The Holy Man

“I remember now.”

Three simple words I uttered while I stared out on the wide open plain that was the home of my recent rebirth.

In the past, I kept dreaming of a world I thought I would never see.

A place I didn’t deserve but for my actions alone.

Yet here I was.

And alive, to what definition, well, that was subject to debate.

Far behind me was the ocean and the coast. The rocky cliffs were lifetimes ago along with the lingering cold that came with my awakening.

I had come to this world after leaving the chaos behind me.

I had changed.

This was not anything even close to what the Buddhists would call enlightenment. No, that would not be for a thousand more lives to come; if ever.

This was being awake, or less asleep at a minimum. Which was also much better than the self-induced coma I put myself into the prior years.

Why had it taken so long, I wondered, to get here, or not be there?

To answer my own question, I knew why. I had not been ready.

I closed my eyes, and in the darkness behind my lids, a vision came unbidden—a memory, or perhaps a dream, of the life I had left behind. I saw myself standing on a jagged cliff, the same ocean I had walked away from roaring below, its waves black and endless. In my hands, I held a small, flickering light—a fragile thing, trembling against the wind. It was my truth, my essence, the part of me I had always known but never nurtured. And yet, in that moment, I turned away. I let the light fall, watching as it plummeted into the abyss, swallowed by the waves. I chose instead a life of noise, of distraction, of chasing shadows that promised safety but delivered only pain. I betrayed myself, and that betrayal became the tragedy of my soul—a wound so deep it had taken lifetimes to acknowledge. Here, in this spirit world, I felt the echo of that choice, but also the possibility of healing. Was I ready now? I opened my eyes, the memory fading like mist, and whispered to the wind, “I am trying to be.”

I did, however, make it here; this was a first in my new growth.

This place I was in was calm. Especially by comparison to what I left behind.

Perhaps it was the calm in the center of a storm or maybe the calm between other storms that rage with no end in sight; an endless cycle.

The storms of suffering had taken their toll on me, that is for certain.

“Did it really matter why?” I repeated to myself.

From what I could see in my surroundings, there was a light brown and yellowish grass growing all over the ground for thousands of feet in all directions; save the break behind me that had been my path up from the ocean below and the muddy trail I had walked up.

The colors reminded me of Boise in the summer, I mused internally as I scanned my surroundings.

I think I laughed, I don’t know, nor do I remember if I had just come to this place or if I had been here for a long time.

It didn’t matter.

Outside of the grass, on the fringe of my sight, there were tall trees.

When I was younger, I knew the names and types of so many trees.

I could have explained the difference between conifers and deciduous and palms and cacti.

Today, I think I could tell you they looked like pine trees and that was about it; tall, majestic, green, and healthy. All of them on the edge of the field not so far away.

The trees probably buffered the wind and may have held the fog at bay on occasion if it suited their whim.

The temperature was cold still, perhaps 55 degrees Fahrenheit. Which, if any aspect of my memory serves me, I think is around 15 Celsius. I don’t know, I’m not Canadian.

A light breeze seemed to blow from what I think would be the west.

Actual directions at the moment weren’t easy to come by, and I didn’t have the sun in the sky to make some basic guess.

And it struck me, there is no sun in the sky, yet there is light illuminating all I look at.

How is that possible?

It wasn’t very bright, and there were no shadows, but I could see my surroundings.

This didn’t make sense, my logical mind told me.

I stopped on that thought.

The paradox was real.

I heard my breath and my heartbeat in the silence as I held the thought.

The world I was in had light from an unknown origin, yet it had form and substance I could detect.

There was some warmth and yet no sun.

The world physically existed as far as my senses could determine.

I knew on some level this defied some law of physics or astronomy or maybe something else I never bothered to learn in college.

Before I dove down the rabbit hole of attempting to rationalize and explain this dilemma, I simply stopped.

These things didn’t matter here.

And for a moment, I realized they had never mattered. I had created their value in my mind previously so I could fit the world into some pretty box and put a bow on it. Ignorance was always blissful.

Most people I knew did the same thing. They shaped the world to fit their individual needs and fragile egos. They lived in a convenient state of perpetual denial.

Why?

Instead of thinking, I closed my eyes.

I remember thinking used to get me into a lot of trouble.

I held onto the inhalation of my breath and cleared these thoughts.

Single-minded focus.

Just breathe.

I sought to be mindful and on being present and nothing else.

No definition, no frames, no limitations, just being in the moment.

I don’t know why I did that, yet I did.

From the nothing, a whisper came to me.

It was as if the world itself spoke.

It was deep and resonated with the ever-so-slight movement of the trees that I think I had called pines.

The whisper said one word and faded back from whence it came.

“Begin.”

Without thinking or even feeling, I knew what that meant. And part of that meaning was not to think or feel, but to just do as it said.

A larger sense of what I was fell over me.

I was seeking a greater purpose than what I had previously exposed and allowed into my life.

I was looking to stop the endless cycle of self-induced suffering.

I was wanting to leave my ego behind.

The breath I took filled my body with a warmth that had nothing to do with the air or the motion of my chest or lungs.

It was acceptance that there was another way.

I was interrupted in mid-thought.

A barely audible sound of wings gliding through the air above my head passed by.

I glanced towards what I believed to be the sky and saw two crows heading the direction I had come from.

Their wings effortlessly guiding them; their eyes peering only forward and downward.

They were looking for something.

This was the first life I had seen or sensed since my arrival.

How strange this was to me.

Not far away, I saw the two large black birds land near something I hadn’t noticed before.

There was a shape lying among the yellowish grass.

It was a foot off of the ground, kind of oval in shape, and possibly six feet long.

I cannot say for certain how far this was from me; which meant if it was close, I couldn’t tell, and if it was far, the crows were in fact extremely large in size.

I focused my eyes intently for a moment on what they were doing and realized they were picking at this shape in the grass.

Their heads snapping back and forth into this thing in almost a tearing fashion.

From what I know of crows, this was something that was quite obviously dead or rotting on the ground.

As the crows bounced around and examined this thing between pecking and tearing, I could see an electric blue glow shine and almost spark from their wings.

It was as if they radiated an essence that was part of this spirit world.

My brother used to talk about the magpies eating roadkill that had been out for a few days and some various jokes along those lines that always made good dinner table discussions.

As I looked closer at what they were picking at and tearing small chunks of flesh away from, it struck me, it was a body, a human body!

Where did that come from?

How did I miss that?

And then I realized, the body they were feasting on; the rotting corpse of decaying flesh that was lunch for these large black crows had a familiar look to it.

The dead mass on the ground was me!

It was a very dead version of me, but me nonetheless, me.

I let out an audible gasp at this morbid realization.

The body had no clothes and was dissolving into the ground before my eyes.

The crows seemed to know that they had limited time before there was nothing left and continued to pluck at the skin, bones, and diseased organs that were quickly being pulled into the soil of this spirit world.

Instinctively, I held out my hands to see if I was dissolving also. I wasn’t.

I looked down at my feet and could see them also.

I didn’t know in the moment who I was and what the crows were eating.

It was both me and not me.

In my conscious mind, I also realized I wasn’t wearing any clothes or shoes.

I also saw I wasn’t me anymore. I was changing, or had changed.

I had almost no form. As though the thing that defined me was in a state of regeneration.

I was, in lack of a better term, almost transparent or ghost-like.

Yet I could touch my arm and chest, and my hands had sensations when I did this.

In the distance, one of the crows let out an annoyed squawk, and they flew away from the ground where my body had just been absorbed.

