Author: falsepromisenouveau

Art, Poetry, and dreams of things to come. False Promises is something we all do whether we make them to pacify a young child or an anal associate. The worst are the ones we make to ourselves and label bucket or wish list. With that said I hope to write stories populated by my memories, and the regrets that I would change. If only done in fiction or a dream, I tried.

The twenty-ninth day of the year twenty nineteen anno Domini…

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The traveller was very fond of old memories, strawberry shortcake, doughnuts, and the ancient writer who maintained the stories. He found that no matter the time or day those four things could always bring a smile to warm the heart.

Sad fact of the travellers reality, one couldn’t always get strawberries for the cake or hot glazed donuts. So whenever the opportunity to get them the traveller would. It was one of the few things he always looked forward to. Sometimes the traveller had to look back to find them and on those occasions having the love of old memories came in handy. And with those three bound together one could easily understand why the old bearded sage made the list.

“With great humor I laughed even as I write this.”, the sage commented. Something as time progressively circles about, you may notice often happens by him, third person or not. We both laugh a second time together at that confusing thought.

The traveller in all the forms and personalities knew one thing to be true. The sage knew, knows, and will have known so when you write the list, there really is no trouble placing yourself onto it.

“Why I’m fourth on my own list I can’t explain”, thought the sage. “Perhaps it’s because I too cheerish the other three.”

And with that thought bubble explored the sage went back to his writing. (It should be noted that a scribbled message in the border for a request for hot donuts was later found by the author and editor. Something for another story line.)

In another reality information posted on how the traveller graded the present occupied time by the HOT DONUTS sign flashing at a nearby Krispy Kreme. Only the best realities had them, and damn the world if fresh hot glazed donuts didn’t exist yet.

(Here again the author and editor can’t decide if it is truly the traveller or the sage craving said donuts. Something that will be discussed at the next panel meeting.)

Carrying on…

The traveller woke just past midnight. The cold flow of heat leaving his body creating a soft steaming mist. Where ever he was it wasn’t summer. Even worse than the cold, the fact of being completely nude and laid out on a stone slab brought a horrific terror to his groggy mind.

At a young age there were many Robert E. Howard and H. P. Lovecraft books read beneath the bed covers with flashlight in hand, then retold by fire light long into the night. Stories filled with dark shapes, beautiful women, and often daring hero’s intrepidly in search of unknown truth. Only rarely did the physical strength ever overcome the unseen evil, when it had it came with a bitter victory.

Happily there too was the great novels of King Arthur, the Holy Grail, Robinhood, Ivanhoe written down by Walter Scott and others. Valiant crusades of justice, good vs evil, light over darkness. Always follow the code of conduct to succeed. Even if you die without victory, those deeds done would bring certain honor to those left behind. Symbols of perfection, and an example for them to follow…

There was Gilgamesh, the Tolkien stories, C. S. Lewis, and the classic mead hall poetry of Beowulf too fill in any gaps. Even the wonderful writings of Alice had there time being absorbed during those earlier years.

Guides and guidance for a future that was yet to be.

The greatest book was T. H. White, The Once and Future King. In it the secrets of time and politics could be unlocked, even understood. Once those pieces feel in place, how large creation could become.

Of course nothing ever happened back then. Childhood dreams of dragons and knights; Kingdoms of elven druids, secret paths unlocked by magic balls and slithering snakes.

Not until the day at the coffee shop.

And being laid out naked flat on ones back upon a wet slab of rock was as far from any coffee shop or glazed donut a being could ever find themselves.

Of all his learned knowledge, poetic stories, and trained responses to unexpected tribulations, the only thought to find it’s way out from the clutter was… “Fuck.”

…

Hot glazed donuts with strawberry sprinkles dipped in jam thought the Sage. I will definitely hold out for the sprinkles and jam at the next juncture. Surely they will see how the sugar would keep my eyes from wandering as do my thoughts.

Surely.

The 91st day, 19th Year, 21st century, 3rd millennium…

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Still alive; I often wonder how. It’s been a very long time since that first coffee at the corner cafe. I still remember the cappuccino double- shot, and the rush that followed. The world was electric and I saw the neon signs light up my path.

The problem with electricity is eventually insulation wears thin, circuits overload, and either a breaker pops or wiring burns. Reckless, the odds were never in my favor.

A brilliant mind once wrote that as I Time. That line of thought took an individual as a single observer at a fixed point in an endless line. He was close. Time as a unit of measure, as a distance between two unknowns, a thing without a constant… Compressed into words on a page.

