7.) MY SOUL-EYE CAN'T CLOSE

It can't, you know, without my dying. It opened far too early. I was only eleven years old when my "sight" was enhanced by the unexpected opening of the eye behind my browline. It made things, natural things beautiful. I could see trees stretching skyward and the rapidly beating heart of the sparrow in its ribs. Skies bluer or greyer or clearer or cloudier - I remember the first Texas thunderstorm I saw with my newly uncovered eye. Oh, so tall the clouds, so bright the lightning and how tiny I was in the thunder-clap. Everything looked as it had the day before but nothing was the same. I could see my dog's love for me like a bright shadow that smeared the space behind him as he jumped at my feet. I knew the colors of joy.

People fared far less well. My "truer" sight of them revealed the many darker shadows they dragged behind them. Fear and Fear's ugly children - Rage, Anger, Hatred, Stupidity, Envy, Suffering, Hurt, Betrayal, Shame - the yellow and green of old bruising.

I found myself shying away from encounters with people I didn't know. Fewer surprises that way. I also spent as little time with figures of authority as I could manage. Preacher man, teacher, politician, doctor, lawyer - the more practiced their treatment of their fellow man, the darker and more deeply layered the "Fear garment" they wrapped themselves in.

I would have blinded my soul eye if I'd known how, Over my adult life I've tried - alcohol, drugs, sex - all just attempts at gouging out the eye that lets me see too clearly.

The dirtiest trick my soul eye played was to reveal the tenuous nature of the Faith that surrounded me. Where I expected Faith solid as mountains I saw Fear. Where Fear was not - in its place stood Delusion.

With my own Fear in place, I scan each face I see.

6.) SLOW ASLEEP

Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep,
I Used To Run - I'm Old, I Creep.
If I Should Die Before I Wake,
Recheck My Pulse, I Like To Fake.

Now I Lay Me Down To Rest,
Cry Havoc! As I Beat My Chest.
If I Should Die Asleep, Afire
Then Blame It On A Faulty Wire.

Now I Lay Me Down To Dream,
Paralysis Prevents A Scream.
If I Should Die - Okay, Who's Kiddin'
DEATH, for me, Has Been Forbidden.

5.) My Dreams Are Viscious

Below us is a pool where, in sleep, all Answers are revealed. Then waking the Questions change. In this pool, this Sea of Sleep we can excercise the dreams of the day with no fears, no reprisal.

Past that most cathartic interlude, Wonderland of Dreams is the place where the miracle ideas begin to take shape. It is our willingness to snatch at the fading threads of dreams as we awaken. Our aggressive scanning of our own minds so that no idea conceived is lost.

We have dreamed the perfect world. It's our waking hatreds that prevent it.

4.) THE SOUL WRINGER

Puck still floated in the grey that had spawned him. Here the heavy borders of black and white had delicately feathered edges, ticklish he giggled as he rolled. His eternal moral dusk made him everyone's friend. Both optimists and pessimists thought he was ripe for conversion. Afterall he was either half empty or full as he lived his life now,

It's a bizarre conceit of conversion that the object of proselitizing truly wishes to change. Its an assumption made without asking. How many Catholic Priests, their Spanish Conquistador sponsors bristling with horses, guns and disease, ever wondered if the natives they converted (or summarily tortured until they spoke the words of conversion) wanted to forgoe their native belief systems. In point of fact, most Christian conversions amounted to an amalgam of native, pagan beliefs with enough Catholic overlay to look Christian. Saints names coopted over the names of Gods and demons they already worshipped. Far smarter than the narrow minded bringers of their "new" faith, they knew that GOD recognized their voices regardless of the name we assigned him.

But I digress, Puck looked ready to choose sides. It is for this reason that he was the worst poisin for Timothy. Poor Timothy, split by GOOD and EVIL and pinned beneath the immeasurable weight where they met in shadow's edge.

