the soul will be
Free, and so light—
It will flow through space
Like a fabric of an atom.
Then I dreamt
—in time— All
The king’s fall
And the peasants rule!
And the peasants, fall:
Freeze, starve and munity.
And that was the end
Of the dream!
I asked, “What was the
Purpose of the dream?”
Was it fear, desire, wishes?
Is not that what dreams
Are made of?
And Sorr’el told me:
“They are also of
A gift from God!”
Monday, August 1, 2016
(A High School vignette: Washington High School, 1965)
The girl, Gayle Johnson, was one of the freshman cheerleaders at Washington High School. A nice girl, always dressed for the times; she was a year younger than I, I was seventeen or eighteen at the time, a senior, and a hallway monitor during the lunch periods. It was the summer of ’65, you can call me Chick.
She was lean, but shapely, and feminine; smart looking; not real tall, shorter than she was taller, with big eyes, and wavy soft blond hair; an eye catcher. Daily during those far-off school days she’d come walking down the hallway with two or more girlfriends. It took only a few minutes. She never said more than a ‘hello,’ along with giving me a big smile. She appeared to be very popular in school, and apparently joined many of the clubs and school activities. Something I avoided.
I’d actually wait in anticipation for her to come along, and if she didn’t: darn if I didn’t miss seeing her.
She looked like a soft rabbit, and those big Betty Davis eyes, a little beauty, without a name. I hadn’t thought positive about any girl in particular at Washington High, except I could have thought positive about her, but I was dating a girl from Johnson High School on the East Side of town, an Italian, nice looking gal, but looking back I think I would have altered that for Gayle.
It looked to me, the day that Gayle started school and passed by my post, turning right to enter the lunchroom, we connected eye to eye, once and forevermore, never to forget—; at least halfway down the hallway this eye contact started if not sooner, as if we were white on rice.
She appeared to be shy, but was she, perhaps I was?
She was never by herself. Her head was always clumped with other heads. Not looking towards the lunchroom door at all, but at me, as if I was a window, and she was looking out while I was looking in. It was as if I would kind of drift, towards her, never moving from the chair.
I never talked much back then, and didn’t realize she knew more about me than I knew about her.
I gave someone my yearbook, the year of graduation, to pass around for me, because I knew in advance I’d be absent, and Gayle wrote in it “I Love you” but who was Gayle? I asked myself, and the few other kids I asked to identify her, and they couldn’t, thus, she was someone who had no face for me, or recognition. And had I known it was Gayle with the Betty Davis eyes, well, I would have said, she wasn’t shy anymore, rather to the contrary. But guys are shyer than women, and when a woman wants you, they go after you, and if a hundred men are standing by willing to give life and limb, they’ll pass them up, take my word for it, time and time again, has proven that fact for me.
Anyhow, I think I read “I love you,” too fast, not knowing the name, and she signed it properly, actually she signed it as if she was on her way to being, Miss America, or Miss Wall Street! With big loops, and fancy swirls. But it wasn’t that; I just didn’t know who was who; had I, well I think life for me would have been a little different.
As I inferred, boys are different than girls, they know what they want, and a few friends said: she’s a sophomore, no she’s a freshman, yet I couldn’t put two and two together, nor could they, we could have made a good hoot together—if I was a seer looking back, and who knows what from there; I would have taken my pushchair in that hallway and there might have been a romance in the makings, —who’s to say; but I didn’t bat an eye. It’s not that she wasn’t worth the time to investigate further, the thing is I didn’t take it serious, and to be frank I didn’t think she paid any real attention to me beyond, just being polite.
So we had our hallway romance, or maybe it was just me.
But in 1994, evidently she reached the point where her boldness came to a head-on, and she called me up at work, and mind you that’s twenty-nine years later. And I still couldn’t put two and two together. When she called me, I was not a married man at that time, and she wanted to meet me, and I had a few bad experiences in meeting with old female friends, so I declined. Hence, she said, “When you see me, you’ll know who I am!”
Had she said, “I’m the gal with the Betty Davis’ eyes,” the decline would have been reversed, I would have met her in a flash.
In any case, it wasn’t until 2003, I found out who Gayle was, when my mother passed on and my brother and I did some housecleaning and I found my High School 1965-yearbook, and when I did—looking up her name after rereading her sentence in the yearbook again, —I kicked myself in the ass for being so unconscious, had I simply looked up her name in 1965: well, that’s another story, never to be told, because it didn’t happen.
If she ever reads this, and I doubt she will, but if… she had no equal in Washington High, not in my eyes anyhow; God bless her soul.
Short Story No: 1000 (January 4, 5, 6, and 2014) / First Short Story for 2014 / For: Gayle Johnson
By Dennis L. Siluk, Dr. H.c. © 2014 “The Hallway Monitor” Shortened, revised, September, 15, 2014.
Reedited 7-2016. (3rd Version, revised)
We are going into a mythical
because of the all-engulfing
to which man is reverting to,
‘The American Dark Ages.’
Men afar and near, acting
like avenging demon.
Perhaps some, not without
We are living at a point
of no return.
And we have not yet seen
the merciless wars ahead
to be documented for posterity,
for our heirs.
The fabled secret
lo, in ‘The Book of Revelation’
lives among us; it comes
out of the world of antiquity.
The Birth Pains, the 7th Trumpet,
the Bowls of Depravity, are in
alignment with globalization…
Scholars know this,
have known this, and are
preparing for this!
And from the top of towers yell:
“All is well!”
bigger the government,
lesser the freedom
(similar to a frog being boiled
is part of the New Age Movement,
keep the opponent off-guard!
Talk about it only in a closed
And talk sparingly and quietly.
It is all being carefully
synchronized, this movement on earth.
When man awakes from his slumber
he may well say:
—like Rip van Winkle—
“What’s taken place, where am I?”