Everything is related, especially believing in the wrong answer. That’s the most important thing. Believe and you can live forever. Doubt and you will anyhow. You are the question mark, not me, not them, and not time.

…

I woke up this morning with a splitting headache; Bloodshot eyes with blurred vision, capped off by a dry cough. The familiar joint pain was missing. It would come back soon enough. Like a missing limb my suffering from torn and dislocated ligaments was a ghost pain carried over from a previous point.

I’d travelled again. Must have died suddenly and without seeing it coming. That shit happened on occasion. No matter how long you travel some things still catch you off guard. At least we didn’t suffer. Suffering sucks even if you know it has an ending.

As I laid there the slow movement of a ceiling fan cast a flickering shadow across the ceiling. Three walls were in my range of vision. There square angles joining in uniformed lines. There were doors on two of the walls. One door an obvious wider cut than the other, but both of the same height. One window was on the third visible wall. It was shuttered tightly against the outside. Still cracks of daylight filtered in bringing with it flashes of movement, rhythmic back and forth in a fixed position. Traces of green carried in as well with a soft sounds of a breeze.

I was glad that there are plants here. I was also glad for a closed room quiet and undisturbed.

The fourth wall I could sense without looking. The soft downward movement from the fan above blowing much stronger at my back. The cool force of the walls nearness reassuring enough to ignore for the moment.

I imagine that a picture or painting there. No sound of a muffling tapestry or curtain. Crazy the things you learn to listen for.

The absence of cobwebs or animal dander in the rest of the room even more reassuring.

The bed I awoke in was unscented. The pillow beneath my head and lain tightly stuffed beside my arms were covered in a solid gray-blue pillowcase. These too lacked any smell or staining from use. By the amount of room I felt, a definite queen size bed. A pillow top liner, simi-firm. The temptations of closing my eyes and going back to a dream filled world overwhelm. Everything has a purpose, a reason, a connection even if you can’t see it.

We apparently are male, single, or at least recently so for a period long enough to remove the essence of the more pleasant sex. As a male we are clean, moderately organized with the routine of doing laundry.

Even the absence of dust spoke of organization, maybe even a means of income to support the payment of a maid. Something in the feel of the room told me no to the maid, no to a mother figure, no to any outside influence.

It was always important to understand things without relying on a host’s memories. Memories lie, sometimes tainted by previous lives experienced elsewhere, or even falsely placed by the pressures of others.

Never trust a memory. They are just the dreams of another world. I know.

Regret is the daughter of hesitation.

We fumbled around the bed and found a familiar metal and glass instrument. Another luxury of a distant world, technology of a smartphone.

A quick check of the alarm and calendar I am surprised to find the host on his off days. Nothing scheduled, no anniversary or birthday, no bill due, not even a note to perform some task or hobby.

“What the hell,” we said. “Time for another nap.”

And so it is.

The Nightingale Calls

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There is a time when the stars all align
Showering the heavens glistening crystal brilliance down

And the blue sky turns to blackened velvet
Sparkling with the light of an infinity of diamonds

Green oceans with frothing white capped waves
Become pacific and restful
Mediterranean mixing with a Persian hue bringing with it a deeper calming blue

The once tempest winds idle into a soft southern breeze
Blowing tropic scented fragrance to allure the mind

And all this beauty is here just for you

A paradise lost to a wanderers sight
Remembered only in silent pools of memory and regret
Not nearly forgotten by his heart
Those binding devotions of words and emotion

This love I still have of you

An empty room

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she’s a mystery

secrets veiled in hidden meaning

whispered words

silk smooth

fold the world in around bared flesh

smiles mask true desires

but for the eyes

no haze could dim those radiant lights

only fools know the pleasures such sin delights

passion grows uncontrollably

intentions lost in opium dreams

here the lotus blooms into eternity

sweet scented incense charms away the spirit

rosey pink breasts trace pendulum lines in circular orbits

entangled

limbs search out loves hidden pleasure

each breath a release of resistance from the body and mind

and an addiction of pain comforts

when alone in solitude

only the shadow of her memory remains

Bridging the Gap, from the Book of Pat

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“Time does not exist here, only clocks…”

At least that’s what the sign read.

Pat watched as the train pulled into the station.

