Naked Imagination

Eulogy for Joseph L. Douglas Jr

Thu, 05 Apr 2012 21:53:45 GMT

This is the Eulogy I gave for my father on March 12, 2012.

Eulogy for Joseph L. Douglas Jr
(February 14, 1954 - March 7, 2012)

Our father liked to tell stories, and although this was wonderful he often told the stories again and again and again. He would start one and my brother or I would take turns to say, “Yeah Dad, I remember, you told me this already.” He would answer, “Oh, I did?”

And then he would tell it to us anyway.

He would tell us stories about Relay. He always talked about his friends there with great affection and with a twinkle in his eye that told me it was a place he had fun, but as a son I should probably never really learn just how much fun.

In the last ten years or so these stories were largely dominated by my daughters: Mary Isabelle and Mary Gabrielle. Joe had many stories about the granddaughters he loved so much. For Belle, he would tell me over and over how he remembered me bringing her to one of his softball games when he played for the Casual Fish. My dad had gone out to pitch and Belle would run up and down the fence looking at him yelling, “Pop-pop! Pop-pop!” She would have been two or so at the time. She’s thirteen now, and it was a memory my father cherished. For Gabby he adored all of her little sayings. She and he would look through pictures together when she was little and Gabby would ask him who all the people were. Once they were going through some pictures and they got to one where Gabby had asked, “Who’s that?” And my dad replied, “Oh, I don’t know darlin’.” And without skipping a beat she said, “Well its got to be somebody.”

For many years thereafter, whenever we were with our dad and we didn’t recognize someone he would turn to us with a grin and say, “Well its got to be somebody.”

Everyone here might have known Joseph Douglas Jr at a different time in their lives, and the Joe you may remember may vary a bit to ours. After all we knew him always when he was the sum of all his experiences. But that’s ok. Whenever you knew him or loved him it does not matter. All that matters is that at some point he touched your life.

When I was a kid I was up in my parent’s attic and found one of those old marble notebooks. I flipped through some empty pages and found some words written in it that read, “Joseph Douglas could have been anything he wanted. He could have been an astronaut, he could have been a fireman, he could have been a doctor or a soldier or a teacher, or a million other things. He could have, if he wanted to…”

I showed it to my father who was puzzled. He wanted to know if I had written it. I told him, “No.” In retrospect I think a friend or family member must have written it for him and it got lost in the other books he had stored in the attic. I think those words sum up my father pretty well.

Joseph L. Douglas Jr was not an overly ambitious man. Not really. Sure there were things he wanted to do, and things he might have wished he had done, but he was not the kind of person that chased wild dreams and wrestled them down to the ground. If he did have a lifelong ambition though it was to be more like his father.

Joe was not always a romantic, but he knew when to get my mother some flowers. And this was not only when he was in the doghouse. Every Christmas morning he addressed the Christmas gifts to my mother Denise with “To Delinez” or “To My Polish Princess.” Even if his gifts were not always original, no two packages were addressed the same, and he revealed his love to her by always finding a new term of endearment.

He took my brother and I to Orioles games every year, and he watched them regularly. He coached my brother’s Little League team, and when he was not coaching he always came to the games to cheer us both on. My dad and my brother Brian used to talk Baseball and though I know the basics about the sport, when they talked it was always more than I ever understood. Nevertheless, I loved that they had their own language with one another. Their love of sports always gave them that.

In recent years Joe did all of the food shopping and cooked most of the dinners. He had also all but taken over doing the laundry. He would joke that in his retirement he had become the perfect housewife.

Seven years ago I was in Afghanistan. He would write me letters that read, “Dear Shawn, I do not really know what to say. I hope I find you well and I look forward to seeing you again. I miss you.” He would then write at length about not knowing what to write, and he filled up pages with words that touched my heart and gave me strength to get through that tough year. By not knowing what to say, he told me everything.

Probably the greatest joy I personally had with my father was watching how much his granddaughters had changed him. He was a great father, but he was an amazing grandfather. He loved the years he spent with the girls, playing school with Gabby or losing to cards against Belle.

Our father wanted desperately to be like his father and always felt like somehow he did not measure up. When my grandfather passed away last year my father stepped up to try and fill that void as much as he could. He loved his mother, Margret, and visited her often. Nanny, he loved the time he spent with you. He also spent extra time with his sister Mary, his brother Mark, and his sister Marguerite. He may have been retired, but he made being there for all of his family his full time job.

What he failed to understand and what we understood quite clearly was that he was like his father in the ways that were most important: To him, Family mattered above all. And it was in this way that he did not just measure up, but he far exceeded all expectations.

Our father had a special affinity for St. Joseph, who is the very example of the perfect Earthly Father. He prayed to St. Joseph, and had a renewal of faith, especially in the last year. Joseph loved and cherished all of his family. He loved all of his friends – past and present. We could all learn by that example. While we are on Earth it is each and every one of our responsibilities to love and take care of one another. Joseph Douglas knew that.

I did not get a chance to say goodbye to our father, Joe, and I would like to end by doing that now. “Dear Joseph, I do not really know what to say. I hope I find you well and I look forward to seeing you again. I miss you. In all our talks about my future over the years I shared with you my hopes and dreams. I have a secret. When I was little all I wanted was to be a father like you. I will always try to be as good to my family as you were to yours, and when I struggle, I too will pray to St. Joseph. Dad you were, and are, my hero. Goodbye.”

Costs

Mon, 23 Jan 2012 05:44:42 GMT

The Soldier had served his country with honor and distinction. Following his time in foreign lands fighting an enemy that did not share his customs or speak in his tongue, he returned to his regiment, and prepared to make his way home. He felt elated at the prospect of becoming a civilian again, and to chase his own dreams instead of fighting for those of his nation.

Setting foot on his home soil once again was a surreal experience. Relief filled his being because he had made it home in one piece, but he viewed familiar places and people through an almost alien prism. A quick trip down the main street of his hometown revealed that banks had been bought and renamed, that some of his favorite places to eat had disappeared or changed their menus, that the old hardware store was now an art gallery, but at least the library still stood. It was not until he went into the library one day that he learned there was an electronic checkout system with only a skeletal librarian crew on hand to actually be of assistance. The world he left behind had changed and morphed into a place much like his and altogether different.

Sometimes when walking to his new bank or up the street to the new Korean barber shop he believed he had returned from war to an alternate dimension. The Soldier’s girlfriend had left him for another man. His friends were busy with lives that no longer carved out slivers of time they could devote to him. He had gone off to fight for everything and came home to find little left worth fighting for. Ideals carry nations, governments, religious folk, and many others, but ideals without substance starve a human being until they are haunted specters of what they once were.

Every attempt at filling the voids in his life were met with disappointing outcomes, frustrated happenstances, and even his victories felt small and shallow. Part of this, if he were honest with himself, was the realization that he would never again be that man who was willing to sacrifice everything to fight for the freedoms his country enjoyed. He was simply the echo of his previous incarnation.

He did not die bleeding out on the battlefield. He did not make a heroic sacrifice to save his fellow soldiers, or go on to make a career of it. The jobs he thought would come so easily as a Veteran never materialized, and all that he left behind decided he was not missed very much. Sometimes the sacrifice a soldier makes is more than his physical life. Sometimes he comes home and finds his choices have cost him parts of his soul, and parts of his heart.

And he will never be whole again.

(c)Shawn J. Douglas 2012

Before the World Ends

Thu, 02 Jun 2011 04:14:27 GMT

I came down to the shore for some alone time, some time to write, and to watch the end of the world. The beach house I rented for the week came cheap and had a perfect view of the vast ocean from the deck. From there, day and night, you could find me sitting on wicker chair at a small wooden table. Sometimes I ate my meals there, but most of the time I was trip-trapping on the keyboard of my old and tired laptop.

The battery had gone to shit a year earlier; however, there was an outlet outside and I ran an extension cord from there to the dying electronic box I transcribed slivers on my imagination on. The only time I really went inside the fully furnished beach house was to use the bathroom, to cook, or to sleep. I had no idea if the TV worked because I never turned it on.

I knew the world would end because I saw it in a half-dream. One of those moments while you are passing through consciousness. I saw it clearly, in my mind's eye, after waking from a dream about my ex-wife. Some would say that my feelings of dread and belief that the end of the world was approaching was the direct result of experiencing a dream of my ex. To this I often smiled when recounting this tale and would say, "They both remind me of black holes where all happiness, light, and goodness disappear into, true. But that is merely coincidence."

They do not take to my explanation, and yes they probably still equate the dream with the other; nevertheless, I know they are wrong. I saw it in that second I passed from one state of mind to the other, in a moment that seemed like hundreds of years, when Lovecraft came close to me and whispered secret things in my ear. I saw what was to come. It frightened me though I understood.

I remembered Lovecraft. His face a blur like using a camera that would not focus. His breath stank of mint and earth. And though he spoke to me I had the distinct impression he thought I was someone else. Had I received the message in error? Was it meant for someone other than me? I would never discover. Lovecraft revealed it all, and then he left. And I was awake. Remnants of Lovecraft's explanation of the end of things and a foul dream about my ex dancing within the reaches of my mind soup.