And with that, they were gone.

I stood motionless, staring at the patch of earth where my body had been. The crows had taken what they could, and the ground had claimed the rest, leaving nothing behind but a faint shimmer in the grass, as if the soil itself glowed with the memory of what I had been. I felt a pang of grief—not for the body, but for the life it represented. That body had carried fear, anger, a relentless need to control what could not be controlled. It had been a vessel for my suffering, a prison I had built with my own hands. And yet, as I watched the last traces of it vanish, I felt a lightness I had never known. The whisper came again, softer this time, as if carried by the breeze. “They are the cleaners of the old,” it said. “They prepare the way.” I understood then that the crows were not mere scavengers, but guardians of this realm, tasked with stripping away the remnants of what no longer served. They had freed me from the weight of my past, and in their flight, I saw the promise of renewal. I took a step forward, and the grass beneath my feet seemed to hum with a quiet energy, as if welcoming the new me.

My guess was they flew towards the cliffs and the shore hoping to find something more to eat, but I didn’t know.

Perhaps others make it to this land but give up before getting this far.

I could remember when I had first arrived, I wanted to give up, to let go.

The memory of me considering giving up and going back to the world that almost killed me was too real.

Maybe the crows had another body to devour waiting for them as part of their daily schedule.

I migrated back to the present.

The voice that spoke to me and uttered the single word ‘Begin’, what did that mean?

Perhaps it just meant what the word said and nothing else.

Even though I couldn’t rationalize not having a body and the concept of moving forward or walking, I did just that. I moved forward, and I walked.

I could feel the ground on my feet, and it was soft.

I could lower my hands to the grass and feel the strands play between my fingers. I could see the morning dew on the tips of the plants, and I knew it was the sensation of wetness.

As I waded through the varying lengths of grass with no direction in mind, I felt at ease with what I was.

The where I was ceased to matter.

The constant thoughts and noise in my head was buried in the silence and peace of a new sense of being.

That didn’t make sense, yet I understood it.

I had left something behind, and it was gone; mostly thanks to the crows, I laughed.

That part of me that I had held onto for far too long was no more.

A thing that had once been all things. Yet, it had no value, I could see clearly now.

To be free from the body and the limitations of the ego felt more natural than anything else I had experienced in my life.

Or, former life.

So many pains had left me, and I could see I never needed them.

I never needed them to be part of me.

I had far too often let them talk for me in that life that had just faded away into the nothing.

I was free of that.

I understood more of the nature of suffering for a moment.

I embraced this.

The sky above had turned from a darker grey to a lighter grey with a hint of blue.

There was still no visible sun, but I didn’t care.

I could see what I needed to see. Which was probably the case for longer than I can remember.

Details were unimportant.

Be mindful, I repeated as I moved.

I could sense some warming in the world around me.

I attempted to contemplate how one could feel temperature without a body or see the sky without eyes. And I let that go.

Just breathe. Be mindful. Be present.

I moved. I experienced. I smiled. I continued this for countless more moments.

Time had no specific hold in this spirit realm, and it didn’t control me; for once.

This went on for so many breaths. So many lifetimes.

As I walked through the spirit world, I began to notice that time itself seemed to bend and stretch, losing all meaning. In one moment, I felt as though I had been in this realm for mere seconds; in the next, I saw the redwood grow from a sapling to its towering height, its branches reaching for a sky that had seen the rise and fall of countless suns. I saw myself in a hundred different lives—laughing, weeping, loving, losing—all happening at once, a tapestry of existence woven into a single, eternal thread.

It was a joy that I hope you one day share.

Moments blurred into the continuum until I saw a single tree somewhat obliquely in the distance and slightly to my right side.

This tree was not like the others that I called pine.

Its size was much larger. The trunk had a red glow to it, and there was a large canopy; almost a shelter at the base of this redwood.

I had wanted to spend my thoughts on how such a tree could have grown here or come to this place, but I didn’t.

I didn’t need to. It was, and I accepted it.

The branches were wide and thick. There was life in this redwood that was deep and looked as if it had been here for more time than I was able to fathom.

This redwood extended up to the heavens and well past the grey and blue sky that I was able to see.

It was eternal. I needed no more information.

Its trunk must have been more than 100 feet across.

I wondered how deep the roots must have extended into the ground, and I stopped to remind myself that accepting the tree was all that had to be done.

It was as though I used to dream of a world I would never see, and now I am here.

The dreams and prophecies perhaps had some merit after all.

As I looked at that great tree in this world after my physical death, after the crows had taken what was left of me, and in the plains of grass and the sunless grey and blue sky, I saw appear at the base the shape of a man.

In this spirit place where I had no real body, it was just easier to say it was a holy man and not complicate things with words and labels and politically correct pronouns to appease the angry mob that no longer existed.

I hesitated.

I looked.

He said to me a single word, “Closer.”

I didn’t move at first.

Perhaps it was fear or the remnants of such from before that caused this hesitation.

Yet what could I actually be afraid of?

I had no body, I didn’t know where I was, crows ate me before the land dissolved me back into the continuum, and I was completely alone.

As I approached the redwood, the ground beneath my feet shifted, and I found myself standing at the edge of a narrow river, its waters clear and still, reflecting not the sky but a thousand fragmented images of my past lives. I saw myself as a child, laughing under a sunlit sky; as a warrior, bloodied and broken on a battlefield; as a hermit, alone in a cave, seeking answers that never came. Each image was a piece of me, a story of joy and pain, of growth and loss. The river seemed to beckon, its surface rippling with a question: Will you carry these with you, or will you let them flow? I knelt at the water’s edge, my reflection staring back at me—not the formless being I had become, but the face I had worn in my most recent life, etched with lines of sorrow. I reached out, touching the water, and the reflection shattered, the fragments of my past dissolving into the current. “I release you,” I whispered, and the river seemed to sigh in response, its waters growing brighter as they carried my regrets away. I stood, lighter than ever, and continued toward the holy man, the river’s lesson echoing in my heart: to move forward, I must let go.

I laughed and just moved towards the tree and the holy man sitting underneath it.

There was no longer any point in being afraid.

Even that thought sent a shiver through me as I moved towards the enormous redwood.

It was so momentarily profound, I said it aloud, “There is nothing left to be afraid of.”

For years, I had been afraid of my fears.

I lived as such and modified my existence out of fear of things that didn’t happen and never were going to.

I went through my days, routines, and annoying patterns to avoid the fear of pain or the fear of rejection or the fear of not being loved or something else I created in my mind to stop me. To prevent growth.

Why, I thought, just why would we choose to live that way?

There were so many other options, so many other choices, so many other and better ways to be.

I realized I was all but upon the tree with the holy man sitting on a large root, and I stopped to look, to gaze, to try to understand.

I also realized the tree was much larger than I could have envisioned. It was clearly well over a hundred feet across, and to the best of my ability, I would have guessed it went up more than eight hundred feet up into the sky.

Some of the branches extended seventy or more feet out from the trunk.

At the base was a cleared area with many large roots jutting out to form places to sit.

One could give a sermon here with many able to listen.

Which conveniently was directly across from the holy man.

Evidently, I was to sit down was the message that was being received.

I don’t know what my hesitation was. Perhaps I just wanted to take this in.

To be mindful of the moment.

I could hear my White Witch telling me, “Now Michael, be mindful of your journey, or you will not learn what it is there to teach you.” I let out a muffled laugh at that memory.

I moved over to a large root that was a few feet away from the holy man.

I could now see him more, or perhaps, he allowed me to see him more.

