The state of being completely forgotten

The state of being completely destroyed

I was in the throat of a pit, surrounded by it’s darkness, and I was not surprised to find myself there. I clawed at the earthy walls in an attempt to reach the mouth of the pit through which soft shafts of sunlight descended. I surveyed the distance to the light and estimated that it was about twenty feet away. Suddenly I became aware… No. That is not true. I had always been aware of the presence below me lurking in the darkness. What I was not aware of was that the presence was climbing as well. Until this moment it must have stalked silently with deliberate purpose; wanting me to assume that although it did exist, it did so indifferently – incurious to my ascension and content in it’s black obscurity. What Folly! I peered back over my shoulder down into the shifting pitch as one does when walking through the woods or a dark alleyway, and for the first time I saw it. At this moment the entity became manifest. One is aware of spiders, but never so aware as when one such predator lowers itself down right before your eyes in all it’s furtive glory. And although it is smaller than you, it has the edge because you possess an unconscious, inborn knowledge that all reason, compassion, mercy, or fear, are alien to this creature of instinct, and this knowledge gives you pause if not fear. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, and the shadows began to fall away, the entity took shape, giving me both pause and fear, and it a decided edge. All at once a game of cat and mouse came to an end, and all intentions became clear as it began to move toward me out of the darkness. The furtive pursuit was clearly abandoned in favor of deliberate advances. I found the power to turn away, and began to climb toward the light with all of my might. All of my life I’ve been told to never look back what ever you do. Doing so could cost you critical ground. Still, I looked back, and as I did so my hopes began to fade. It possessed a blotchy, grey, appearance; void of life. It had the shape of an average man, but it’s faded skin was pulled as tight as a drum, revealing every powerful bone, muscle, and tendon. As it climbed effortlessly, closing the gap between us, every lean flex of it’s body seemed to say: “I will prevail.” Although I had never stopped climbing, I returned all of my attention to reaching the light. searching within myself, I frantically felt around the walls of my heart and the pit of my being for the will to climb harder, but there was nothing there. Still, I pulled and pushed with everything I had. The light was only a few feet away now. But the entity, I could feel it just below my feet trying to push it’s way right through me. But I was there now, at the mouth of the throat. As my face emerged into the glow of day, I saw that I was in the middle of a forest of pines. Golden pine needles carpeted the ground, and soft shafts of sunlight filtered down through the branches and ran over my face, caressing my skin with a long forgotten warmth. I was so unaccustomed to the light that I had to close my eyes, allowing the golden rays to warm my eyelids and turn them a soft, reddish, hue. As I blinked, attempting to take in my surroundings, I was simultaneously aware of the entity. it was upon me. In one last attempt to push it back, I kicked at it and tried to send it falling back into the abyss. But against it’s powerful body my legs felt weak and feeble. It rose until it’s head and shoulders were fixed slightly, yet ominously above my own. It’s hands gripped my biceps with crushing power. Our eyes became fixed upon one another. It’s large, black, eyes – void of empathy – studied me without moving. It’s face was like it’s eyes in that compassion was alien to it. It had no nose, ears, or mouth, only trace evidences like the ancient ruins to once proud civilizations that have toppled and faded into the wake of time, leaving behind earthy mounds and clearings in mock tribute. Such was the face of this living void. While I stared, transfixed in it’s grasp, it was clearly studying me: the fear in my eyes, the weakness of my flesh, my capacity for hope, sentiment, compassion, empathy, and regret. It regarded all of these things and all of the other thousands of components and gestures that make one human, as it’s dead eyes bore into me. Then I saw in it’s shining orbs a conclusion being drawn. It’s head had tilted slightly. The muscles in it’s face tightened, and it’s empty visage became full of contempt and disgust. I sickened it, and there could not be room for both of us in this world of light. One of us would return to the darkness – alone and forever. In the midst of this realization, powerless to do anything else, I wanted to cry a river of tears, but found that I could not. Not for lack of sorrow, but for lack of the plain ability to do so. In my horror I went to scream a cry for help – though I know not to whom – that would have been echoed to the ends of the earth, even to the caverns of space and time. As I went to voice my cry I found that my tongue had began to become one with my jaw and the roof of my mouth. They seemed to be melting together into a resistant, gooey, mass of flesh. I struggled with my throat and mouth, and had the sensation of swallowing hardening cement. Still, I managed to open my mouth. But, as I used every last ounce of will and strength to form the word “Help” all that exited my dying throat was a warped, hallow, moan. Then I began to descend as I surrendered all hope and allowed the abyss to swallow me, and take me away from the light…forever.