I recounted this story for my friends, my family, a few bartenders, and one local radio personality to asked listeners to call in to tell him their theories about the end of the world. One woman told the DJ that Aliens would return to Earth, claim they were here first, and kick us off the planet. A man told him that the world had already ended and we were in Hell. (I assumed he was still married.) And they all thought they were right, but they all were wrong.

Even though I remembered Lovecraft I could not, for the life of me, remember the date The End would come. It seemed to have been whited out of my memory. At least that was what I thought until two weeks ago when it came to me out of nowhere like bad news or bizarre sex scandals involving politicians. It must have done that on purpose, burying itself deep in my noggin until the time came to act on the information.

I quit my job. Grabbed a bag of necessities. Then I drove for the coast.

I am a procrastinator you see. Life has a way of making one forget things like hopes and dreams and instead often has you living in the world fate wants to stick you in. I have, for the better part of my life, wanted to be a writer. To share stories, not unlike what Lovecraft did once upon a time. Sadly my novel had sat half finished for longer than I cared to admit.

I decided I would sit in a house by the water and finish my book while I awaited the end of the world. And really, what better way to meet the Apocalypse then by besting Fate? At least, I had hoped that would be the case.

Seven days to craft this story. God, they say, made the world in seven days. I was making a world too. Creating something from nothing. I wondered if that made me a God. I wondered if that meant the Apocalypse would spare me. It seemed doubtful.

On the last day I did not rest. I wrestled with words and phrases. I clashed swords with sentences, and mounted paragraphs like they were my sexual playthings. I dominated pages. And the story I had to tell poured out of me like a violent storm. A storm like the one gathering on the horizon, turning the light blue sky into a dark purple bruise.

Finally I reached the last two words in my story: THE END.

There was a crackle of thunder and a flash of lightning. A storm was coming, but I already knew that. I sat back in my chair. I saw the dark, massive shapes spring up from the ocean as Lovecraft's Old Gods were (re)born and ready to put an end to the time of man. The blurry faced man was right. The Old Gods were returning and it meant the end.

But I had finished my story. The story I might never had finished otherwise had I not known that the Apocalypse was nigh. I smiled as the dark, scaly things slithered up the sandy beach, croaking like demented frogs.

I wondered how the rest of the world would meet their end. I wondered perhaps selfishly if any people I spoke with would remember my warning and realize with their last breaths that I might have had a point. It did not matter. Not anymore. I hoped they met their end like I did mine.

Had the Old Ones come a day or even an hour earlier I would have been a man that never achieved the purpose I had or wanted for myself. With my story ended I am giddy and laughing when they come upon me.

The last words I utter in this world are straight and to the point. "Fuck you Fate. Fuck you."

(c)Shawn J. Douglas 2011

Eulogy for Joseph L. Douglas Sr. My Grandfather

Fri, 25 Mar 2011 04:04:04 GMT

This is the Eulogy I gave for my Grandfather on Monday, March 7th.

If I were to stand here and tell all of you the wonderful things about Joseph Douglas, we would be here until tomorrow. Maybe even the next day. It is not easy to sum up a great man like him in just a few words. But I’ll try.

Back when I was in high school my grandfather told me a story. He was talking about his trip to Ireland and about the Douglas family history. While he was telling me this story he casually mentioned that the Douglas’s left Scotland once upon a time and moved to Ireland.

“Why did they move?” I asked him.

Without missing a beat he told me, “The Douglas’s were kicked out of Scotland for being Horse thieves.”

He paused for a moment before he offered me a smile. Joseph Douglas had an amazing sense of humor. Revisiting this memory now I cannot tell you for sure if he was telling the truth, or having some fun with me. At the very least if I ever go back to Scotland my grandfather will have me looking over my shoulder for anyone still bearing a grudge. That is how powerful his stories were. They stayed with you.

Joseph Douglas lived an amazing and full life. He was the type of man that did not tell you how you should live, and instead led by example. There are not enough people like him in the world. Where others talked the talk, he walked the walk. He was kind, compassionate, funny, patient, and full of the kind of goodness many aspire to and never quite reach. He was extremely hardworking and even up to a few years ago was still cutting his own grass, and making chairs and lanterns in his workshop in his basement.

He was a humble man, but always a man possessed of strong character. I think most people in the world today wear different faces for different people. Not Joseph Douglas. He knew who he was and never strayed from that. He is without a doubt the most genuine person I have ever met.

During his life he had many roles: son, soldier, friend, husband, father, grandfather, and great-grandfather. I believe the thing he was most proud about in his life was his family, who I can gaze out into a sea of faces and see right here. He loved all of you so very much. You want to talk about love stories? There might be no greater example of love than that between my grandfather and grandmother. Joseph and Margaret Douglas had between them a love story most only dream about. They were married 64 years, and were every bit as in love last week as they were when they first became man and wife. That love grew their children Marguerite, Joe, Mary, and Mark. That love extends to all of his grandchildren and great grandchildren. And I, for one, am eternally grateful of it.

He was a very religious man. When life became difficult you never found Joseph Douglas complaining about it. Instead he prayed. He prayed the Rosary four times a day, which is two times more in a day than I think I’ve done my whole life. Whenever I came to St. Athanasius with my kids, which I am sorry to say does not seem like nearly enough times now; he smiled immediately on seeing us. Sharing his faith was important to him, but he never preached his position, like everything else in his life he lived it. I think he would have offered one of those trademarked smiles of his to each and every one of us today for coming here to worship and to celebrate his memory. I have no doubt he wasted absolutely no time among the angels in starting to pray for each and every one of us because that was the kind of man he was.

He had one of the greatest smiles. He never just smiled with his face; he smiled with his whole body and his whole soul. Every smile he gave the world revealed a man grateful for every happy moment that came into his daily life. To share a moment like that with him was an honor. Joseph appreciated all of the blessings in his life.

The last time I saw him in the hospital I got up to leave and I got close to him to say goodbye. He looked up at me and took my hand and said, “Thank you for coming buddy.” And then he smiled. I will never, ever forget his smiles, and I will miss them.

Joseph Douglas passed away last Wednesday March 2, which also happened to be Dr. Seuss’ birthday. Proving the Lord works in mysterious way I found a Dr. Seuss quote that made me think of my grandfather. It goes: Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.

With apologies to the good Doctor, I would like to alter it to honor a man I am proud to have had as my grandfather.

Don’t cry because he’s gone. Smile because he happened.

-SJD

Thought pulses, and brain meat.

Sat, 29 Jan 2011 05:04:52 GMT

Cold and irritable are my mood and frame of mind respectively. Rum in my glass and beef jerky on my breath reveal that I both have taste and am not afraid to be comfortable. I contemplate the world, the universe, and the reality placed before me.

I think about how the universe is ever expanding and how all objects within it are moving away from one another. My mind repeats lines from William Gibson novels and sometimes I can hear songs from my youth that act as a conduit to relive moments with friends whose fates have taken them away from mine. The frigid temperatures and snow piled high outside make me think of vast white wastelands, as well as, remember heat scorched dirt and sand that laid under my boot heels for over a year. I marvel at the love for my girls and how, though they love in return, they still possess a certain disdain for me because in their eyes their mother is all.

When television pundits start by saying, "I'm not a racist," I wonder if they listen to the rest of their rhetoric later and possibly think that perhaps they are wrong. Corporations now have the same rights as you or me in America. That means in addition to having more money than you can dream of, they control the conversation too. All of them like HAL in 2001: A Space Odyssey. Emotionless voices backed by the souls of people that would rather have money than do anything meaningful in this life. The mechanical voices tempt us with, "COME FLESHY ONES. WE OFFER RICHES AND PRODUCTS AND ALL WE ASK FOR IS YOUR OBEDIENCE,YOUR HUMANITY, YOUR DECENCY, AND YOUR IMAGINATION."

There are those that would give it all away so they can vacation somewhere nice and warm, be regarded as successful for the size of their bank account, never mind who else gets hurt along the way. I am convinced if there is a Devil, he is an Insurance Company acting as a middle man between a patient and their Doctor. And if there ever was a Devil worshiper it is anyone that wants to give that Devil control again to reap profits from the dead and dying. All of those rich freaks in Congress, with their very FREE healthcare, voting on repeal. They might as well shed their clothes, commence the orgy, and sacrifice a goat. BAAAH, motherfuckers. BAAHHHH.

When the world only looks like that horribly painted picture, I am reminded that all the shadows do not fully eclipse me. Art will always heal the soul. Always. Someone's words, photographs, illustrations, films, music, comedy, performance, or passion will touch your heart. Even if you do not fully appreciate or understand what you are experiencing, their devotion to their craft will be a gentle breeze on a hot summer's day.

I think about how my own happiness requires giant sacrifices. I wonder if I am standing up for me or simply being a coward for not making the tough decisions. I wonder if my laziness and struggle with my own soul will result in forgetting my dreams. I could have done so much more with what I have. I do not want to be saying that fifty years from now.

When it gets hard, lately, I have been thinking of a young man or woman, younger than I am now, trying to peacefully demonstrate in a place where the Pharaohs once ruled. I wonder what kind of person stands up to armored guards and tanks and threat of death to shout, "FREEDOM!" I wonder if they will live to see tomorrow. I wonder if those in my own country understand how lucky we are. I doubt it.