I don’t really know which one it was.

To describe him would probably be best to keep simple. He was timeless and undefined. Slender in shape and exuded peace beyond my ability to convey. His eyes remained closed, and his hands rested on his lap. He wore no shoes, yet his feet were tucked under his legs.

His skin was pale yet without flaw or defining mark. Perhaps it was a pearly white in color that seemed to change if you looked too long.

His hair was lighter in color. Even if I guessed his age, I suspect his hair may have once been darker, but now had become a sandy grey and shoulder-length due to the passing of time.

He wore what could best be described as a black karate outfit, but I didn’t sense any form of physical need for him to have this particular outfit on.

As my eyes pulled back from him, I noticed now I too was wearing something similar, albeit a different color. Mine was a plain white without any definition. In some unknown way, this made sense to me.

For a moment, I compared his outfit and mine, and similar to the crows’ wings that had previously been eating my dead corpse, he seemed to radiate an electric blue spark if you spent too much time trying to figure it out.

Before I could continue, he uttered to me in a very low voice, “It is all inter-connected, this you know.”

I had questions.

I had thoughts.

I wanted to say things.

It took effort to do nothing.

I was excited and scared.

What would the holy man teach me?

What would he say?

I sat down.

And began.

The holy man’s presence was a stillness that seemed to ripple outward, calming the air around us. His eyes remained closed, but I felt seen in a way I never had before—not as a body, not as a mind, but as a soul, raw and unadorned. He spoke again, his voice low and resonant, as if it came from the roots of the redwood itself. “What is the weight you still carry?” The question caught me off guard, and I felt a tightness in my chest, a remnant of the fear I thought I had left behind. I searched within myself, and there it was—a lingering doubt, a whisper of unworthiness that had followed me even here. “I don’t know if I belong in this place,” I admitted, my voice trembling. “I don’t know if I am enough.” The holy man’s lips curved into the faintest smile, and he gestured to the tree. “Place your hands on its bark,” he said. I did as he instructed, pressing my palms against the rough, warm surface of the redwood. A pulse of energy flowed through me, ancient and unending, and I felt the tree’s roots stretching deep into the earth, connecting to every living thing that had ever been or would be. “You are not separate,” the holy man said. “You are the tree, the grass, the crows, the sky. The weight you carry is the illusion of separation. Let it go.” I closed my eyes and breathed, feeling the doubt dissolve like ash in the wind. For the first time, I understood what it meant to be truly whole.

The holy man’s voice came to me again, as I sat beneath the tree, his words a gentle unraveling of my confusion. “Time is a construct of the mind,” he said. “It is the ego’s way of dividing what cannot be divided. Here, there is only the now, the always, the forever.” I closed my eyes and felt the truth of his words, the boundaries of past and future dissolving until I was nothing but presence, a single note in the universe’s endless song. In that moment, I understood that my suffering had been born from my attachment to time—to the fear of what had been and what might be. Free of that illusion, I was boundless.

The Eternal Realm

I awaken—or perhaps I simply am—on a hill that breathes beneath me, a swell of earth cradled in a sea of green so deep and rich it feels like the heartbeat of creation itself. The grass is tall, each blade a sentinel swaying with the wind, not just moved by it but dancing in unison, a flowing tapestry that shimmers under the silver glow of a moon so bright it casts shadows sharp as daylight. The green stretches out, endless and alive, rippling like a tide across the rolling hills, and where it meets the horizon, it blurs into something more—an ever-evolving edge that weaves itself into the ocean below and the night sky above. It’s a boundary that never settles, a living seam where grass becomes water becomes stars, shifting with each breath I take, as if the world itself is dreaming alongside me.

The mountains rise before me, timeless sentinels of stone and snow, their peaks piercing the heavens with a majesty that stops my heart. They’re tall—impossibly so—craggy spires draped in glaciers that gleam like molten silver under the moonlight, their slopes adorned with crevices and cliffs that tell stories of eons. Each ridge is a masterpiece, sculpted by forces older than memory, their beauty so profound it feels like a hymn carved into the earth. I can see every detail—the way the wind has etched patterns into their faces, the faint sparkle of ice catching starlight, the shadows pooling in their valleys like ink. They stand as if they’ve always been, unyielding yet serene, a testament to a grandeur that humbles me with every glance.

Below, the ocean roars and sighs, a force of nature so powerful it commands reverence, yet so accepting it feels like a mother’s embrace. Its waves surge with a raw, untamed energy, crashing against the cliffs in sprays of white that catch the moon’s glow, only to retreat in a rhythm that’s both dangerous and at peace. It’s a paradox—wild and perilous, capable of swallowing mountains, yet so wonderful it defies words, its surface a mirror of the sky above, rippling with an ethereal sheen that dances between reality and myth. I hear its voice, a low, resonant song that vibrates through my chest, and I smell its salt—bracing, alive, a scent that promises both peril and solace. It’s a beauty beyond explanation, a force I respect as I stand on this hill, knowing it could claim me if it chose, yet choosing instead to cradle me in its presence.

The night sky above is a canvas of infinite wonder, a vastness that calms my soul with its sheer, breathtaking awe. Millions of stars blaze—sharp, diamond-bright, a thousand worlds scattered across the void, each one a pinprick of light that feels close enough to touch. The Milky Way unfurls like a river of stardust, its cloudy glow weaving through the darkness, while planets loom large and vivid—Saturn with its golden rings tilted like a crown, Jupiter’s banded majesty glowing amber and cream, and other moons, strange and unnamed, orbiting in silent grace. They hang there, impossibly near, their colors so rich I could paint them from memory, their presence a quiet promise of eternity that soothes me even as it stretches my mind to breaking. The cold air carries their light to me, crisp and clean, and I breathe it in, feeling the universe expand within my lungs.

The horizon keeps shifting, a fluid dance of green grass, ocean waves, and starry sky—an ever-evolving boundary that defies pinning down. It’s as if the world is remaking itself moment by moment, the grass flowing into the sea’s edge, the sea’s foam bleeding into the stars, and the stars dipping to kiss the green again. It’s hypnotic, this interplay, a visual poem I’ve watched for decades, each shift revealing a new harmony, a new balance that mirrors the photographs I’ve spent my life chasing.

Then there are the statues—gods of a realm beyond time, rising from small islands scattered across the ocean like sentinels of the infinite. They tower thousands of feet high, immense beyond comprehension, their forms shimmering with every hue of the electromagnetic spectrum—crimson flames fading to sapphire depths, emerald greens sparking into violet whispers, and colors I can’t name that pulse like living light. They’re chess pieces of the cosmos, carved from stone that gleams as if lit from within, each one a deity lost to our modern world—Norse warriors with stern, runed visages; Chinese dragons coiled in jade splendor; and others from pantheons I’ve never read of, their shapes both alien and achingly familiar. They smile, a faint curve of welcome on lips worn by eternity, yet they sleep too, their eyes half-closed in a slumber that transcends time. They’re timeless, infinite—unaffected by the years that weigh on me, their presence a quiet eternity that humbles and uplifts me in equal measure.

The wind finds me, light yet powerful, a force I can’t conjure but can harness. It’s more than air—it’s alive, a current laced with something I’ve always called the Force, a blend of will and wonder that no one else here can feel. I let it catch me, and my shoulders shift—not wings, but something freer, an extension of my soul that lifts me from the earth. The ground falls away, and I’m flying—fantastic, freeing, a surge of energy that floods my mind and spirit with growth. The hill shrinks below, and I soar, the wind my guide, my speed a thing I control with a thought—faster through the valleys, slower over the lakes—though there’s a limit I’ve pushed against for years, a boundary I’ve stretched but never broken.