3.) Even The Ride Of A Lifetime Sucks If Your Horse Dies

The Universe displays its Divine Horrific and Perfect Irony at every opportunity. The Stand-Up Comedians, Newscasters and your wittiest Friend are gifted but touch on only the damp film on the skin of the Statue of Irony. There are individuals, tortured, smiling and generally over-sexed - screwing their way through both genders as fast as they can because they're destined to burn too quickly...to their great relief - The Joyous unsustainable, mercifully brief.

So fast and yet no less wise. They may sniff more the "true scent" of everything than may we all and hurry because so little of it is Golden.

To answer the Subtitle: Horse...what horse?

2.) I'LL FEEL SAFER SLEEPING IN HERE TONIGHT

The stark, chiarascura side light. A hot side a shadowed side and a photon's wide border between the two that splits his face. Is light fortified against it's absence? Holding out against the void? What forces exist at the line between? Or is that edge the only place of STILLNESS in our violent Universe. The quarks rest? The Strings stop their springing? The only safety is in realizing that wisdom and strength can only rest still if both GOOD and EVIL face each other on edge. Necessary to keep the BIG PICTURE from self-annihilation. Though he stands now painted in both Darkness and Light. Heonly exists in the knife's edge where to two pools meet. Infinity balanced on pin point.

Life for him has always been the controlled dance of the circus high-wire performer. A child of neither Good nor Evil. Never touching. Never Free. This concious balance renders him cautious, wary and vigilant. As neither Good nor Evil could be seen if not abbutted against each other, so could there be but one Observer of the acts of man. Himself neither fully Good nor Evil yet balanced on the razor's edge that separates the two. An edge aside which, for him, waits certain, eternal maddness. An edge which holds the real power of darkness and night, sinner and saint.

It is tragic that as the consequences of choices increase, even as these choices play out over a great time, concepts like GOOD and EVIL are co-opted by so many competing zealots that they mean nothing at all.

So what of Timothy, damned to seek balance on the edge between night and day, good and evil, explosion and eclipse. EVERYTHING and NOTHING AT ALL.

1.) WE COULD STILL END-UP WITH THE GREAT BIG FISHES

Timothy is 42 years old and lives alone. Although he has grown accustomed to the whispered voices of the ELDERLY LADY SPIRITS at the well of his elevator, the fleeting "extra" person in the mirror - small things, easily written off in his willing imagination. Then there are times - a sudden change of season, a dog looks past his face into?...something that defies his confidant dismissal of the earth-bound supernatural. Like struggling to open a third, clouded eye. Blinking to focus, on the shy, shadowed smiles and whispers that fill the ether.

Today, Saturday, he awoke in enormous confusion. The clock read 3:45, he saw it was dark outside and he began to imagine that it was late Thursday afternoon with its darkness and torrential downpours. He checked his calendar on his cell phone, and no, it was in fact 3:45AM Saturday morning - dark for being early -but his confidence in the date and time remained clear for just a second. It then slowly gave way to his new conviction that the conscious world must conform to his dream. He then resumed his anxiety for having overslept (it can't be THURSDAY?) all the while struggling to make the room, the daylight, his tasks and his continuous spinning coalesce into the concrete-familiar he knew was just an eyelash away from his Wonderland.

He'd looked at his phone (and by now at his watch) and had confirmed his very early awakening for Friday. Timothy dug deep and psychologically unearthed - Mental Confusion featuring Auditory Hallucinations -I should be able to DEEPLY BREATHE them away. Shadows in his visual periphery. Three separate smoky shapes. They moved like dogs recently freed to greet their master, enthusiastic, hungry. Each needing to nuzzle Timothy. Psychology unravells.

This was queueing up to be a perfectly unbearable day full of the pinpricks, hair pulls and constant distraction of his loosely earthbound entourage. Timothy began to coach himself aloud ",Stick to the busses, even posessed you'll still be the least conspicuous passenger. Get groceries at the CO-OP. You'll never stand out even with all of your healthy teeth & no Body Ink. And most importantly, when you say something to yourself that you disagree with, take the conversation outside before you kick you own ass!" Already his lips move as he rehearses his coping skills.