Sometimes I wonder if the comets will come and obliterate my world. I wonder if the zombies will pick the bones of the planet. I am curious if God is angry with the life I have led and, if so, why he never bothered to give me a user's manual. If it is like the one for any number of electronic equipment I have ever owned I can promise I would not have read it properly anyway. But at least he would be free and clear and I could accept all of the blame.

I contemplate the Universe and all of its mysteries and contradictions. One truth unites us all - the lovers, the fighters, the lonely ones, the marchers, the artists, and the rest - we all do the best we can with what we have.

And with that, I go to refill my glass.

(c) Shawn J. Douglas 2011

Please Don't Go.

Tue, 24 Aug 2010 06:07:39 GMT

She died but he would have none of it.

They all tried to tell him, comfort him, in those gray granite days and hopeless black nights. "Grieve and move on," they said in one voice through many different words. "Make your peace. Let her go." Family. Friends. All those bastards turned against him. They had made it clear where their allegiances now rested. He understood perfectly what this meant.

They were the enemy. Do not listen to them.

He understood the value of patience, you see. Never was there a man that could bide his time like he could. After she was put in the ground in the aftermath of a short though sweet memorial service, the enemy came to him often. Frequent visits. Numerous phone calls. Gently pushing him to let her be no more. He knew the game. He played the part. He offered sincere looking smiles. He assured them all he was on their team.

After some time the voices slowly melted away, sure they had brought him over to their side of things. He quit his job. Men in suits had given him a lot of money because she had died. He used it to help his patience. He redid the master bedroom exactly as she would have wanted it had they ever had the money to do so. He drank often and with grim determination.

He waited the enemy out and when he was sure they were gone, he went to work.

On a night, moonless and rain soaked, he grabbed his newly purchased shovel and drove to see his lady. The wet ground made getting to her a bit easier, but his muscles screamed the deeper he went with the only thing pushing him forward being his unyielding love.

She was dead but he would have none of it.

He was a mess of wet mud and fury. When he got to the coffin, he chuckled with glee. He could not haul it up by himself and instead opened the lid and saw her lying there. He cried tears of joy. They were reunited after all.

He wrapped his true love up in blankets he had bought with the money he made from her death. He carried her to their car and he drove her home. He let her take a nap while he cleaned himself up. When he went into the bedroom with her he was nervous. He felt like he did the first time they had met, when shyness was impossible to overcome. They were together again. The enemy, even death, could not keep them apart. He played her favorite music. He told her everything that had happened during her time away. He knew she was happy to be home with him but there was just something off. He suspected being dead had made her very sad.

They had always wanted to have children together. They had put it off thinking of course they had all the time in the world, as all young couples do. He knew she wanted a child. For the next couple of days and nights, before the police came to separate them once more, he tried to give her a child. He knew they would not know for sure for a couple of weeks but you know.....

..fingers crossed.

At night in the dark, holding her close, he whispered the same thing over and over. That he never wanted her to leave him again.

He's still waiting on her reply.

(c)Shawn J. Douglas 2010

Reoccurring Dream

Sun, 22 Aug 2010 04:41:56 GMT

She was always his Dream Girl.

Once upon a time this was because she was the girl in grade school he wanted to be with. To hold hands with, pass notes to, and steal chaste kisses from in dark corners of the brick school building. He desired her before he understood what desire meant. The girl of his dreams. His Dream Girl.

One smart, elderly man once said: "I have the same nice things to say about politicians that I do about Long Distance Relationships." When he asked what that was the old man answered, "Nothing. The same nice thing I have to say about both of them is nothing. There is nothing good about either, in equal measures."

His Dream Girl and he connected again almost in another life. Years after they played on playgrounds. Years after awkward moments at the water fountain or in later middle school years, barely registering on her radar. They reconnected when hairs he had started turning gray and he felt all his dreams had passed him by. They found that each had been what the other was searching for, and secretly wanted in their own heart of hearts. Missing puzzle pieces. The final note in their respective unfinished songs.

They lived great distances from one another and they declared they would find a way to make it work. And they tried. Continue to try. And it wears on them, sadly. Days together. Weeks and months apart. They go to visit one another when they can and let time manhandle them between being in each other's graces.

Recently he spent lovely days with her. Magic days.

But those days are gone now. Back to their respective lives. Back to time that drags. Nights like these where he is tired and upset and feeling ill as a result of being away from her, he sees glimmers of their time together flash before his eyes. Waking dreams. And he begins to wonder if she really exists at all or if it all only happens in his mind.

In the years he possesses now, he lives this partial happiness where they plan to be together but are still apart, hoping that somehow it all works out. In these new years she is still the girl of his dreams. His waking dreams. The girl he dreams of having visited and whose visits seem like nothing but elaborate fairy tales one has when visiting the Sandman in his own realm. Lonely days like today he is convinced she will not come and be with him. On those days she only lives in the vapor of a well constructed fantasy one has when they close their eyes. Where she might only be make believe.

On these days, she's still his Dream Girl.

She was always his Dream Girl.

(c)Shawn J. Douglas 2010

please, not tomorrow. No.

Thu, 10 Jun 2010 03:40:44 GMT

The world did not end. The Apocalypse did not come. Survivors of the non-event had to set their alarms again to wake for the jobs they hated, returning to lives that held little interest for them any longer.

They had prepared, you see. For the riots and the viruses. For the zombies, the rise of the machines, and for the promised religious smiting. They had counted on it. They horded duct tape like Walmart rat-packers. They had gallons of water, canned goods, and weapons. Guns, ammunition, knives, bats, and homemade concoctions ready to brave the world in the hereafter. Ready for tomorrow. When the Mad Max lifestyle stepped off the big-screen and became our "based on a true story."

But then the world kept spinning. Kept turning. In spite of all the signs, promises, and beliefs, it was not over yet.

It was not lost on them the irony that the joy of Armageddon that was not theirs to have. They would not have the nomad freedom. Here the lost and forgotten of society would not show their true colors, rescuing their friends from undead armies, alien invaders, or robotic assassins.

Instead they would have to live now. As they had done. And find some purpose in that.

Real life was much fucking scarier.

(c)Shawn J. Douglas 2010

This girl, she walks into a bar.....

Thu, 13 May 2010 05:24:42 GMT

When she found me I was probably two drinks away from pissing myself at the bar. Luckily I had laid my head down to stop the place from spinning, thus preventing more alcohol from finding a way to trigger an accident. If I was any other poor bastard laying his head down at the bar Anusi would have tossed my sorry ass into the streets. Luckily I was not some other poor bastard. I was me. I had special house privileges.

"Jesus Christ, look at you," she said as she took the stool next to mine.

Brave girl. I would not have sat next to me after as much as I had to drink simply because no one could be positive it would not be coming back up soon. Even drunk I could smell her. She smelled like jasmine, honey, and sex. If you could bottle that up I would spray every inch of my roach infested apartment with it before I jacked off at the end of the night, first thing in the morning, or every spare minute I had in-between.

I lifted my head. To do so and vaguely look in her direction was to me a miracle equivalent to walking on fucking water. "Do I have to?"

"I suppose not," she answered. "but it was rhetorical, I wasn't asking you to."

My brow creased and I tried to remember what day it was right after I remembered my name. "Mmmm. Well then. I guess you should go now."

"You really do disgust me," she stated. She waved the bartender over and when he moved closer to her she said, "I'll take a Guinness and shot of Jager."

"Put it on my tab, Anusi," I managed to say. I may have been drunk out of my mind but I knew this woman and even though her current image appeared fuzzy to me, I knew she was sexier than most women that walked in and out of my life. Therefore I had to buy her a drink. Just in case.

"Bullshit," answered Anusi. "You don't pay for the drinks I give you now."

"I'm just waiting for that commission check to come in," I said.

"Uh huh," Anusi responded. "You can drink and run a tab. Her, she has to pay."

Anusi went off to make good on the lady's drinks and I offered her a grin. "Sorry. I tried."

"I see that," she said simply. "It really doesn't matter. I wouldn't have allowed you to buy me a drink."

"Why's that?"

"Because I'm not going to fuck you."

"Oh," I said, not surprised. "Well you can't blame me for trying."

"No, I can't." She leaned over and whispered in my ear. "It's a shame because no one fucks as well as I do Nathan."

Anusi brought her the shot and the stout and she had the Jager down so fast I was pretty sure I was in love. "That a fact?"

"That's a fact," she said.

"Bully for you then," I answered. "If you aren't going to offer me your body we have nothing else to discuss. Go away now."

"Oh no Nathan," she said. "You're going to sober up and come and do God's work."

"I don't think so."

"I need someone of your...talents." She genuinely sounded like she believed that and hated it all at the same time. "You have to come."

I opened my eyes as wide as I was able to do so and focused on her. She wasn't as sexy as I had thought. She was sexier. Blue eyes, long red hair (my personal kryptonite), and lips that should be licensed and only used by a professional. "You hate me. You made that clear that last time we did this, luv. I'm not on call, for you, or anyone. Go find someone you do want to fuck now and piss off."

We had known each other for years now. She loathed me for who I was and who I wasn't. We had a falling out recently mostly from my inability to stay sober for very long and her inability to throw me a mercy screw. Every time I opened my mouth to speak for the last two years her eyes started to roll. The closest we had ever come to getting physical was the time she had been plagued by demons and I had to paint sigils over her naked body. I used finger paints to do it. I could have used a brush but I never told her that. Mostly because I'm a bit of a bastard, and secondly because if you saw her naked you'd want to touch her too.