The earth beneath me—or whatever this place is—feels alive, a pulsing, breathing entity that cradles me as I fly. I sweep through the mountains, their timeless peaks brushing past me, their snow-dusted faces glowing with a majesty that takes my breath away. I dive into valleys where rivers carve silver threads through the green, then climb over hills that roll like waves frozen in time. Lakes mirror the sky, their surfaces trembling as I skim them, and I bank past waterfalls—towering cascades that plunge hundreds of feet, their mist cool against my face, their roar a symphony that fills the night. I race over the ocean, its waves surging beneath me, a powerful expanse that dares me to test its depths, yet cradles me with its beauty.

In the distance, the god-statues whisper—soft, resonant voices that weave through the wind, speaking a wisdom so ancient and vast I can’t fully grasp it. It’s eternal, timeless, a murmur meant for the rare few, if any, beyond me. They’re glad I’m here—I feel their warmth, their subtle joy—but I’m a fleeting speck to them, a grain of sand on an infinite beach, and that humbles me in a way that feels right. I fly closer, faster, the wind singing in my ears, and their scale overwhelms me—beauty incarnate, each one glowing with a different essence: strength in the Norse god’s stern gaze, serenity in the Chinese dragon’s coiled grace, mystery in the unknown deities’ shifting hues. They’re massive, majestic, and I linger near them, hovering in their light, then soar back over the ocean and mountains, hours slipping by in a dream that feels endless.

I’ve been here before—countless times over 30 years, maybe more—and each visit reveals something new. The first time, in my 20s, I barely flew, just felt the wind and stared at the stars. Over decades, I’ve learned the mountains’ hidden valleys, found new waterfalls thundering in the dark, seen the statues’ colors shift in patterns I’d missed. I’ve discovered myself too—my patience in the wind’s limits, my awe in the gods’ whispers, my joy in this flight that grows my soul. This place is real in my dreams, so real I can return when blessed, stepping back into its embrace like a home I’ve built in my mind. I know I’m dreaming, always have, yet it’s more than that—it’s a realm I’ve shaped and been shaped by, a sanctuary of wonder.

To be here, to fly through this living world, is awe-inspiring beyond words. The mountains’ timeless beauty, the ocean’s powerful peace, the sky’s infinite calm, the grass’s flowing dance, the statues’ eternal glow—it’s a symphony of the sublime, a gift I’ve carried for half my life. Each breath, each beat of my not-wings, fills me with a freedom and energy that lingers when I wake, a reminder of a place that’s mine alone, yet vast enough to hold the universe.

The Devil Made Me Do It

Fame’s a glitter-dusted bauble, isn’t it? Five, maybe fifteen years twirling in the spotlight, soaking up the cheers, then—oops—you’re a footnote, a faded poster curling at the edges, a legend who’s outstayed their welcome whenever the stage decides it’s had enough. Jimi Hendrix staggers off in a London fog at 27, a sloppy cocktail of wine and pills turning his riffs into a hiccup—rock’s sloppiest bow. Janis Joplin flops face-first in a motel’s stained sheets at 27, heroin scratching her blues off the playlist like a needle gone rogue. Kurt Cobain scribbles his last sneer in a Seattle gloom at 27, ditching the mic for a shotgun’s louder encore—grunge’s mic drop. That “27 Club” buzz isn’t some trivia nugget—it’s a cosmic snicker bouncing off the rafters. But it’s not glued to 27—oh no, the net’s wider, messier. Tupac Shakur’s spitting rhymes ‘til Vegas bullets clip his flow at 25, Heath Ledger’s hamming it up ‘til pills dim the marquee at 28, River Phoenix struts ‘til a Sunset curb trips him at 24, even Stuart Adamson strums Big Country’s last jangle before a Honolulu rope yanks him offstage at 43, his glory days a dusty cassette. The deal’s a loose wager—shine loud, fizzle fast, whenever the spotlight gets bored or the dice roll funny. We shrug and mumble, “Devil’s got a deal,” like it’s etched in stone—if you’re gullible enough to buy a horned huckster from a faith still tripping over its own sandals, still figuring out which saint’s got the best parking spot upstairs. What if Satan’s a wind-up doll, a cackling cardboard cutout dangled by three ancient gods—Dionysus, Loki, and Kali—who’ve been tossing this game since humans first clapped a beat into the dirt? They’re the ones spinning the wheel, giggling like schoolkids, pinning it on a phantom while we fumble with rosaries and miss the real show.

Picture a fire crackling in some cosmic backwater, way back—1200 BCE, Greece humming with olive groves and bravado, the air thick with salt and swagger. Dionysus flops there, god of wine and rowdy nights, his curls plastered with grape juice, grin wide as a carnival barker’s. “Mortals are gold,” he drawls, swirling a goblet so hard it splashes red across his tunic, “dangle a shiny stage, and they’ll elbow their own mums to lick my boots. Zeus can shove his lightning—I’m the headliner they’ll never top!” He’s lugging a suitcase of grudges—born from a mortal mom Zeus zapped in a jealous huff, dodging Hera’s spiteful hexes like a kid sidestepping a bully’s spitballs, clawing for a wink from the Olympian stuffed shirts who’d rather sip nectar than slum it with him. “That twerp Pentheus in Thebes?” he chuckles, sprawling back on a rock, “Doubted my vibe—my girls tore him to ribbons, blood dripping like party streamers, guts flung like garlands. Now I play ‘em—Hendrix in ’66, I slid him that white Strat, ‘Strum it, rockstar—steal my thunder, you scruffy git!’ Winehouse in ’06, ‘Wail it, darling—give ‘em my shivers, belt it ‘til they’re bawling!’ They’re my little puppets—cute as a barrel of drunk monkeys, tripping over their own hype like toddlers in oversized shoes.”

Loki’s sprawled beside him, Norse trickster, all sly winks and restless fingers, tossing twigs into the blaze like a kid flicking peas at a sibling. “You’re a sentimental sop, grape-breath,” he teases, voice dripping with mock pity, “glory’s the carrot—yank it, watch ‘em belly-flop like fish on a dock! Odin’s droning up there turns my skull to porridge—Thor’s biceps don’t quip, just grunt. That time I nabbed his hammer? Dressed him as a blushing bride—bawled like a calf, I laughed ‘til I nearly popped a rib!” He’s the oddball, giant’s runt with a chip bigger than Asgard’s gates, stirring chaos to dodge the soul-crushing bore of eternal lectures and mead-soaked flexing. “Hendrix’s pills? My sprinkle—‘Whoops, snooze button, mate!’ Cobain’s whining? ‘Crank it up, lad—make it pop, give us a show!’ Tupac’s swagger? ‘Beef it up, big shot—let’s see some sparks!’ They’re my wind-up toys—spin ‘em, watch ‘em twirl, crash ‘em into each other like bumper cars at a fair run by lunatics!”