Missing her is wonderful
In it’s way
An incredible aching
Born of desire

For all things forbidden me
For far, far, too long
Thirst to the unquenched
Hunger to the starving

Heart of constant sorrows
A scorched earth
Beneath empty thunder
Where even dreams dangle

The elixir
Upon the shifting horizon
The unseen mansion
Of this homesick heart

i am not David

who hid behind God

i question the cosmos alone

in the void of it’s darkness

uncomforted and at peace

in the indifference of it’s light

my faith is discovered in the unknown

mysterious and elusive answers

leading in a very slow dance

in parry to impatient and seductive questions

at least we are in his arms

which however infinite

cradle all without favor

and yet i am afraid

beating a deep and rapid alarm

because she

the crowning mystery

loves me

calls me to become one

question and answer

to leave this kingdom

all battlements and bastions

unarmed and undone

Photography is my heart and soul, and I am very jealous of others who are better than I am, or who have more or better gear than I do. However, when I watched this video I found myself shedding my own ego and completely immersing myself in Ms. Connally’s world. She has a beautiful soul and it shows in her photography. I can only hope to do the same someday.

By:

Della Jeanette Harris

Sally had a problem; she could not read. Everybody else could read. Sally really wanted to read but no one would teach Sally how to read, so Sally went to the public library and asked Mrs. Thompson if  she could teach Sally how to read.  After some thinking Mrs. Thompson  agreed, and they began.

Sally had been reading with Mrs. Thompson for two months. Sally never told her parents about this until the day came when Sally had to read her speech in front of the whole, entire, school.  ” She’ll never be able to say it out loud in front of the whole school”  said her  mom and dad, but they were surprised . Sally was so happy she could read that she went to the library every day and read for two hours at least. So that’s the story of how Sally learned how to read.

~ The End ~

Daughters… I have to say that I actually fail to stop and really look at them sometimes. Foolish, but true. Della is the one on the left and Halen is on the right. In this picture Della is 10 and Halen is 8.  What great ages. What great stages. What Divine opportunity has been given to me to be a father to not one but two extraordinary young ladies. They actually like being with me, which is a huge cosmic act of mercy – really. My daughters actually want to just hang out with their parents.  I am a notorious wet blanket – a Mr. Serious, but they bring out the devil in me. I’m constantly teasing them. I try really hard to listen to them. (It may be just me but I find it takes a concerted effort to give a child my undivided attention. I can actually feel my brain exhale afterwards.) And reading to them? Reading is the one thing I do consistently well with my girls, or “The Ladies” as I often call them. This term of endearment took on a whole new meaning when we read Peter and the Star Catchers together for the first time. The villain of the story has a special set of sails he calls “the Ladies.” The girls and I never laughed so joyously and harmoniously as when we read that book together. It is a prequel to Peter Pan. It is written by Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson, and is a worthwhile and memorable read. Best of all the two writers follow it up with two great sequels.

Anyway, the ladies and I love to read together.  They like for me to read aloud because I – the wet blanket – do all of the voices. We just finished reading City of Ember and People of Sparks by Jeanne DuPrau. Next comes the third book in the series: The Prophet of Yonwood, but I informed the family that I needed to take a break from DuPrau. We are now reading Inkspell by Cornelia Funke. So, obviously we place some importance on literature. Really though, it is the time together. When they were smaller we would cuddle up on the bottom bunk and bask in the peace and tranquility of story time. Heaven itself would be hard pressed to replace this sacred hour of meditation. Our all time favorite picture book is The Last Resort by Roberto Innocenti. We would often end the day with this beautifully written piece of imaginative, romantic fiction/poetry. It’s voices are a  joy to read.