She clenched her jaw. "I need your help Nathan. I've got a problem only you can solve."

Only I could solve? Oh hell no. "Not a fucking possession Emma."

"Yes, a possession," she said coldly. "And it's Wednesday you daft prick, not Emma."

It's true. Her name was Wednesday. No Addams Family jokes please, she's heard them all. I always got her name wrong. I promised her one day I would get it right. But not before I had been inside her.

I started to get angry. "You shouldn't take any possessions if we're not working together you loopy cunt. You've never done a possession in your life."

She looked down. She appeared vulnerable then. I hated her for it. She was doing it on purpose. "I know."

She said nothing then. I sat up like my body did not hate me. "Call Jacobson. He'll do it. He fancies you."

"I did," she informs me. "He went in for ten minutes then came out to tell me he quit. He called me an hour later and told me to give up on it. He sounded scared."

"Well he was always a bit of a pussy."

"Please Nathan," she said. I would not look at her because I knew she was giving me The Look, and if I saw The Look, I would do whatever she told me to. "I can't do this alone. I know we're not getting along now but you have to do this."

"Babycakes I don't have to do anything, ever. Tell your client there's nothing can be done. Shit, tell them to get a priest."

"They already tried that. The priest went crazy."

I shrugged. "That's all she wrote then."

After the last time exorcising a demon I had given up on the whole thing. Being a natural exorcist required far too much work just to right click and delete a demon from this plane and it always put your own soul in jeopardy.

Wednesday's eyes became glassy. There were tears there. I needed this to end before I promised to do something stupid. I needed to do more shots or make her go away.

"It's my daughter Nathan," she implored. "The client is my daughter."

Wednesday gave her daughter up for adoption years ago. Her sister adopted her. Wednesday and I don't lead lives that mesh well with traditional things like families. She had done it so her little girl could have a real life. Now her daughter was caught up in "our" world.

"Fuck." It was all I could muster. Honesty, kids in general would have made the difference. That it was Wednesday's kid made it a forgone conclusion.

She finished her Guinness and stared straight through me.

I shook my head. "I'm going to need a few things."

Her smile as the tears fell down her face said everything I needed to hear. "Ok."

"Anusi," I yelled to my only other friend in the world. "I'm going now. We'll settle up later."

He came over and started wiping down the counter in front of me. "I hear that at least twice a year Nate. Just go on. Bring me back more friends who do pay."

I offer him the best shit-eating grin I had. "C'mon Anu. You know I don't gots no friends."

He sighed. "We can always hope you change your ways. Go sober up."

I stood without tipping over. "I might need your help getting to the car."

Wednesday moved close to me. "Put your arm around me, we'll go together."

I did as the lady asks. "Don't worry," I stated. "I won't touch you....much."

At the door I added, "If you let me drive I'll let you give me a blowjob."

"Nathan, I wouldn't let you drive if you were sober." I could hear the laughter behind her words. "And if you put anything in my mouth I'll bite it off."

Out in the parking lot the night was cold and clear. "C'mon you kinky bitch," I tell her. "Let's go save your little girl."

(c) Shawn J. Douglas 2010

Fri, 30 Apr 2010 18:13:56 GMT

There are things I'm not cool about, but they're all in my head.

No one has wronged me or beaten me up, down, or anywhere in-between. There is no conspiracy going on, no malice being thrown my way. Instead, like a batshit crazy mathematician, I connect the dots, draw conclusions, and read hidden meanings in things that are not really there.

I'm basically like Glenn Beck with a blackboard, except I apply it to my life.

You know it's bad when you are that fucking crazy, but I can't help it. I can't change. As badly I want to.

I know my jealous nature is a direct result of both my trust issues for actually being wronged before and my own insecurities as a human being. I don't think I'm bad all of the time. I actually think I've come a long way. But when I let go, when I let something crawl inside my skin and poison me, I let it destroy me.

All I know is the dark place I take myself, where I break my own heart, over and over again.

There are things I'm not cool about, but they're all in my head.

(c)Shawn J. Douglas 2010

Where I Hang My Hat

Thu, 14 Jan 2010 07:12:26 GMT

It's cold and I wrap myself in the warmest blanket I own. I bought it from a vendor in North Korea. It has the picture of a wolf on the front of it. When I spent a year in Afghanistan I left it behind for my girls to use. They called it "the Daddy Blanket." Somewhere outside my window my city moves on, lit up and chilled as I am with only the night sky as it's blanket. My city.

Baltimore.

Growing up Baltimore was this almost mythical place, like walking into another state of being, where life moved much faster than I thought I ever wanted to move. This place had seemed both grand and intimidating. I've done some traveling in my time. I only ever left Maryland once for any length of time, when I went globe-trotting off learning to be a soldier. Can you believe that after all I have seen and done and been a part of, this place still seems grand? Not quite as intimidating maybe, but like the backdrop for a dark fairytale.

I've lived in Baltimore now over a year and a half. It still speaks to me in whispers, especially at night. Baltimore, my city, is part vampire after all. Just like me. We share similar powers. It's the home of my favorite place to eat, Annabel Lee's, named after the wife and poem by Edgar Allan Poe. Just like him I consider myself a writer. We even share the same birthday. I'm just better adjusted with my darkness and not nearly as talented as he. The city possesses my favorite football and baseball teams. I worked here years ago failing as a Life Insurance Salesman and Financial Planner. Failing because the company I worked for wanted you to be a shark and I was a Sea Turtle. Baltimore seems like a girlfriend I keep going back to after one break up or another.

Who knows how long I'll live in my city? Thousands of miles away my Island of O'ahu misses me. (It's my island, I own it.) So I definitely make things difficult placing MY city and MY island so far away from one another. I might leave Baltimore at some point. I might leave Maryland at some point and find another place to call home. Part of me is sadden by this. Not by change but because Maryland will always be my home and Baltimore will always feel like my personal study.

I have two novels in various stages of procrastination that take place in Baltimore. The city in both of these stories is as much a character as any of the living, breathing creatures found therein. It would not be right to leave before their stories are told, before what I have to say is said. I have one more short story to tell and I think I'll be getting back to my Dark Fairy-tales. I am after all still in my study. Wrapped in a blanket of night and as wired as the streetlights painting the pavement.

Here in my city. Inside my dark dream.

Home.

(c)Shawn J. Douglas 2010

The Hunt

Tue, 05 Jan 2010 07:00:56 GMT

The first couple of days of 2010 were the ones that needed to be watched carefully. Those little bastards were up to something. You could smell it in the air. Like the aftermath of a lit match blown out almost as quickly as it was ignited. He watched the New Year and it frightened him.

It came at him violently and almost immediately upon arrival. He hoped the room he was hiding out in with it's large metal bars would provide protection as 2010 reached out at him with it's large jaws showcasing unforgivable teeth. It gnashed at him through the spaces in-between and growled like forgotten nightmares sitting around the campfire waiting for the world of men to remember them again.

He did not think he could last against it. Just a few days in and 2010 was not the promise of the bright future he had envisioned. Instead it was a grim reminder of yesterday things and the ugly mutated fear of the unknown. It was a hulking beast of impossible proportions with no chance of domestication.

It took him four days.

When the horrific sounds coming outside of his compound grew worse and he thought all sanity left inside his hollowed skull would seep out like water draining from his ears, he went out back, into the courtyard. The yard was a rectangle of rough grass and dry dirt surrounded by a ten foot high electric fence. One tree grew up out of the ground but no one should ever eat of the fruit that grows on there. It makes people forget things.

The mound stood like a monument in the corner of the courtyard. It looked fresh. He grabbed a six-pack of Guinness and a shovel and headed for the mound. He swallowed the first beer in three large gulps before opening a second to sip on. He began to dig.

The coffin was rickety to begin with and burying it had not helped it much. Getting the lid off of it was easy. He lifted the dead body unceremoniously out of the coffin and threw it on the ground. It stank like rotten eggs left out all day in a desert heat. He took out his knife and approached the corpse.

He had finished all of his stout as he prepared to leave the compound and face the four day old monster outside. He had stripped naked and now only wore the skin of 2009 he had cut from it's dead corpse. He believed it would make 2010 afraid of him. He wanted that devil outside to know he was willing to skin that year and wear it as a cloak. He had also fashioned a new knife and a spear out of 2009's bones. He would leave the metal knife behind. He had no need of it where he was going.

The sounds outside had all but disappeared but he went out anyway. In his heart he heard the drums beat for battle. Wearing the dead remains of 2009 both as uniform and weapon, he went out into the world to hunt for this New Year that had already tore at his spirit. He would pray but did not believe he would best that foul demon. But he hoped that he would wound it just enough so that it would leave him alone for the duration. At the very least he wanted it to think twice before fucking with him again.

In the darkness he heard something suck in the air and then charge him.

He raised his spear and waited for it.

His own growl soon matched that of the New Year.

Later in the moonlight all those that would pass by that spot would have trouble deciphering how much blood on the ground had belonged to him and how much belonged to the beast.

Three Hundred and Sixty-One to go.