Even before the cars made their last lurching stop the commuters were pushing towards the doors. Each individual shared the same distant look of submission as they surged forward in mass. The same look Pat had seen on stray animals going for a last walk to the country side. Later fond stories would be told of a beautiful farm and all the scraps of food old Lucky was enjoying when last seen.

Escape…

That was the last thought the traveller had before his mind faded into a dark oblivion. Panic was now his first.

It was always that way when first waking up with the new host. Old imprinted personalities would fight to remain dominant. Then as the collective mind sorted out reality they’d submit to the ownership of the current presence. It was the way.

Bright lights danced about the disorganized piles of writing and manuscript. The quiet of the Library was unnaturally extra silent this morning. Even the occasional intrusive presence from other realms and realities had been absent now for the majority of the day.

The Sage took this as a welcome I’ll omen of things to come. Peace and solitude are a rarity in his place, and as he had written before: Never look a gift horse in the mouth.

Wearing the Grey

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For as long as he could remember, the man knew he was different. Not a visible defect or an observable point of perfection or beauty. Even his test scores blended in seamlessly with the upper portion of the bell curve. Not in the middle, mind you. He was always just above average but off a mark for honor roll.

The boy he was and the man housing still those childish ideas still could blend into the population. He could excel in any field if he chose to. That’s where the special and different was. The boy and man never needed to. Never had to bother with choice. The path he walked was already lined up. Lined up not in a material or financial way. Neither was it a hereditary or surname position in life that granted such a privilege. And it was definitely not a thing of chance or luck. Through out life that theory had been tested. No, luck and being blessed by the Blarney Stone never entered the equation.

As long as the man did what presented itself and tried his best, life was good. The Golden Rule of do unto others being the biggest lesson he ever learned. Many of those times and lessons administered across the palm with the ruler.

I would like to point out that the ruler used was not golden and being the other never was given the chance to do unto the other. Lesson learned, those who control the gold control the wood. Since the boy nor the man were destined to have control or the gold it was best to tend to the business at hand, never draw attention to yourself. Good or bad, attention was only trouble in the end…

The sage blinked away the cobwebs of his Irish coffee. With a quick read of the words before him he was once again up to speed.

The Man in The Grey Suit was a fitting title for him. More fitting than calling him John Smith, or Joe Bloughe, and even thinking Steve or Martin was just humor gone bad. So The Grey or The Man was a good enough fit.

The background of growing up was new to the sage. Very rarely was information like that provided by the Author. The Author usually leaving off the less important details on first read, leaving those details for the magic and dreams which filled each page, newspaper, magazine, and book.

The sage was fully aware of the fact it was his hand that did the work. The staining of his hands provided plenty of evidence of those marathon journalism events. The thing was he was never fully there when it occurred. By the size of the library and piles of written material that gift of trance was definitely a blessing. If one cared to gather more evidence to prove or disprove who truly was doing the work, the comparison of hand writing and style changed about so much that one would think a legion of writers were at the task.

A Legion was not far off the mark either.

A Night of Long Knives

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The dream stalks me into the wakeful world. Glimpses from the corner of the eye confirming what the unconscious mind knows.
They are all here. Shades waiting for their chance to overpower, to overcome me in my own passive inattentiveness.
Quickened steps echo from out of darkness. Fading into the quiet with each hesitant breath the faint movement mimicking the rustling of wind.
But I know and in an instant of white rage the invisible horrors show that they do too.
Blinded by blood and pain that race through mind and body like burning streaks of lightening. I weaken and tire

A wounded elk staggers beneath the burden of the wolf packs extra weight. Muscular limbs and tethered tendons rip free with the jagged sharp bites of death.

With one final attack to the exposed throat their prey topples to the pavement. Liquid life in fleck and splatter now pools a thick crimson about it’s dying host.

The traveller’s day passes into the night; the dreamer slips deeper into sleep.

The sage awoke to the pounding pain of a migraine. Eye sockets feeling ready to shoot out the orbs they protect. The stiffness of age taking second place to the extreme torture of joints enflamed with arthritic swelling.
The thought of an alcohol or a self induced drugged comma crossed his mind in a neverending dialogue of desired relief.
The morning also brought with it a sharp pressure building up in both ears and joining the blistering agony that was currently burning in his throat and chest.

This and the gruesome vision of the Travellers ending was nearly to much.

Being near immortal as in the concept of time often had it’s benefits. Sadly living for infinity also offered up it’s own punishment. One being he still aged. Time waits for no man, it drags him along in a riptide. And still being human the same sickness and diseases could and would often infect him. The only difference between his life cycle and those of other humans was simply their difference in opinion about time.