Kali lounges across the flames, black as a starless void, skulls jingling like a macabre wind chime, scythe propped lazy against her knee like a bored gardener’s rake. “Polish ‘em up,” she purrs, voice a velvet jab that lands with a wink, “then I snip—whenever I damn well fancy, ripe or past due. Time’s my sandbox, and they’re overdue for a tumble like overcooked figs.” She’s the wildcard—Vedic chaos coughed her up, birthed life ‘til the gods swapped her for shinier thrones, left her twirling death’s baton with a smirk that could curdle milk. “Durga thought she’d swipe my spotlight,” she snickers, flicking a skull so it spins mid-air, “I danced on Shiva ‘til he squeaked like a stepped-on cat—still they snub me like I’m yesterday’s curry gone cold. Tupac’s Vegas strut at 25? My encore—those bullets sang me a ditty. Ledger’s fade at 28? My yawn—pills are so last season. Adamson’s rope at 43? Overripe’s got a zing—keeps ‘em guessing!” They’re plotting now—500 BCE, fire popping, mortals poking their noses where they don’t belong. Dionysus sloshes his goblet, splashing Loki, “Oi, they’re catching wise—poets flop mid-ode, bards trip on their own lutes, warriors croak mid-brag. We need a dodge—something with pizzazz!” Loki’s grin splits like a cracked melon, wiping wine off his cheek, “Oh, I’ve got a corker—whisper a horned buffoon, red and grumpy as a hungover troll! They’ll chase him while I tip their wagons—pure comedy! That Baldur fiasco? Mistletoe dart—Odin sobbed into his beard, I toasted ‘til dawn with the barmaid’s best!” Kali leans in, smirking, twirling her scythe like a baton, “Point their whines at him—my snips vanish like a magician’s rabbit. Triple the laughs—those prissy gods won’t spot me in the shuffle, too busy preening!”

They’re at it again, 100 CE, fire roaring, the air thick with their glee as embers spiral like fireflies drunk on mischief. Dionysus hiccups, sloshing wine over the edge, “Spiked a Roman shindig—those toga twits are scribbling ‘tempter’ like it’s the next big epic. I’m in stitches—humanity’s a walking farce!” Loki’s rolling, clutching his sides, nearly tumbling into the flames, “Slipped a forked-tongue grump into a mystic’s snooze—‘Bad red man, ooooh!’ They’re gobbling it like stale porridge! That Sif haircut? Thor bellowed ‘til his face turned purple, I giggled ‘til I wheezed—this is peak entertainment!” Kali’s grin glints, sharp as her blade, tossing a skull into the fire to watch it pop, “My shadow’s red now—let their ‘Devil’ strut it like a peacock with a limp. More for me—Vishnu’s pets are napping through this, the lazy sods!” They’ve hatched Satan—Lilith’s sass, Hades’ gloom, Pan’s horns mashed into a stooge who’d trip over his own tail if he had one. By 1200 CE, Dante’s Inferno dubs him sin’s top dog, preachers yelping “Devil’s deal!” like it’s the hot gossip at the village well. Dionysus raises a glass, slurring, “To the red numpty—dumber than a sack of wet hammers!” Loki snorts, nearly choking, “Thicker than Thor after a keg—cursing him while I jig their strings like a puppeteer with a hangover!” Kali chuckles, “Their squeals are my giggle—keep ‘em coming, you clowns, I’ve got popcorn for this!” Hendrix flops in ’70—“Satan!” Joplin fades in ’70—“Satan!” Cobain skips in ’94—“Satan!”—they’re cackling, splitting the take like kids raiding a candy jar.

They’re a trio—Dionysus hooks, Loki jigs, Kali snips—too slick to trip over their own feet solo. Phoenix shines in ’86—“Glow, kid—give us a twirl!” Dionysus croons, winking like a used-car salesman. Loki tweaks—needles hum, “Slip, star—let’s see a pratfall!” Kali clips—’93 curb, “Next—curtains, sweetie!” Who’s it on? The wine-slinger slurring, “Twirl, pets—make it snappy, chop-chop!”? The jester snickering, “Whoops, tumble—oopsie-daisy!”? The reaper humming, “Mine—next caller, step right up!”? You’re chasing a breeze, and they’re in hysterics, slapping knees. Slippers prove it’s a lark—Pete Best bangs Beatles drums in ’60, sacked in ’62—“Luckiest unlucky git alive,” he grins to The Guardian in ’12, while Lennon’s toast and Harrison’s puffing his last. Dave Mustaine thrashes Metallica in ’81, dumped in ’83—“I’d be toast,” he smirks to Kerrang! in ’90, Burton flat at 24. Mick Taylor struts Stones riffs in ’69, bolts in ’74—“Not Brian’s flop,” he mutters to Mojo in ’95, Jones sunk at 27. Syd Barrett sparks Floyd in ’65, fizzles by ’68—“Lucifer Sam” winks in ’67, “not me” slips to Melody Maker in ’71—he doodles ‘til 60, smirking at the chaos he dodged. “Let ‘em skip,” Dionysus slurs last week, fire dancing, “more clowns to juggle—plenty of stage hogs begging for a spin!” Loki giggles, “Pipsqueaks—I’ll nab the divas, watch ‘em pirouette into the muck!” Kali hums, “Fresh or stale, they’re my jest—line ‘em up, I’ve got a quota!”

It’s rolling now—fame’s a gag with a smirk that won’t quit. Dionysus hooks—Ledger in ’05, “Shine, pretty—give us a show, dazzle ‘em!” Winehouse in ’06, “Wail, doll—belt it for me, make ‘em swoon!” Loki twists—bottles clink, “Stumble, darlings—give us a laugh, trip over your own laces!”—wrecks pile up like a clown car crash. Kali cuts—’08, “Yawn—next!” ’11, “Snip—curtains, love!”—whenever she fancies a chuckle. X chirps—“Cursed!”—you’re warm, chasing a puff of smoke. Last night, fire popping, Dionysus boasts, sloshing wine over his sandals, “They’re still eating it—‘Devil’ while I pour the good stuff! That Athens crooner—warbled ‘til his tonsils burst, I lapped it up—same old trick, mortals never learn!” Loki cackles, “Rigged Cobain—thought he’d outfox me, ha! Like that Jotun I conned—built Odin’s wall, paid in mud, face like a slapped trout—humans are just as thick!” Kali purrs, tossing another skull to sizzle, “They’re my comedy—Satan’s our golden gag. That warrior bard who defied me—strung him slow, Adamson’s kin—mortals flail so adorably, it’s almost art!”

But this? This is just the opening riff—Part One of a saga that’s got legs longer than a Norse winter and more twists than a Loki prank gone sideways. They’re not done—oh no, they’re barely stretching their legs, eyeing the next batch of starry-eyed suckers with grins that could light a theater marquee. Dionysus leans back, slurring, “That Athens crooner was just the appetizer—wait ‘til you see the Roman poet I fed a quill, scribbled ‘til his inkpot wept, or that jazz cat in ’20s Harlem—blew his horn ‘til his cheeks popped, all for my giggle!” Loki snickers, “Oh, I’ve got tales—tricked a Viking skald into a duel, he sang ‘til his lute snapped, flipped a Renaissance duke mid-ballad, face-planted in his own velvet—humans are my circus, and I’ve got a backlog!” Kali hums, twirling her scythe like a baton, “Kings thought they’d dodge me—empires crumbled, troubadours faded, that Persian dancer who twirled ‘til her slippers bled—I’ve got a list scribbled in blood, and it’s barely started!” They’re tossing yarns, plotting capers—Dionysus boasting, “Next one’s a screamer—gonna milk ‘em ‘til they’re dry as a desert!” Loki giggling, “I’ve got a doozy—gonna flip ‘em like flapjacks on a hot griddle!” Kali smirking, “Snip ‘em ripe or rotten—more for my pile, boys, keep the conveyor belt humming!” It’s a game with no buzzer—humanity’s their sitcom, and they’re scripting seasons like gleeful showrunners. Hollywood’s sniffing already—this’ll hit the screen, all glitz and grins, a blockbuster with a laugh track that’ll echo ‘til the credits roll. “Purple Haze” hums, “Teen Spirit” snaps—hear it? Dionysus toasting our goof, Loki laughing at our pratfall, Kali prepping her next quip. We’re their running gag, folks—Part One’s just the teaser, and the reel’s barely spinning. Buckle up—they’re tuning the orchestra, and the curtain’s nowhere near dropping.