(c)Shawn J. Douglas 2010

Laugh, Cry, It's All The Same

Tue, 01 Dec 2009 06:54:19 GMT

Those who say, "I'm my own worst enemy" don't know the half of it. I've spent a lifetime being at odds with myself. And Jesus, I'm not getting any younger.

Welcome to the 21st Century, the next chapter in the saga of me going nowhere. Aw, who am I kidding? We're coming on almost a decade into the new Century and I still haven't learned a thing. I'm the dreamer without will. Either too lazy to pursue the dreams or too afraid of failing and discovering I'm not any damn good to see them through.

I'd like to blame scarring events in my childhood or sheer dumb luck, but when all the chips are counted and all the whores are paid, the fault lays squarely at my feet. Like the dead chewed up mouse left to me by the invisible cat gods I do not like but are too scared of to dismiss outright. I see that some of my artistic heroes are now younger than I am and having already achieved so much, cast a long shadow on my empty ramblings, my hollow dreams.

Sometimes I want to believe it has something to do with the fucked up chemistry in my brain or perhaps the way the planets align in the cosmos. But it's a lie. I've at least stopped lying to myself and know whose at fault, which poor bastard needs to be executed for crimes against the writer's dreams. But in the world where you rule as king, judge, jury, and executioner, it is hard to get the sense of purpose to even see your own ending out.

I should kill this dream once and for all. Give up the notion I'm ever going to have anything worthy to say or contribute. Give up on the art and the words and the ideas I want to share or at least, infect everyone with. It might be better to resign myself to the existence of quiet living and sensible ideas. It would at least quell the demon that hides underneath my skin.

Alas, however, it shall never be. Though it makes sense to free it from my grasp, the dream is all I have. It's as much a part of me as my hair and flesh and ache. So here in the dark hours, the midnight hours, underneath a veil of shadows, I cannot find a way to make the dream work for me or I for it. And I cannot let it go.

Funny, that.

(c)Shawn J. Douglas 2009

Rumpelstiltskin

Thu, 08 Oct 2009 06:24:15 GMT

"Tell me how you want it," she says in a hiss that has my man bits stirring underneath my jeans.

She already knows how I want it though. We have been here before. "Just like last time," I say. "And the time before that."

She smiles then. The grin of a killer, of an animal. She blinks at me slowly, deliberately in acknowledgment. "Put your money on the table and come to bed."

We've all got our addictions, our vices. This one is mine. Don't you dare judge me.

I put the rolled up cash on the dresser with the marble top, in rolled up twenties and tens. I move towards the bed. What comes next is paid and bought for with the finest money I've ever stolen.

She sheds her robe and nakedly crawls onto the bed like a panther stalking prey. I nervously remove my own clothes in a series of clumsy movements as I try not to laugh. I sit on the end of the bed with my back towards her. In my ear I hear, "safe word?"

I've never used the safe word before. "Rumpelstiltskin."

"Turn around," she says.

I do. We kiss then. It's sweet and deep and there will only be one more like it.

I barely open my eyes again to see the blurry shape of hands launch at my chest. I lose the ability to intake oxygen as I go flying into the wall at the far end of the room. I collapse on the floor. I curse God in every language I know and some I make up. Struggling to move from a fetal position to a kneeling one I see her figure come off of the bed with the grace of a spider.

"Is that what you like?" she asks in a horrible voice. Hers but not exactly. Like she was talking through the grinding of glass by metal. "Do you enjoy knowing that you have to be threatened with death to taste life?"

I get to my knees. Thank the baby Jesus.

With another blur she's in front of me now with abnormally long fingers around my throat. Her jaw becomes unhinged revealing so many teeth she might very well be part shark. Her tongue has become a forked thing that licks my face from chin to brow. I'm lightheaded already. I try to form words but they don't come.

"Life is wasted on the living," she informs me. She then lifts me like a pillow and flings me into the wall across from the one I just bounced off of.

I crash into it back first. I'm on the floor, face down. Before I even register it she's on my back holding me down. She's ridiculously strong. She bites me once on the shoulder and once in the neck. The teeth are so sharp I barely feel them at all. "You taste like shit," she tells me. I pretend to struggle. She's off of me and lifting me up to face her.

I take a full breath. Breathing is not as overrated as one might think.

"Look at you," she hisses again. "Another failed disgrace of a human being." Nails slash their way across my chest. They are mostly superficial cuts but they bleed well. "You're whole fucking race makes me nauseous."

"I'm sorry," I squeak out.

"You're sorry?" she asks. "YOU'RE FUCKING SORRY?" I bounce off of three more walls, one after another.

I suddenly find myself sitting up in the bed looking at her. She looks more like she did when I arrived save for the nakedness and the blood dripping from her mouth down her throat and over her breasts. "Why don't you do yourself a favor and just let me end it all for you? You're not worth much more than being a quick snack for me before I get myself off and go to sleep."

I look at her with a bruised expression to match my bruised body. "Does this mean I don't have to wear a condom?" I catch her off guard, I can see it in her face. I don't usually get smart when I'm being beaten. There's a first time for everything I suppose.

She slaps me hard across the face. It's like being belted by a shovel. Somewhere a gash has opened because warm, salty wetness slides down my skin and finds my mouth. Tastes like chicken.

"FUCKING COCKROACHES, THAT'S WHAT YOU ALL ARE!" she bellows. "INSECTS."

I say nothing. I'm afraid I'll throw up now. It's all I can do to stay awake.

She grabs me by the back of the neck and I feel her teeth dig in. This is it. The big one. I feel my life juices being sucked away. There are tears in my eyes. I'm not sure whether they are happy or sad tears. She pulls away and looks at me. The horror toothy grin of death turning once again into an blooded angel face. "Ask me nicely and I'll end it all for you now. Sweet. Dark. Oblivion."

I think about it. I always do. I think about having to watch my father drink himself to death slowly after my mother passed. I remember how the doctor gave him three months and how he was able to cut it in half with enough Jack to kill a Rhino. I think about a wife I loved and a child I never knew who both left me on the day my girl went into labor. I remember burying not one but two on a cold, December morning just as the snow began to fall. Marking the end to my sanity in beautifully ironic fashion. I think about all the little things the Universe had taken away from me to add to the big ones. Those things that helped me get out of bed and face the world again. All those things lost like grains of sand in the desert.

I want to say 'please' so very badly. Instead I say, "Fuck you, no."

Her grin grows into the inhuman thing again and she lunges for me. I close my eyes. The dark behind my eyelids is comforting.

She envelopes me in her arms. Not violently. Gently. She holds me like a lover would.

I cry for what seems like lifetimes.

Later I'm dressed and she is wearing a robe of silk. In another life I may have wanted to make love to her, even though I've seen her true face. The Angel looks at me. We started our business relationship about a year ago. She may even honestly feel sorry for me. Happy Anniversary dark lady. Don't spend all my money in one place.

"I didn't mean to hit you in the face," she says quietly.

"It's ok," I say. "I got mouthy."

"Doesn't matter." She breathes deeply. "I need to control myself better."

I smile a lopsided grin. "Can't stop being who you are. No worries." I move to leave. "Same time next week?"

She looks at me with concern. "You took a bad beating this time. Better make it two weeks."

I limp over to her. I wonder if she can even care about anything, let alone me. I kiss her again sweetly just as we did before she threw me across the room the first time. It's sweet and deep and there was only one like it.

Afterward I stare into her eyes. "I'll see you next week." This time when I move towards the door she does nothing to change my mind.

Outside on a cold night, aching and in one big ball of pain I think about going through one more week. A living man who might as well be dead; her a dead woman trying to fool the living. I wonder when the day will come that I let her finish the job and give me that sweet. dark. oblivion.

Who knows?

Maybe next week.

(c)Shawn J. Douglas 2009

uphill

Wed, 02 Sep 2009 05:35:35 GMT

He had given up on falling in love. It now seemed like a grown-up version of kick-ball. In first grade he was picked last every time. He did not want to be last. Not then. Not now. He had no desire to be someone's second choice. To be anyone's back-up plan. Best to just throw in the towel now. It might seem like giving up but really it was a self preservation move. Best to give up that journey than end up as someone's consolation prize.

He was oddly alright with this. There were times of course it felt unbearable. The loss of someone to share your secrets and dreams with. The loss of the warm animal that learned how to hold you just right. The loss of sweat-hot bodies interlocking. The loss of the sweet words whispered in the dark.

Other times though he kept his mind off of it.

If it got bad he gently reminded himself that there was not much of a heart left to share. It was a crusty, black thing now stitched back together as if by a blind man with the shakes. He reminded himself that since the Big Hurt the women he dated either never really saw him as he was or were always waiting for the BBD. The Bigger, Better, Deal. They were easy to spot. Easy to see coming. He avoided them as soon as he recognized it.

Where would you find a fetching creature of beauty, grace, intellect, and charm that also brought wise and enchanting words to the conversation all the while exhibiting a sexiness never before enjoyed by human kind? Where would he find A LADY? Hmm? Exactly.

He spent late nights wondering about the fate of his immortal soul. He procrastinated work on his novel. He wondered when the joy left him as he pursued his dreams. There were cities he wanted to visit, events he wanted to be part of. Lately however if any of these things presented themselves he would not have been able to tell you he was excited. There were times he was full of life and laughed and danced badly, but then there were these dark times. Empty times. He did not care for them. He could not escape them.