The seconds trickling by actually didn’t. That’s the misconception about time. One second referenced on it’s fluidity and the next laid out flat like a tape measure. In simple math the blissful people of the world never realizing they had mixed up the units.
Even the simple concept of trying to place time to a line was ludicrous.
Next the world would be demanding equal rights and free speech as seen on a bell curve or slide rule.
No, such a thing was functionally incorrect and impossible.
Try and explain and the doctrine educated book smart population would always shout you down. They had to of course. If not they’d have to admit to being idiots. That is something only the wise and enlightened were ever able to do.

As the Sage finished the first cup of coffee he could feel the long day ahead was to lengthen into another all nighter at the desk.

The Dreamer tossed restless in a emptying abyss of black. Random images and short lines of text drifted in an out of existence.

At times the dreamer felt his boundaries limitless only to suddenly see them explode into a new world and lifetime. A resounding blast of sensation and experiences flung upon the blank canvas of perfect zen. Then in the next instant to be drawn off in a predetermined fashion to a stranger place of a dusky, dank, must filled room. Here time was lined and stacked, shelf on shelf, into infinity and then back again to the start with pi. There nothing was forgotten, every moment documented in the very black that filled the Dreamers slumbering world…

And under its own pull bent back upon itself infinite.

The Start of Day

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There are days when you know it would be better to stay in bed, roll over, and spend the next twenty-four hours pretending to be dead to the world.

Today was one of those. If not for the need to urinate every few hours the sage would have liked very much to have stayed in bed and taken the day off.

The early morning hours were spent preparing for what always turned into a marathon day of writing, blogging, scribbling, note taking, and the occasional tweet hashtag used to prompt later memories back into the forefront of consciousness.

This new age of simplicity seemed so troublesome and bulky to the sage. ” It was a new age of multitasking than one of intellectual freedom or growth,” said the sage out loud.

“So says you”, croaked out a small voice.

Half ignoring the interruption the sage continued on with the mornings chore of gathering and sharpening his pencils, cleaning and reshaping the quill, topping off the ink well, replacing the blotter or reusing some older one, and the restacking of parchment and tablets into a more tidied pile.

To the old man these forms of creation had a more artistic beauty to them. A flow of skill in the shaping and shape of each word and line. Such a wonderful talent as any sculpture or painting could ever be. The sage didn’t quite put the same skill or label of craftsmanship to this age of spell check and font choices.

“Only an illusion”, said the small croaking voice, and as quietly as it came was gone.

“Good riddance”, shouted the sage. Hoping the loudness of his voice would follow the unwelcome visitor back to where it had originated, he new better. “Illusion and allusions, mixed metaphors without pretext, trouble me no more.”

And with that the sage lit his stove, heated up the water, and began to prepared his morning pot of coffee.

“Today I think there will be a touch of Irish to it”

And another day began.

The twenty-fourth day of the year twenty nineteen anno Domini… in the Book of Pat.

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Every day is a new day, and every day was just the same as the one which proceeded today. And as always everything made perfect sense but only if you chose not to sweat the finer points and details. If you did decided to be one of “Those”, and fell into the dangerous trap of actually thinking then insanity would soon follow. So in the linear line of time (time being abstract; a line being a curve with zero radius; zero being undefined) all things end as they began. This story being a poor documentary on events leading up to that very beginning, and will only make sense in its ending. That is where this story begins… at its ending but only after. Don’t worry, you’ll eventually know something of what I talk of, just be patient and you will see.

A wise man once said that life meant forever and that is a mighty long time. Well since that time he’s gone on another kind of elevator ride but even today those words ring true.

Life has it’s own energy. Try as you might to snuff it out, life will always find a way. As the arrow of time moves on life will always begin again even if it has to kill itself to do it.

“Here I pause”, so says the sage. “The black ink runs, staining fingers and page. Letters written, soft words spoken, all take time to settle in upon the fresh medium of paper and mind. As said before there really is no need to hurry. We all find our way back to the beginning in the end.”

A feathery pen lays perched upon it’s rest, and the stopper is securely placed upon the ink well. Atop the desk a powdered page lays waiting to join another… and an old man sleeps slouched in his chair if for but the moment.

#the sage, #the book of Pat, #wakeful dream, #entropy, #time, #philosophy