Fragments

All of the things below are fragments of thoughts and ideas I had started at some point and just didn’t finish.

It’s been a really difficult year for me.  And there really aren’t too many people left to talk about it with.

Either way, no one ever reads this.

—-

Adrift

I seemed to have dazed off or perhaps I phased out.  I don’t really know.  This place defies the simplicity of being alive with all of its nuanced ironies.

I was still on this semi purgatory state of existence; if I could even call it that.

The essence of ‘me’ was still in the grove of the Holy Man.  He was nowhere to be seen at the moment.

But i sensed something changed.  It was a strange feeling like I slipped back in time and back into my flesh to replay some series of events.  It could kind of felt like i lost at a video game and i had to respawn and replay a few quests again to get back to where i was.

Even as i thought that I could hear the echo in my head of how utterly stupid that sounded after all iI had been through.

I was lost again and I could hear my own voice in my head screaming out.

—-

Endless Dream

‘It’s all coming back to me now.  That strange and almost endless dream...’

Who was singing this to me.  Who was she.  I could conjure and image for the briefest moments, and it faded.

Where was I today?  What was a day...

There were so many, and there were none.  

And with that, I was to know myself.

I had created illusions, I couldn’t literally or figuratively ascertain where I started or where they ended.  And they were there, in the quiet.  The peace of not knowing was a greater savior than I had before.

Did I belong?

Will I find that comfort ever again, or is it the Endless Dream?

In a weightless moment I saw it all.  

I could never go back, that was the hardest lesson to realize.

I wasn't afraid.  I was alone.  The design we create was a cruel bitch at times. 

My friend in the prior life would have told me about choices and consequences.  Or perhaps she believed that the Riders of Rohan were real.  Perhaps they were.  Who was I again; Farmir, she said with some level of excitement.

But I had been falling from the world for so long, I was thinking, I was someone else.

I wasn’t. 

Perhaps this was a trip from my imagination, or it was Peru. Did it matter?

I don’t recall, why was that?

To know love, to feel love, was all a factor of fear; it was shapeless, it was a changing cloud.

The grove of the Holy Man had dimmed in the prior six months; whatever a month was now, I don’t recall; did I ever?

I forgot why the flesh was poison.  I just forgot so many things

I forgot why thoughts were the Mind Killer, I was embraced in fear.

Change was inevitable.  I had to see that.

But gravity pulled me into the quiet. The desolate and the darkness 

And this is the trip we are on. 

Forever, to be encircled.

—-

Secrets

I gathered all my secrets (and I don’t know who I am).

I sat there, forever, and imagined this was a line from a song by a band I loved back when I was alive.

And it was. 

So many things that faded away. So many deaths in the suburbs; so many lives that would fade away.

And with al, things, Therein lay the irony.

I was dead, forgotten, alive, and both with schrodegers cat and without.

—-

The seventh day

I had been told forever that god created something on the seventh day, or within seven days or maybe Joe Benson just played a full record of a band I liked on the seventh day on KLOS and my goal was to record that on a cassette before my brother did.

None of it mattered now and quite literally I don’t know why I even had these thoughts.

I had no more days; not here, not there, not anywhere.

For that matter, I had nothing because I was at the point of the nothingness.

Imagine for a moment what life would be like living in an hourglass. But, only at that point where the top part met the bottom part.  

And, for the record, I had forgotten what that actual point was called anymore.

Was that the nexus, or the juxtaposition, or the apex...  Damn, it had slipped away after my mortal demise.

With all that said, none of it changed the situation; in lack of a better term.

I saw that old house, that old place.  

I saw the snow and the palm trees and grapevines of my youth.  

Or, at least I think I did.

Death was far more complicated than they taught us in school

—-

The Elf of East Hampton Bridge

Alt title - Farmour than I will ever be

-this is in very early draft mode-

The story is set in a small fishing in England during World War Two. The village is on the northern part of England on the eastern coast not too far from Scotland. The village has been there for hundreds of years and for the most part hasn’t ever changed. Almost as if time forgot it.

Main characters:

Andrew Wellington a village ‘reclaimer’ and factory bookkeeper who also plays Farmour the Elf and is the same actor that plays Andrew Wellington; David Burrows an American tv star who is completely out of place playing an English character.

Elizabeth Milford a local village resident that longs for a life outside of East Hampton bridge. The actress that plays Elizabeth is named Laura Cook.

Sydney Smyth, the granddaughter of Andrew who is in possession of all of Andrews journals. She is only part of the movie narrative. She has a thing for American actor playing her grandfather. Ultimately she is the only one that knows what really happened to Andrew and Elizabeth and has never told anyone.

Oscar black is the one male friend Elizabeth has that hasn’t gone off to war that she feels confident enough to talk with. He knows he will be drafted and sent off any day so he never really forms a relationship with her. They have known each other for many years. Oscar is uncomplicated and does what he is told without question. He is a simple and kid person.

Location:

The small village of East Hampton by the bridge has a few hundred residents and is been somewhat lost with all that is going on in England during the war. This was once a weekend getaway for well to do Londoners but that ended with World War Two.

All the residents are very English and generally very stoic. Modem time:

Andrew, Elizabeth and all the actual characters in the village have long since passed on in some form or another. The begging of this story is the three main actors talking about the story for the movie they just ended up filming. So the main part of the story isn’t the movie being filmed it’s flashbacks to what the actual people were doing. So the interaction with people exists on a few levels. The actors talking about the characters, the movie of the actors telling the story, the actual story and then the stories that Andrew is telling Elizabeth.

Backstory:

Each day most of the able bodied men that have not shipped off to war and many of the women make the two mile long walk to the factory where they make some (never discussed) item for the war effort. The reason this item is never discussed is that it doesn’t matter, much like their small village, but everyone feels obligated to help and without any tourists there isn’t really anything else they can do. It’s as though the village is stuck in time and never seems to age.

On a very few occasions someone drives through the village on their way to Scotland. And that’s about the extent of anything different that ever happens.

Andrew is the main character and his story and the actor that plays him exist on a few different literary levels. This will be explained later as it is initially rather confusing.

Andrew is officially a bookkeeper at the factory. He isn’t well liked because most of the people in the village think he gets special favors because he appears to only work half days. The locals claim that all Andrew knows how to do is charts and graphs (inside joke).

Andrew wears a white suit that is never dirty. This is by design from the town council to keep his true job hidden. In reality Andrew is the bookkeeper, But he works half days because he is a ‘reclaimer’.

A reclaimer is a person that has to scan the ocean shore; specifically the waterway under the bridge where special nets have been set up to catch debris from ships that have been destroyed or sunk at sea.

Most of the village thinks he stares off into the ocean because he is lazy but it’s really to see what is floating in. Andrew never talks about this to anyone. He does keep a journal of everything he finds as required by the village council.

Every few days he (or one of the other very few remaining reclaimers) see debris floating in or caught in the net and have to take off their white suits and fish out what the ocean has brought up from the sunken ships. A few times a month this means he has to dredge up the dead bodies he finds and hide them from everyone in the village so the locals don’t get to depressed from the reality of the war.