THIS IS HOW HE MANAGES HIS DEAD ENTOURAGE DERIVED FROM 40 ODD YEARS IN THE MAELSTROM

JOB 1: Never appear as confused as you feel. Lots of eye contact but not SO much as to be staring, you'll attract floating eyes that hover between you and the MEATWORLD.
Job 2: Don't trust the young dead. Their idealism is tissue in the wind. Bright, colorful, provocative. Must remember: Look at the fruit. Sniff the fruit. Squeeze it if you want but don't trust it.
Job 3: After some time with unfamiliar Apparitions, engage them directly, asking that,"They reveal to you the message they'd like for you to convey." Ask their name (remember, THEY LIE! Eternity leaves a lot of time for screwing around.)
Job 4: If they simply want to act-out, rebuke them in a clear strong voice until a time certain. "SPIRIT (name it) I rebuke thee in the name of the LIGHT that connects us all. My glow and the glow of the living around me now consume your LIGHT and ANGER until FATE makes it possible for us to touch again.
Job 5: Apparitions love BIG words and especially "thee" and "thou."
JOB 6: They assume you are a crazy fuck-up until YOU can prove you're not.
Job 7: Only a pair of you lives on EARTH at a time. You've already beat the 30SomethngSuicide. Get's crazier from here.

Characters - TIMOTHY 42 Gay Male
PUCK fastest of the Apparitions/GOOD or BAD.

TO BE CONTINUED, My Own Little Haunted Novella! IN FACT OH, FRIEND. LET US MAKE THIS OUR OWN LITTLE HAUNTED NOVELLA!

You Are invited to ignore, mock, read, poo-poo, hate, rage at, and grind your teeth at the following epic prose poem. Take as much space as you like. HOWEVER! If you hook into any part you think is cool, don't hold back.
Don't be self-conscious, I'll EDIT as I see fit as we begin to take shape and to maintain a single voice. I'll work primarily on keeping the language true. If what you write sucks, my work will be harder.
Create characters, try to sustain the fatalistic Southern Irony that bends light as it passes through a BACCARAT high boy. Sex is cool, but don't overdo the "boing chicky boing boIng repeat!" - play careful under your sheets! We'll publish you raw or edited as we (timothy hogan) see fit. Whew! Disclaimered!

It's a Party! Ghost-Hip and Modern (but they wear fur). More Instructions as Episodes ignite! Email Your SUBMISSIONS (TEXT and atmospheric IMAGES) to trhogan@mn.rr.com Sorry, not all IMAGES and Story Submissions can be used intact. I will freely RE-WRITE any POETRY or PROSE I Choose to use because it's my BLOG. P.S. Start your own, I'll support you.

Stinkerella Louise Fifi Hogan

That's her name. Don't wear it out! As I sit at the computer today, beset by BLOGGER'S BLOCK, cat in lap purring - absolutely no help - I think I'll concoct an "ODE TO MY KITTY." Annoying AND Crazy all in one...how Timothy.

Swimming in the Deep End without a Lifeguard

If MOSES Supposes His Toe-ses are Roses...

I have no idea where that was headed BUT today I thought I'd share a few classic bits of WISDOM as they appear after they filter through the cynical darkness between my ears. READ. BREATHE. THINK. GROW WISE.

That which does not kill me would like to reschedule for next week.

Hope springs eternal. Over and over springing endlessly. For the love of Mike, STOP SPRINGING!

The Road to Hell is paved with Good Intentions. Welcome to the Timothy Hogan Memorial Expressway To Hell!

Where there's LIFE there's HOPE...and usually a bruise.

To thine own Self be True. To everyone else - LIE like a RUG!

...And this too shall pass...Has it passed yet?...How 'bout now?...How 'bout now?

I THINK I'M TURNING LEBANESE, I REALLY THINK SO!