He tried really hard to make the best out of the way things were. Sometimes he rose to the occasion. Other times he was a horrid mess. It was a constant uphill battle for him, against a vicious and powerful foe. He got wounded a lot, but he was getting better at fighting. So at least there's that.

He wondered what, if any, adventures he still had left to experience. He wondered what surprises the Universe had in store for him, if the Universe remembered him at all. He wondered if giving up on falling in love was the right decision. Or even if it was a decision at all. Most of the time, most of the time, he was just lonely.

Lonely without answers.

And the fortune cookies did not help since their advice was only good if he did it "in bed."

(c) Shawn J. Douglas 2009

Empty Vessels

Sun, 30 Aug 2009 03:50:43 GMT

Where are all the genuine people? Where did they all go? Are they truly an endangered species, a minority among the meatbags that populate this sphere of mud and water? It seems there was a time when they moved in and out of my life like changing tides, but tides nonetheless. Now I stand waist deep in an ocean of people that are calm and fake, hardly wanting to ripple the world with anything that would reveal their true selves to you. Where did all the real people go?

I will go out with friends of friends and find the most stereotypical, generic people. They could all be cast in some silly quasi-drama featuring beautiful characters with little or no humanity to them. I have conversations with people that make we want to stab myself in my ears. Carbon copied humans with carbon copied dreams and carbon copied opinions. Wii fit characters.

Could it be me? Could I have grown so cold and bitter in my mature years that I digest those around me with a less forgiving mind's eye than I did in years past, or in this hustle and bustle of the world where we're talking to each other in 160 characters or less are we becoming our own avatars of who we should be? Caricatures of real people without the depth and interest to support them.

Or perhaps I just walk in emptier circles. Maybe even worse, that I am unable to maintain friendships with those genuine people that make me feel alive and whose company I'd take a bullet to defend. There are only a few left now. A handful of great human beings touching my life with only the barest trickle of new ones coming in.

Where are the lovers, the artists, the dreamers, the music makers, the storytellers, the photographers, and those acquaintances that take life by the balls that I never tire to spend time with? Why do they remain hidden from me? Why do they go?

Were contracts taken out on them? Have they been eradicated by a virus targeting only people with real souls? Must we keep the dull and boring and paint-by-numbers individuals filling up most of my day?

Where did all the genuine people go?

(c)Shawn J. Douglas 2009

Audio Commentaries

Tue, 25 Aug 2009 04:14:20 GMT

I wonder how long I'll have to keep living and breathing, how much heartache I'll have to own, before I won't sit quietly during the witching hour and wonder why it was him over me. How many more times will I allow myself to replay the lies you told me and the unceremonious way you cut me out of your life with a rusty blade? How long before I can be free of you and all the promises you never kept, never meant?

There are days where you are hardly an afterthought. Glorious days where I feel reborn and carefree. Days that make me happy to be drunk on the oxygen the world provides and the vibes that tickle my soul. You would never think that the me that hides behind my eyes is held together by duct tape and bubble gum. That I look like a vase a child destroys and puts back together poorly in a vein attempt to forgo punishment. Then of course there are days and nights like these. When I know you're out there rationalizing all you've done and all you do. I don't know who the bigger fool is, you or I, but I know who the more lonely of the two are. I wonder what my life might be like now if I settled for the first one that came along too. I wonder if dying slowly living the truth is better than living badly in make believe.

After all this time I wish it didn't torture me so. That the shadows of my heart would leave me be. That I didn't use the DVD player in my head to skip between chapters. That my own audio commentary didn't reveal just how naive and amateur I was at creating my own story. And how you walked out of my life after only the first act, now being used for cameos that serve nothing and no one. They were just in your contract.

I bet you still say convincingly to anyone that would listen that yes, you did love me. That my actions or yours or both caused that to disappear over time, leading of course to you making your heart and lady bits available to the someone merely biding his time. Oh I'm sure he loves you genuinely and didn't leech onto your pain or hardship or catch you at a weak moment. I'm sure taking a married wife in her bed when things are rough for her proves just what a chivalrous fellow he is. Don't worry, your secret is safe with me.

I think if you can walk away so very easily, than you never really loved me at all. Perhaps I had the better of the deal. Maybe it was always harder for you and I had it much easier. But I know I left blood, sweat, and tears for you along the path I walked and in the Thunderdome I fought in to make myself a better man for you. Consider yourself a strong person, go ahead. I didn't fold at the first sign of trouble. And I didn't start getting matching tattoos with anyone while I was still married. Keep that in mine.

I don't hate you. But I hate all that you did to me and to us. Fear not, I carry the weight of my role in this too. I know my hands were never clean and that I got off to a very late race to save all that we had. In the end however I was the only one that wanted to save it. You decided to cut this bastard loose.

So here I am, years after the fact, haunted on nights like these when I think I'm not even a proper memory you carry with you anymore. I'm not even a prequel to all you are now. You're in the middle of a remake and I'm the actor from the original trying to get noticed at the Comic Con in hopes I can sign an autograph for anyone that liked what came before, in all it's unrefined once-upon-a-timeness.

I wonder how long I'll have to keep living and breathing, how much heartache I'll have to own, before I won't sit quietly during the witching hour and lose myself within it.

(c)Shawn J. Douglas 2009

Nostalgic

Fri, 07 Aug 2009 16:28:54 GMT

It started with a movie and it was all down hill after that.

I caught myself in one of those moments where you are channel surfing late at night when you should be either sleeping or creating great art or having the best sex of your life. Instead I am mind-melding to the TV deity and find a movie I have not seen for some time that always fills me with a bit of joy when it is on. The movie was REALITY BITES and I devoured it like a cannibal at an orgy. Of course now in the aftermath I feel a hollow space in the center of me.

You feel old when you do the math backwards from when the movie was released and realize it's been fifteen goddamn years. Fifteen. I was seventeen years old and a completely different person in many of the most important ways. When did that happen? Where was I? Gah.

Anyway the warm feelings came from Winona Ryder's character, Lelaina. Not just because I remember having one of those celebrity crushes on her back in the day but because different sides to her character reminded me of these girls I used to hang out with in highschool. The amalgamation on the screen was not better in any way than the real versions of these ladies but it hinted at their greatness and sparked a flood of memories I had not visited in forever and a day.

They were the coolest, most amazing girls I had ever had the privilege of knowing, hanging with, or ever to have had a crush on. I miss being in their presence when they were together, as they snapped, crackled, and popped energy and excitement. I carry fond memories of them all. A few even stole my heart though I never always let it be known. Those days in highschool I like to visit the most always feature them in the foreground and in the background. They're powering the vision or haunting it wonderfully.

I run into some of them from time to time, but mostly like so many people do in your life, they're passing ships in the night. Sometimes I'll pretend and hope to run into them and reconnect as friends or even something more. It's a nice dream and lord knows I've always been a good one for dreams.

It's funny what you think about when you are channel surfing and should be putting your time to better use. It's funny how old I feel and how long ago it all was. It's funny which people you miss the most after all this time.

Good night ladies. Though most of you I haven't seen in years, I'll always love ya just the same.

(c)Shawn J. Douglas 2009

haz patchwork head

Tue, 04 Aug 2009 05:02:47 GMT

Sometimes I think it's when the storms roll in and the bands start playing that I am in the moment. Other times it's the way the werewolves howl at the moon to the whirl of the robots as they dance the cabbage patch. Perhaps it's the way that the medieval knights pick fights with the ninjas, and as the two factions kill one another you can see the pirates making off with all their women. It could be the shooting stars, the time jumps, the man-eating plants, the circus of crime fighters, the people living at the center of the world, or the dead that sit up and tell me secrets. Once in awhile it's the torture chamber the satanic warlocks from the 9th dimension go to work on me in. When the planets align just right it's the alternate realities where Wham! was as big as The Beatles and whores give family discounts.

It can be one thing, a strange combination platter of oddities, or all of these things and more put together in a patchwork quilt of ideas and fuel for the beast. Take your pick or place your bets.

The Religion of my mind can be practiced at any time, regardless of my state of dress, the various stages of hygiene, or the Blessings or Curses filling up my punch clock during the course of the time framework of my day. It can be structured or a mess of throwing things against the wall to see what may stick.

It's when this Hurricane presents itself filled with all these things and more that I know it's time to put the blinders on, sit down, and write. To spill the garbage from my head, from my soul, out into the void and leave my own personal smudge on the world for everyone to look at and say, "huh."

It's one of those nights, babycakes.

With any luck they'll be more.

(c)Shawn J. Douglas 2009

Ice Gets The Sand Wet. The Sand Loves It.

Wed, 22 Jul 2009 01:56:37 GMT

Growing up and well into my early twenties I loved the Winter. Winter was my time. Warm clothes housing secrets, where nights found the world faster and cast it's shadow on the land in epic fashion. In my dull vampire mind the Summer was the day and the Winter the night. You do not have to know me long to know I am a night person. With the moon in the sky I always come alive.

With all this truth around me swirling like a storm I can assure you that no one found it more surprising than I that I want to retire to a beach and live on the water.