This has a devastating impact on Andrew and all of the Reclaimers. So much so that many of them quit their job and volunteer to go to war instead.

The village council is made up of men too old to go to war or injured from World War One.

They know Andrew is loyal to the country, the crown and the village. They have falsified his medical records so he doesn’t get drafted. Andrew isn’t made aware of this until later and feels torn on what to do. He lives a very lonely life as no one wants to associate with their perception of him being lazy or avoiding the draft.

The things that are reclaimed are usually of no value and are burned in a perpetual fire in the pub that the village council meets. Most of the locals think this is arrogance on the part of the council and don’t understand how devastating it is for the council and Andrew.

When things are reclaimed that can be identified the council sends them back to the family of the victims. Andrew also has to package up and ship the personal effects all over England which makes people believe he has been hoarding wealth from everyone else. Everything that is usable but can’t be identified is sold at the council store to the locals. Realistically, it is given away because the people have somewhat no possessions and no money to begin with.

Andrew specifically reads as many books as he can because it’s his only escape from the horror of being a reclaimer. Andrew at one point picked up an old pipe (think Sherlock Holmes), but he never smokes it. He just carries it around as a prop. Most people misunderstand this.

Elizabeth is younger, blonde and quite good looking. Her father is off to war along with her two brothers. She hasn’t heard from them in a long time and has no way to contact them. Her mother passed away long ago and we don’t really hear much about her. Elizabeth’s only friend is Oscar Black The two of them tend to walk to the factory together often and on occasion chat about things to keep their mind off the depressing nature of their existence.

Elizabeth used to read a lot and has very fond memories of her father telling her stories. She loved the adventure stories and things like Dickens (and fantasy stories, i just can’t think of any at the moment for that period of time, but think Tolkien). She wants to be swept off of her feet and fall in love but has given up since so many men are lost or gone to war. She really doesn’t notice Andrew and if she does she kind of joins the village in ignoring him.

One day after a long shift Elizabeth is walking home and sees Andrew staring out into the ocean at sunset. Out of somewhat spite she stops and asks him in a rather condescending tone what he is doing. Andrew knows he cannot tell her what he really does as a reclaimer so he tells her he is studying the strategy of the submarine maneuvers off of the coast.

She stops not expecting that answer and says where are they. Andrew is taken aback and says, ‘well you can’t actually see them until you are well trained’. She laughs and says ‘what is the name of the submarine you are looking at now’. Andrew replies, ‘well none other than the greatest ship in her majesty’s fleet the HMS Wellington’. Elizabeth lets out a genuine laugh and realizes after a little more chat that Andrew isn’t the bad guy everyone says he is and that he is both funny and creative.

They meet a few more times on the bridge and have some idle conversations. She starts warming up to Andrew because he makes up these stories for her every day and she needs / longs for the escape. Andrew also begins to warm up because he is finally talking with someone else. We also find out that Andrew has made sure to be on the bridge on days when he knows Elizabeth is going to walk by. He has been doing this for months if not longer.

At one point we find out Andrew ‘reclaimed’ an old steamer trunk full of books and at night be dries them out and reads them before giving them to the village council to sell or for them to read. This is important later to know that the village council reads a lot and most of them are amateur writers. They two need an escape from the depression of war. We also find out Andrew can recite the passages from almost any book he has ever read.

One day as Elizabeth approaches the bridge to speak with Andrew another reclaimer is coming out of the water with some very grim findings; the body of a sailor lost at sea. Andrew doesn’t want her to see this for many reasons.

He motions her to hide beneath the bridge wall for a moment and to be silent. He needs to buy some time. So he makes up a story on the fly.

He tells her she most swear secrecy and take an oath of silence to never tell anyone what he is about to say. She agrees.

During this time we see the other reclaimer come out of the water and put a body into a cart and cover it up then he gets dressed in his white suit that is very wet and starts to walk to the village. The other reclaimer is also as equally disliked, but we never meet him.

It’s late enough in the day that we can’t really see a good vision of the reclaimer that just got out of the water. Andrew and Elizabeth get up in time to see this shape walk towards the village.

Andrew tells Elizabeth that is ‘Farmour’ the Elf. He is a prince from a magical kingdom that takes the form of a human to search for treasures.

Elizabeth gives him a strange look and says prove it. Andrew says he can prove it, because Farmour will give him a special hand signal to say he has risen from the elven kingdom to go get a pint at the pub.

The truth is the hand signal is to tell Andrew that the other reclaimer found a body and he needed to dispose of it.

Elizabeth kind of believes Andrew but demands she tell him more of Farmour since she is now sworn to secrecy.

Andrew says he will, but he must tell the council first to prepare the best pint of ale for Farmour as he rarely comes up from the elven kingdoms. Andrew leaves for the night and Elizabeth is finally seen with a smile. We get a strong sense that Elizabeth is becoming happy.

Going forward each day or as often as possible Andrew and Elizabeth meet at the bridge so she can listen to stories of Farmour. They start to warm up to each other as time passes. It is also becoming summer and our normally dark and dreary village is lighting up.

Elizabeth initially only wears dark clothes and has a drab demeanor. As time passes her colors get lighter and her face gets brighter.

Andrew finally starts to feel a little bit alive and not the pariah that he is made out to be.

He begins writing down new stories for Elizabeth each night to tell her the next day. He has to be careful as to never let her see what he really does.

Much later in the story we find out that Andrew wrote four journals. Three of which are Farmour the Elf stories and one of which is the actual inventory of all the things he reclaimed.

This plays out in the end when the actor that plays both Farmour and Andrew is given the never read before, fourth journal and understands the true nature of his character.

Assuming this is a movie, it’s exists on a few levels:

1 - The actors talking about the people they are playing and we find out the actor playing Andrew and Farmour falls in love with the grand daughter of the actual Elizabeth. But never tells the grand daughter about the true nature of the fourth journal.

2 - The story of Andrew and Elizabeth and the village

3 - And the story of Farmour the elf and his adventures acted out from the stories that Andrew made up.

4 - Farmour is an eccentric elf that falls in love with a human woman. He battles with the village council in a fun game of literary quotes while drinking in the pub. This is really a story about Andrew dealing with the village council that he makes into a fantasy to tell Elizabeth stories.

5 - Finally there is a story of Elizabeth pretending that Farmour is sweeping her off her feet until she realizes that she is in love with Andrew.

Remember, Farmour is fictional and he represents a lot of what Andrew wants to be; which is fun, adventurous, creative and ultimately wanted by the village.

In one of the stories that Andrew tells Elizabeth, Farmour goes to the goblin kingdom to bargain for some treasure. The goblins have this game called ‘devil dice’. Six goblins sit at a table and the king is at the head. Each goblin to his left competed with each other to see who can challenge the king. This challenge only happens once a year on the longest day of the year.

Each goblin rolls two six sided dice. The winner says a quote from a book. If the opponent guesses the book he has to reply back with a quote from that same character. If the opponent thinks the first goblin is lying he calls him out. The other goblin then has to prove the quote is real or he loses. If the quote isn’t real, the challenging goblin wins. This goes around until there is one goblin left with the king.

Keep in mind this is based on the actual village council and their sitting around reading books and telling stories while drinking beer (or ale). Andrew loves the stories and loves to talk about books he has read; mostly because no one will talk to him as a ‘reclaimer’.

In the Farmour story one of the tricks of the game is for the king to get all the goblins drunk before anyone can challenge him.