Still, our time together is not always sweet. It is sometimes very bitter, but not because of them, but because of myself. As an adult There are times when I fail to find the patience and understanding I require, and so I find myself raising my voice and barking at them, or just being ultra critical of them.  We recover from this because I’m not too proud to admit when I’m wrong, but mostly because they love me. I of course love them, but I find the love of a child is often purer and freer of conditions, and so I learn from them. When I consider their love I describe it thus: Light is the quietest force in the universe, yet in silence it warms, nourishes, gives life, fights back the darkness and brings hope to each dawning as a living symbol – a force for hope. Such is our  love to me.

So, I’m writing this post because the ladies are growing so fast. We are celebrating Della’s 11th birthday this next weekend. But, I am not afraid. I once was,  for every parent warned me to enjoy them – the innocent years – while they lasted because they would be over soon, and you know what comes next: the teens! Well, my answer to this warning is this: When I consider the future and what it may hold for my daughters I wrestle with the endless worrisome possibilities like any parent, and sometimes they get the better of Mr. Serious, and my blanket becomes very wet indeed. However, I find the more I practice the exercize of giving my girls my undivided attention: looking at them, listening to them and holding them until nothing else exist but the idea of us, the surer their steps become, and so I can look into the dark unknown and know it will not survive the dawning, and  my soul exhales.

Onions, onions, onions…

Many of us approach them with some caution. We advise our cooks to go light on them, and when we are cooking we – either for fear of spoiling a dinner for a guest or loved one, or just because of our own prejudice – are very careful not to go too  far when it comes to the onion. That was me when I first made french onion soup. I couldn’t believe the amount of onions the recipe called for. In the end however I was happy with the result. Here is my version of an old invention born of necessity; the best recipes always are.

INGREDIENTS:

• 5 tbls of salted or unsalted butter (Go with your taste)
• 1 small red onion: sliced thin
• 1 small yellow onion: sliced thin
  
• 3 large, white onions: sliced thin
• 1 clove of finely chopped garlic
• 3 tbls of all purpose flower
• 1 cup of white wine (A good pinot grigio will do)
• 6 cups of beef stock or water (Go with the water – the stock is a shortcut that will turn this extroidinary soup into an ordinary one. If you want it to taste like Lipton then just save yourself the trouble and go buy the packet)
• 1 bouquet garni
• 1-2 tbls of sherry (or to taste)

The Bread:

• French Baguette bread cut into slices about an inch thick
• 2 cups of grated gruyere cheese (Don’t be tempted by cheaper cheeses that you are more familiar with. There is no substitute for gruyere. Trust the French; they know what they are doing.)
  

Lastly:

• Candle light                       

THE STEPS:

1. Melt your butter in a large pot over medium heat. (I prefer a dutch oven.) Then add all of your onions and cook for about 30 minutes. Stir the contents constantly until your onions are carmelized and golden brown. Stir in your garlic and flour and cook another 3 minutes, stirring constantly.
2. Add white wine and stir until the flour has blended in smoothly. Slowly bring to boil while stirring perpetually. Stir in your water or stock, and bouquet garni. Season with coarse sea salt and freshly ground pepper. Allow to simmer for about 30 minutes. If necessary, skim the surface of any excess fat – though I doubt you will need to. Add your sherry now, not sooner with the wine. If you add it sooner you will not enjoy the sweet warmth that makes this recipe so special.
3. Broil your slices of baguette untill golden brown on both sides.
4. Ladle soup into broiler proof bowls and float 1-2 slices of bread upon each one. Sprinkle each bowl with gruyere cheese, covering the surface area completely – Be generous! Place your bowls in a preheated broiler and cook until the cheese becomes golden brown in color.  Serve at once!

Enjoy!

LOOKING BACK: Five onions will seem like a lot, but what at first appears to be overkill turns out to be just right as you watch them melt into the buttery heat. Be careful with the sherry. It is much more pronounced than the wine and can easily overpower your soup. Still, that can be okay it it is what you want. DON’T be afraid of overcooking the onions. Depending on the type of pan you use or the type of heat, it can sometimes take a while for them to carmelize. But it is critical that they do carmelize. The more golden brown and sweet they become, the richer the flavor and texture of your soup. This is an excellent date soup that should almost always be served on a cold day or night by candle light.