I spent three years (minus one) in Hawaii. Perhaps the love for my island eventually thawed my cold, dark heart, at least as much as those shriveled things can thaw anyway. I went on Holiday recently with the family and we stayed in a small, one story home whose back glass sliding door opened onto a deck that transformed into a pier, which finally gave way to the bay. I was privy to the slosh of the waves both calm and threatening to go crazy with the promise of rain. I witnessed sunsets that cupped my heart the way a lover might my nether regions. I felt like I was home you see, with the heat and shorter nights even though the night time is still my time and most probably always will be.

I desire to finish my book and buy a small place on the water. A place where I can feel at home even if it is against my nature. A place where I can spend my remaining days writing with my girls coming to visit often, perhaps for whole summers at a time. It's a wonderful dream and one I will not give up, as I have few of my dreams left. When you lose and lose BIG you tend to get protective of all you have left, even when it is not very much. So I want my beach house and my writing. I want my kids for summers and weekends and as long as they'd like to put up with me. Here I am, a Winterman with sand between his toes and colored lobster red.

Forever a Vampire on Holiday.

(c) Shawn J. Douglas 2009

Back In The Driver Seat

Fri, 19 Jun 2009 04:22:05 GMT

Honeydew light invades the black pitch and I raise my hands to cover my eyes while choking back the urge to scream. My throat is so very dry it would probably have only come out as a horse, gurgling mess anyway. Best not frighten myself let alone anyone else in the vicinity.

The light bathing me like a bastard mother grows like a cancer until it's filled the little box I had called home from anywhere between two hours and two years. Weakly I try to stand only to fall over, catching myself with my hands to save my face, scraping my palms in the process. I end up crawling out on my hands and knees into the white, hot mess.

Outside of my prison I keep crawling until the ground beneath turns from rough cement into grassy softness. My vision still bleached whiteness seen through slits where the lids of my eyes try and save the round jelly transmitters within. By the time I finally recognize the world I'm surprised I have not gone completely insane.

I stand when I am able. I look down at myself. I'm wearing a loin cloth and my beard is a long bushy mess. I pray to some God whose name escapes me that there will not be too much white in it. If you are a normal person you would think it a beautiful day. The sky is aqua blue and I hear birds singing. I'm in a fenced in courtyard with a tall burgundy colored fence surrounding the perimeter. Past them I see large trees dancing with the slight breeze that creeps up my garment and tickles my balls.

It's like waking from a dream to your girlfriend playing with you. It gives me the first sensation of home in what may be forever.

I see where I need to be. I move towards the plywood table and aluminum chair that had been left for me. I take a seat and my buttocks fuse to warm aluminum comfort. In front of me are my tools. A Laptop with unfinished works saved on files I've neglected for far too long. To my right, next to the keyboard on the table, is a glass of rum doing the tango with some coke over ice.

I could use a shower and a shave. I could stand for some food to nourish the body and some delicious mind-altering sex to feed the soul. I could use these things but for now I need to write. It's my purpose and when I've been away from it for too long I become a ghost of who I'm supposed to be.

With hands that shake I begin tap, tap, tapping at the keys. Like a lover I'll treat my tales sweetly, roughly, teasingly, and transfer bits of me into them.

I'll always be that lunatic spilling his essence onto the page.

Good Christ it is good to be home.

(c)Shawn J. Douglas 2009

Missing A Daughter

Sat, 28 Mar 2009 04:45:10 GMT

Sometimes I think she sees through me.

We're supposed to be connected through cell structure, by blood. She is half of me after all (though I have no doubt she sees it as the bad half) and there should be some common ground, some place were we connect, even on the smallest scale, under the most tiny of circumstances.

She does not treat me like her father. She respects me but only when she knows I'm not joking anymore. Being here for her is like slow Chinese Water Torture I'm sure though she never comes right out and says it.

I wonder what it was like for her growing up and once every six months having someone say, "This is your Daddy. He's on leave. Hang out with him for two weeks before he has to go again." Sometimes we're haunted by our choices. I wonder what the world would look like had her father never left for the Army, and if we did not have to get reintroduced all over again over four years.

We never really had a chance to develop the language of our relationship as father and child. This was not nearly the same kind of problem with her older sister. But for this little one who is slowly not so little anymore, I feel like the last three years have been small steps towards each other from two people still on opposite sides of the world, even though I'm right here.

I'm not in her top favorite people. Not even close. I wonder if we'll ever catch up to the race we've fallen behind in together. I wonder if she'll ever look at me with half the affection she does her mother. Or hell, her step father. After all he was around all the time while I was choking on sand and losing my mind.

I struggle with my role as a father all the time. Not because I do not value it, on the contrary. I struggle because I feel like it will never be where it should have been. I'll never be the father in her heart I'd like to be. I wish to be.

But I guess it does not matter much.

No matter what she'll always remain one of the two True Loves of my life.

My little girls. My Angels.

And she'll always have my heart whether she wants it or not.

Happy Birthday baby.

-SJD

Burn Baby. Burn.

Fri, 27 Feb 2009 06:22:32 GMT

He took a puff of the cigarette the Devil offered. The one puff quickly turned into a coughing fit, the likes of which he had not had since the last time he tried smoking when he was fourteen, some eighteen years earlier. He knew it would happen but thought denying the offer of a cigarette from the Devil would be awfully bad form. That and he was curious to see if it affected him now on this far end of the time-line as it did then. It did.

"Sorry," said the Devil. "I should have known better. Once in awhile the little details escape me."

"No worries," he said. They stood on a rocky cliff giving way to a cavern far, far below. But from here they could see the city in all of it's glory. There were dark, stormy clouds overhead but the day had not given away to night as of yet. The city lights were already visible. They were in the In-Between time now.

"So we've come to an understanding I take it?" The Devil spoke like molasses on sandpaper, though not quite so pretty.

The young man closed his eyes tightly. The moment of truth. The Sum of All Fears. He opened them again. "Yes."

The Devil nodded and returned his dark gaze towards the city.

The young man took a deep breath. It was simple really, understandable to a fashion. The people he most cared about get to go on and lead extraordinary lives. The Devil in turn gets the young man's soul, to devour at his leisure.

"You know what?" asked the Devil. "I admire you little creatures. So frail and ugly and monkey like....yet once in awhile you can see the webs of creation stretch and shine just at the right times for you. Your souls are worth so much....capital in the hereafter. I may hate my father for letting you walking mud creatures take form and speak, but sometimes you even impress me, the greatest of all his creations."

The young man shrugged. "Thanks."

Over the last few years the young man saw a pattern in darkness descending on those he most cared for. His father, a great journalist, had slowly developed Alzheimer's. His mind becoming a cloud eating all that made him what he was. His sister had left one day to journey to Hollywood to be discovered and found herself selling her body at a high class escort service instead once she found achieving her dream too difficult a task to undergo. His best friend, who he had known since she was three and whom he had fallen in love with approximately one whole minute after that first meeting, a fact he kept to himself for twenty-nine years, was strung out at her junkie boyfriend's who sometimes used her as a form of currency.

During this dark time the young man kept having dreams about a old lady rocking in her rocking chair. This went on for years until he was visiting relatives in the next state and while walking down his family's street, saw that same old lady sitting on her porch, rocking away. He asked his extended family about the woman and they told him stories about old Ellie Mae Brown and the crazy life she had led. She had made the community prosperous over the last seventy years, pushing agendas that stretched from education improvement to Sunday picnics to building a new bridge over Talbert Creek. She served on every local board and personally helped raise funds for most of the projects.

The young man took it all in stride and the next day ventured out, in search of her. Curiosity got the better of him and he had to talk to her. As he approached the old woman he felt a nervous twitch and wondered exactly what he would say to her. This proved fruitless because when he got within earshot she broke the ice herself. "Well come on up. I ain't getting any younger and you're taking your sweet ass time."

The young man adopted a puzzled look. "You....you knew I was coming?"

Old Ellie Mae Brown's face scrunched up. "You ain't too bright are ya? Yes I knew. I've been dreaming about you for years young man. Hurry up. At my age every breath could be my last and we've got some words to have, me and you."

The young man took up residence on the porch and over the next hour they talked. Ellie Mae Brown shouted for a housekeeper who brought the young man some sweet tea, and this is what was said. Ellie Mae told the young man that he was what they called "touched." He would have to make a big decision that would affect the lives of more than one person. At first the words coming from Ellie Mae seemed strange but as she talked a quiet calmness came over the young man and somehow, down to his core, he knew she spoke truth. Three people in his life had fallen from the path and were now on collision courses with oblivion, yes? He nodded. Only the young man could save them now. The Dark One, the Beast, the Devil, whatever you wanted to call him had laid claim to those he loved. And he would only set them free if the young man, in turn, offered his soul in exchange.

"I don't understand why." He said simply.

Ellie Mae said, "It's because God puts certain people on Earth to offer great sacrifices. Sacrifices of love for the greater good. Those are the ones that are touched, child. And when they are offered the choice to save their loved ones they either agree and save them for an eternity in Hell-Fire, or they take the selfish way out and let their loved ones burn."

"Jesus," said the young man. "That's sick."

"Mmm," she mused. "And don't blaspheme."

"Why would God do this?"

She stared straight at him. "Who knows? God's got his or her own reasons, I'm sure. I can tell you this though, when it all ends and the final fight is fought and he casts all of Hell into the great Abyss, the only ones he will pull out of Hell and save are those that were "touched" and made their sacrifices."