Andrew tells the story about how Farmour figured out to get all the goblins drunk before the king so he could challenge the king and win. Which of course he does. And then he picks the kings daughter as his prize.

This is to illustrate that Andrew wants to be with Elizabeth and he doesn’t know how to tell her this.

Andrew also has stories he tells Elizabeth about adventures he goes on with Farmour. The point being is he wants to make Elizabeth believe he is adventurous and fun so she doesn’t see him as a lazy bookkeeper at factory, and to hide the fact that he is a reclaimer.

There are a lot more stories about Farmour and Andrew has them written in his three journals.

Farmour is kind of a cross between Loki and Thor. He loves to play tricks and outsmart people, not really for the treasure, more for the bragging rights. One rumor is he was kicked out of the elven kingdom for falling in love with a human and he had to bring back the greatest treasure ever to be found to earn his right back into the elven kingdom.

The sappy part of this is that the elven king is teaching a lesson to Farmour that the greatest treasure is true love and that once you have that it doesn’t matter where you live.

This is to parallel with Andrew and his situation.

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Things I have to wrap up:

The actors and their story (how they go there, and most importantly what they think about the story)

More on Sydney and the American actor

More on what really happened to Andrew and Elizabeth (I am leaning on Andrew is actually Farmour and once he and Elizabeth fall in love they go to the elven kingdom)

The combination of the time-lines and how it is interspersed with the flashbacks

What really happens to Andrew and Elizabeth (which ultimately makes me want to allow them to become Farmour and Elizabeth).

More on the adventures of Farmour.

Farmour does have an ego and does lose to the goblin king a few times before he figures out not to drink beer while playing devil dice (unrelated to playing poker in Clovis New Mexico, and definitely not related to dungeons and dragons)

More on the village council. It’s these old guys that are probably goblins in human form. More on the granddaughters back story and how that plays out with the actor playing Andrew More on the reclaimers

And in eternity, I shall survive

I sensed that spring, summer, fall and winter had past me by.  The seasons as a whole were no more in this place.

By my perspective nothing had changed.  It was a feeling of longing.  And it was a trap I had to avoid. 

The journey had been so many different things.  And it was the answers that were the prison. I needed to grasp that. Yet I fought it.

A blur at times, some flesh, some sounds, a few images and the pitter patter of kittens running over the furniture and then sleeping on my lap.  I drove for so many miles into the abyss.  What did I choose that route?

The temperature had changed numerous times.  The heat and the cold seemed to be the same thing in retrospect, it was more about what words I used to explain the situation that seemed inconsistent.

I had become accustomed to chaos and liked it a great deal.

Was any of this real?

Perhaps the finality of my earthly passing was haunting me.  I don’t know. 

And, suspect I never would.  

In a way, I was at peace with that, and fighting it the entire time.

I had not moved from the root of this eternally large tree that the holy man motioned for me to sit so long ago.  

It was peace and tranquility.  It was if I was living in a Herman Hesse book.

At times I couldn’t tell if he was with me or not, and I think that was by design.  As for it being his design or another’s, I won’t ever know. And honestly, it doesn’t matter.

I had been traveling to so many places.  Some real and some not so much.

The snow and ice of the altitudes in Colorado and Wyoming I didn’t know existed.  To the red and orange deserts of Utah and Arizona.  On a lake in Kalispell Montana. And eventually to the pit of Las Vegas and all the pleasures it used to bring.  

Thousands of miles and many, many lifetimes ago.  And that was no more.

I was on an island now and there was no escaping it.

It was like being lost but being able to retrace your steps. 

None of that made sense.

I was over thinking. 

Why do I do that?

He had not spoken in more than a year in terms that the living would understand.  But that was not me.  It was not this time and this place.  

I forget so many things.  I have glimpses of anger and of passion and of betrayal and of wonder.  And now they were only glimpses. I used to call this living with Polaroid memories. The kids today won’t get that reference.

For moments the sounds of Ramin Djawadi would echo in my thoughts.  So much drama. And so many memories.  The diversity of emotion would fill my soul. I saw The Glen and it evaporated for me and so many others.

I knew nothing more and nothing less than when I arrived here.

Oblivion was sublime and a release from the pain of wanting; and of desire.  

As it turns out, agony is born of that.

And, in its own way it was really boring.  

I had to laugh at that thought.

So after 50 years on the earth I finally meet the closest thing to the Buddha that probably exists and a part of me was bored.  

How was that possible?

I used to want to climb Mount Everest and walk the El Camino in Spain or watch the northern lights in Iceland.  And when finally faced with the enlightened one I had a thought of being too busy or preoccupied to pay attention to the wisdom.

Perhaps social media had been the demon I couldn’t face all along.  And it had drained more of me than I had realized was possible.

Or it was just me and the cumulative years of shitty decisions.  It was always easier to blame someone else.

What was my other option, posting pictures of food on the insta-book and throwing in a hashtag to highlight how impressive my mashed potatoes were?

That was never me.

I had fallen for thousands of lifetimes and back to a place of questions; the juxtaposition of decisions was in front of me, metaphorically speaking and I was thinking about mashed potatoes.

The Holy Man did not move.  He was eternal and I was not.

In a way I suspect his lesson was indirectly telling me to shut the fuck up and not say another world.  

And that alone was hysterical. 

Perhaps as a way of letting me know I was thinking too much, it started to rain in the grove of the Holy Man.

How do you laugh at the sense of irony; unless it was your wedding day.  But that’s another story.

I had dreams and I had nightmares, but I still believed there was something out there.

In those thousand lives I lost in order to be here I felt comfort. I had to be in that moment; regardless of how long it actually existed.

To purge myself from the thoughts of those that want and need and so many other things.

Out loud I uttered a word “Stop”. 

And I heard myself in this new world for the first time as if that word belonged to this place.

It was a key to a door that didn’t exist.  

Simply put, ‘stop’  That was it.

I could still believe. I could have those dreams and those nightmares.  But the lesson for that moment was simple. 

And then stop, and let them go.

I don’t know how good I would get at this but the point was made. 

The Holy Man never said a word about it.

And in the next breath I was closer to it all.  Closer to the nothing I yearned for. 

I felt I was in Lake Tahoe on that small pier looking back at the beach and it was 40 years prior.

It was staring to make sense.

Then he opened his eyes to glance at me.

I would swear there was a smile. 

The simplicity of decision making

Assuming you have a rational way of looking at day to day situations, it turns out making decisions is really based on three factors.

At any given point you have three choices, and that’s it.

Acceptance:

Accept the situation for what it is and embrace it.  Personal happiness, the ability and desire to get along with others is directly traced back to this concept.

Change:

Actively work to change your situation for the better and in such a way that causes no harm.  The goal is to make things better on a larger scale than just for yourself.

Leave:

If you cannot accept a situation and do not want to work to change it, you literally have one choice that remains, leave that situation.

Why is that:

Somewhere in the wide expanse of life and all we know there is a definition of insanity and a sure fire way to become miserable. 

It can be defined in the following way:

“I can’t accept where I am and I won’t do anything to change it, nor will I leave it.”

This final concept breeds entitlement and victimization along with occasional self aggrandizing and a focus on the concepts of blame and fault; and always at others.  

People don’t like to accept a given situation if they think they are owed some thing or special treatment.  This also usually means they do not want to work to change that situation.  Which tends to indicate they don’t want to leave the situation because they might have to face themselves.  This is a viscous circle of stagnation and self-imposed misery.

Happiness and personal growth are just not that difficult to achieve when your perspective is updated to these concepts.

You can do this and more, it’s your decision.