So, I'm watching CNN and of course they continue to cover the tenuous cease-fire between Israel and Lebanon when they begin to cover Hezzbolah's efforts to rebuild the bulidings that Israel smote during the 34-day conflict and they show these Hezzbolah representatives handing out cash to the displaced Lebanese. $12,000 US. That's twelve thousand dollars, U.S. of A.

Okay, DEATH TO AMERI...CA! HMMM. So they think of Israel as the pawn of the Great Satan (I wish that was MY nick-name!) my country and yours the Jew-nited, I mean United States of America AND YET they hand out one-hundred twenty crisp dollar bills to help their recently homeless countrymen rebuild, regroup and regather themselves. How do they not DIE of IRONY?!

It's like the PETA member with the LEATHER BELT and SNEAKERS...it used to be my MOO-COW. Big brown eyes, gentle lowing, killed wth an air hammer, drain the blood and tan the hide!

Oh! and not to mention the amount. $12,000 dollars per household. FEMA only paid $2000 per KATRINA household and I bet the Lebanese don't spend their FINANCIAL AID on GIRLS GONE WILD! videos. Are we REALLY the TACKIEST of Earth's denizens now? It was easier when the USSR was a Superpower...I mean THE LAND THAT FASHION FORGOT, already.

Feeling Tacky.

Just Too Cute

I can't think of anything to say. How beautiful to be so trusting, so relaxed.

...MONEY"S all BROKE, and FOOD'S going HUNGRY..."

...IF IT WAS'NT FOR DISSAPPOINTMENT. I WOULDN'T HAVE ANY APPOINTMENTS..."

I PROGRAM MY HOME COMPUTER.

So there...

"...get OVER IT, already..."

Timothy's Helpful Hint f the Day: If you find yourself in the presence of someone having a PANIC ATTACK, the last thing you should say is "RELAX." You may get punched in the face. The person having the PANIC ATTACK would "RELAX" if they could...trust me.

The same is true of Depression, Anxiety, Addiction...any BEHAVIORAL malady. People who do not suffer from these DISEASES don't have the frame of reference to relate to them because of their own lack of experience.

Take Anxiety/Panic for example. When I feel ANXIETY, it isn't because of any event or thought or dread that makes me ANXIOUS. It's like waking up in a hair suit that happens to be on fire and you can't take it off. Things that should not cause ANXIETY or PANIC do anyway. I find myself crying in public a lot. Just yesterday I sat in the doctor's office waiting for my appointment. As I waited, I noticed that six people in a row came into the waiting room with the assistance of a walker. The last two were elderly women bent in half by osteoperosis, hunch-backed and only able to see the floor as a result. I began to cry uncontrollably. My tears continued for a half-hour as I sat waiting.

Now my EMPATHY is normal, even good. I am able to feel compassion for the difficulties in the lives of others. BUT my emotional response isn't within a range that I can currently control, NOT so good. Had anyone looked at me and said "GET OVER IT" as I wept, I would have tried to explain to them that I would if I could but I can't so I CAN'T. It's not a question of not trying, or choosing an "over the top" reaction. The reaction was the only one possible at the time and hopefully with time, the careful attention of doctors and Therapy I will find my emotions within a range I can manage. Being overwhelmed by emotion makes desirable human interactions difficult. Try crying at work for two hours and tell me how productive you are. It's happened to me.

Even More Helpful Hint: It's IMPOSSIBLE to know or understand the EMOTIONAL REALITY of another person. But as compassionate, empathic human beings, we should try ...

Rimshot

Fidel Castro, Ehud Ohlmert, Mahmoud Abbas and I walk into a bar during a heatwave. We have a Parrot, a Frog, a Turtle and a Monkey on our shoulders repectively. The Bartender is a three-legged dog with red eyes. The Bartender asks us all what brought us there.

Castro tells of 50 years of Dictatorship in Cuba. Ohlmert and Abbas tell of failing to make peace between the Israelis and Palestinians. I have to admit to living with unfulfilled potential.

Suddenly the three-legged Dog Bartender turns into Satan. He immediately sends three of the four of us to HELL!

Who's left?