The young man paused before asking, "So you eventually get saved."

"Eventually."

"But you said they burned for all eternity."

"Yes," she agreed, "but God's time is not our time."

"Why me?" asked the young man.

"I think," she said, "because few souls can stand an eternity of torment before rescue and only those will do."

The young man stared down at the chipped, wooden porch.

She then added, "Or it could just be the luck of the draw."

"How do you know so much?"

Ellie Mae laughed. "I'm old. But I've always been a little 'touched' myself in a different kind of a way. You see young man, once upon a time, I was not the wonderful lady you see before you. I was a child at the time but I was also possessed by a foul demon whose name cannot be spoken in human tongue."

The young man could not believe his ears.

"I was marked and doomed until someone close to me, someone 'touched', made a sacrifice to save me."

"Someone close to you?" asked the young man.

"Yes," she said. "My father."

They were quiet again leaving room only for a gentle breeze the springtime loves to give up when it can. Then she added, "When he went I got better and went on to do remarkable things, see remarkable things, and see a little behind the curtain to the great mysteries. But it wasn't just me, no sir. My brother went on to be the most decorated soldier from around these parts during the Korean War. He died there but saved the lives of no less than twenty other soldiers during his time there. Soldiers who went on to have wonderful lives of their own. And my pastor, who had given up his faith? Who had picked up the bottle again? After my father left he poured out every drink he had and spent thirty more years saving the people here."

The young man frowned. "So all I have to do is give it up and my loved ones will be saved?"

"Yes child," she said. "An eternity of torment to save them. Then one day you'll be reunited again."

"At the end."

"Yes, at the end."

"So when do I have to make the choice?"

Her face grew shadows. "Don't you worry none. The Devil, he find you soon enough."

It had taken a year but yes, that was indeed the case. He did not have to sell it hard. The young man had already made up his mind by that time. His father did not recognize him. His sister called him crying most days but refused his offers to fly her home. His best friend had lost a tremendous amount of weight and finally told him her boyfriend didn't want her talking to him anymore. The love of his life, who would never look at him in that way, chose cold emptiness over him. It was this last one that pushed him over the edge. This last one that had broken his heart. So yes, he had already made his decision.

"You know," the Devil said, "you only get a reprieve in the end if God wins."

The young man hadn't thought about that. He supposed it did not matter much. "Will you forever be unable to touch them?"

The Devil nodded. "Yes, they'll be free of me forever. It's part of the rules."

"Then I guess it just doesn't matter. I'll try to have a little Faith."

The Devil winced. "Gah. Such profanity in your voice. Makes my ears bleed."

The wind picked up now and it was obvious there was a storm coming through.

"Time to go." The Devil turned away from the city.

"Yeah," said the young man.

And off they went. Soon the young man's father would have a miraculous recovery. He'd go back to journalism and his investigation will bring down a corrupt politician who might have eventually become Commander-In-Chief otherwise. It will be a crowning achievement. His sister will leave her escort job and take one as a waitress at a small diner. There she will most surprisingly be discovered. She will have a wide and varied film career and she will champion women's rights and will attack those that pray on women down on their luck in all ways. She will win much acclaim and help many people as a result. The young man's death will shock his best friend into leaving her boyfriend and she will clean herself up. She'll go to community college and become a nurse. She'll meet a man one day that reminds her of her long lost friend and they will marry. They'll have one son. One day that boy will grow up and cure cancer.

The young man burns somewhere you never ever want to find yourself. He burns and waits. And hopes. And has Faith.

It will be a good sacrifice. Sometimes when he's being punished he even smiles.

It's not everyday one man gets to save everyone he loves.

Right on.

(c) Shawn J. Douglas 2009

Lies, all lies

Wed, 25 Feb 2009 04:38:17 GMT

Sometimes in the dark, I can still see the outline of you next to me, haunting me like a phantom. I can see the curve of you as my eyes adjust to the blackness. Sometimes.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and I remember how I felt the time I stuck a wet finger in a light socket during my youth just to see how it would feel. You still course through me. Charging me up.

I want to reach out and touch your naked back, the part I always found most alluring on a woman, sexy with a promise of the naughty yet leaving the rest to my imagination...for now. I want to reach out but don't want to ruin the illusion that you're still really here next to me. Don't want the vision to fade.

Fuck me I can still smell you. Still taste you on my lips. My tongue.

You were the only one I ever made love to with my soul, as useless as it is luv.

I remember being sticky wet from you. I remember the way you made me feel free.

All that's left now is one part memory, one part dream. One part fantasy, one part cold, stark reality. The last part has the most teeth. Sharp and jagged and hungry.

So the condemned man lays here in the pitch teasing his heart while his senses play tricks on him. Seeing things that are not there. No longer. A trick of smoke and mirrors.

Sometimes in the dark, I can see the outline of you next to me.

It's a lie.

(c)Shawn J. Douglas 2009

Violence and Myths

Sat, 31 Jan 2009 06:19:43 GMT

All myths house truth my dear, demented little Heathens. Hell some times the Myths are more important than the Truths. They carry more weight, captivate our minds, hold our attentions by the balls.

I've thought a great deal about the Hobos I see standing on street corners or at busy intersections holding their cardboard signs inked by sharpies, dictating their pain and woes into little blurbs letting us know that they NEED US to feed, clothe, and keep them going another day, week, or month. Perhaps I should pay them to help me pitch ideas to Hollywood. "Hey, Hobo Man, I want pitch an idea where Britney Spears is secretly an alien princess who has come to sleep with every man on the planet and she has to avoid the other evil aliens who hate sex on Planet Earth that are lead by Tom Cruise and the Pope. Translate that into a cardboard sign for me."

Hobo Man disappears for a minute or two and returns asking for a fiver and giving me a freshly cut piece of cardboard that reads: STUCK UP WHITE MEN WHO HATE
THEMSELVES TRY TO PREVENT BRITNEY FROM SAVING THE WORLD WITH HER SNATCH.

I bow before a Master.

There are times I want to give these homeless men and women money. Especially after I've picked some pockets, but even when the money is legally mine. I hear my friends (and hell from people I damn well Hate too) that all these dirty homeless people are operating the biggest con since George W. promised to smoke Bin Laden out of his Cave. "They're all secret millionaires," I hear. "They make more that you and I while doing nothing all day. Don't give them a goddamn cent. Not. One. Penny."

When I hear this I react differently every time. I'll laugh awkwardly. I'll shake my head. I'll stare at those trying to get me in "The Know" like I've walked in on them fucking my sister. Often though my imagination begins to churn and all those sick freaks out there know that once my imagination is firing on all cylinders it's time to scream and run for the hills.

So what's the deal? Eh? Am I really watching the world's greatest Con job? (Second only to the criminal acts on Wall Street maybe?) I think well there HAS to be some kind of truth to it. These people that want to tell you just how corrupt these poor folk are must be educated to some degree right? This brings me back to Myths and Truths. I bet that there have been a handful of Hobos over the years that are scamming us. Someone, once upon a time, found out about them and revealed the TRUTH. This Truth has now evolved from a little demon to a steroid-induced three-headed dragon of a MYTH, so now the Myth drives people to talk about the "Truth" they know about these so-called poor, draining us of our money before going home to clean up and drive their Porsches and eat fish eggs that cost more than your heating bill. I bet these few rat bastards are responsible for the truly hopeless and downfallen to be ignored because "educated" pricks I occasionally call "friends" think they're Grifters of the highest motherfucking order.

In my infinite wisdom and sweet desire for Justice (and because I am a devious whore of ideas) I have devised a plan to take this MYTH back for my Hobos.

Soon you will find me on street corners and intersections and every where else I can searching my true Hobos out. The ones that can barely move due to their unfortunate situation. I will take them with me. Feed them. Give them clothes. Nurture their souls.

Then the training will begin. Boot Camp of a sort. (And I know all about breaking a man or woman and building them back up. Hell most of the Hobos are already broken. So they don't have far to go.) I will fashion them into a brilliant and deadly ideal. I will give them a reason, a purpose. I will give them a Mission.

Together me and my new brethren will find these liars, these fakers, these creators of Myths. We shall storm their concrete castles, their Fancy Liars Clubs, their overpriced unoriginal ideas of what happiness is, and drag them kicking and screaming from their places bought by those who felt sorry for them. Here we'll get these blubbering villains to make new signs. We'll give them new sharpies and the finest damn cardboard they've ever seen. We'll make them make sign after sign begging us not to crucify them in the streets, begging us to let the poor fuckers live. This time however they won't find the promise of mercy and charity so richly found. My Hobos aren't the shadows of human beings they were before. No sir. They're the sharp edge of the sword of Justice and so help us Baby Jesus some evil fucks need to get cut.

So it is here, one by one we'll pick these vultures off, until we've taken back the Myth and restored the good name of those that depend on society. After that though, well, we'll need a new Mission.

When the last creator of the Hobo Myth has been executed in the most gruesome stye possible with as much imagination as I can throw at it, I will turn these men and women and train them on some new ideals. I see our culture, our society, and I think that perhaps it would be better off doing some things my way.

My Hobos and I, we're going to make some goddamn changes around here.

And create us a New Myth.

And it will be glorious.

Amen.

(c) Shawn J. Douglas 2009