My grandfather. He won the war but lost the battle. From a little town in Tennessee, he lied about his age to get into the Army back when WWII broke out. Got into the Army Air Corps before it became the Air Force.
He fought in World War II, the Korean War, and Vietnam. Obviously he had some great stories. He unfortunately spoke in a monotone. He struck me as a solid individual, it's just that he never stood up to my grandmother. Rather, he would commence beating us when she'd get worn out.
Clay. It can be artistic, useful, sturdy. It can also be molded.
The Beating...
The speeding feet in the pounding rain. The perpetual beat of a heart. Pounding blood. There is a cave in my heart.
Stepping out of the rain, into the shadows, the noise transitions from the wash of the cloudburst to the flow of your anxious blood. Then to the pounding of your heart. It's so loud. Terrifying, yet trusted.
The roar is overwhelmed by the beating. The beating of dark membranes. You have disturbed them. You are enveloped by their plethora of leather-silk wings. Neither bird nor beast, the ostracized. Bats. After they have settled, you see the moonlight reflected in two tapetums. The truth in those eyes, is it familiar to you? Or should you be frightened? How many lives has this creature lived?
Come in, friend. Step closer, enemy. You were washed by the rain, rinsed by the darkness, dried by the wings, and clothed. By a purpose.
Am I a panther? Am I the dusk?
Stepping out of the rain, into the shadows, the noise transitions from the wash of the cloudburst to the flow of your anxious blood. Then to the pounding of your heart. It's so loud. Terrifying, yet trusted.
The roar is overwhelmed by the beating. The beating of dark membranes. You have disturbed them. You are enveloped by their plethora of leather-silk wings. Neither bird nor beast, the ostracized. Bats. After they have settled, you see the moonlight reflected in two tapetums. The truth in those eyes, is it familiar to you? Or should you be frightened? How many lives has this creature lived?
Come in, friend. Step closer, enemy. You were washed by the rain, rinsed by the darkness, dried by the wings, and clothed. By a purpose.
Am I a panther? Am I the dusk?
THE PLAN for Labels
CHARACTERS are influential people in my tales.
BROWN is tales from a span of ages.
WHITE is tales from age 0-7.
RED is tales from age 8-14.
ORANGE is tales from age 14-21.
YELLOW is tales from age 22-28.
GREEN is tales from age 29-35.
BLUE is tales from age 36-42.
INDIGO is tales from age 43-49.
PURPLE is tales from age 50-56.
BLACK is tales from age 57-63.
Grey is an insight into how these tales may be affecting me.
BROWN is tales from a span of ages.
WHITE is tales from age 0-7.
RED is tales from age 8-14.
ORANGE is tales from age 14-21.
YELLOW is tales from age 22-28.
GREEN is tales from age 29-35.
BLUE is tales from age 36-42.
INDIGO is tales from age 43-49.
PURPLE is tales from age 50-56.
BLACK is tales from age 57-63.
Grey is an insight into how these tales may be affecting me.
Blog Archive
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2008
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March
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- My Way
- McCoy
- Polaris
- Glass
- Your Momma Wears Combat Boots!
- Puma
- Church
- Clay
- DewClaw
- Things I've Been Hit With
- List of Injuries
- SandSurfer
- Tecomde
- Torch and Lighthouse
- Window (Innuendo)
- Tuesday, January 27, 1998
- Cruizer
- Born Free
- The House was a Mess
- My Chain/Chain of Thoughts
- Stinger
- Smoke and a Pancake?
- Camp II
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March
(23)
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Clay
Put to Rest by Dusk Watchman on 15.3.08
Labels: Characters
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1 Responses:
Must have been sometime since I last visited your page. Cool moon :) That's a moon I suppose :) How are things with you?
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