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 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

Twenty-seventh day twenty nineteen anno Domini

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The harsh rays of the morning sun were just beginning their slow track across the room. The unshuttered window allowing in the only true vision of reality to the closed world within. It was a rarity and a luxury. The sage preferred his solitude from the distractions of the city. Never chancing his luck with the freewill of other beings, angel or daemon, or man. These were want to be nosey, meddling in the curiosity of the sages work.

On this morning however he was willing to chance the errant and vigilant eyes. Today was foretold to him to be a perfect beginning, and a impartial foretelling vague as it was could not be ignored.

The sage had learned through out his history that to ignore an event is to force oneself to repeat the lesson over until learned. Since he was the one having to write each scribbled cryptic line repetition was something to be avoided. His first disciplinarian had taught him that lesson with chalk and board many ages before.

“I miss her”, a quiet voice said breaking the silence of the mornings daydreaming.

The long bearded hermit looked about the room for his unannounced guest. He knew better than waste time with the effort but he did it anyway. Nearly blind by age and gazing into the golden light of the sun made seeing anything more than or less than arms length nothing but a blur. On top of that most things heard or seen in the closed room never existed there. Always what was had been told second hand, seen second hand. Only echoes and shadows called the sages plane home. For something different and unexpected to occur it had to happen elsewhere. The voice being no different. It’s origin being from some other place or time.

The sad truth was the sage did miss the teacher too. Enough in fact he began to search about the disorganized shelves of the room for her. Unable to locate her there he next went through the boxes of magazines stacked clumsily about the place. Having no luck there either forced himself to unbundle the tied copies of news paper he had hoarded beneath cushions and tables. Finally finding the one especially written about her, by her, for her.

A short reorganizing latter, cushions on couch, easy-chair moved back into place, bundles recovered and tied, boxes closed, the sage was almost ready to read his morning paper. The happy smile of the cover story warming his old heart, even as she turned and walked across the picture. Children began lining up behind. Many familiar faces, many forgotten, and a few not long for their story.

“That’s the gift though,” said the voice.

“I know” thought the sage,” but that has never made writing them any easier.”

And with that another story was..

#the sage, #the Wakeful Dream, #the room, #my story, #my writing, # the book of Pat, #angel, #daemon, #teacher

The Passing Day

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Words meant to bring you close
In retrospect were meaningless fantasy
The pleasing smiles mixed with warmth and joy
With all honesty just a clever mask to steal away what love I could
Now that time has stolen youth
And sickness taken strength as well
All that’s left is but the lie
Little comfort to carry on
Until the end when we both die

ppp 01/23/19 The Passing Day

#my words #poetry #love #truth #lie #honesty #marriage #relationship #time