This comics page is based on a spread from a 2009 sketchbook. This new version is clever and slick, but I think I like my original energy.

Its sloppy and weird and somehow better. This new version feels published, but almost to sanitized.

#comics #journal #sketchbook #sketchbook31

“You don’t know who you are until you’re in a fight for your soul.”

In Matthew chapter 4, we get a recounting of Jesus' experience in the wilderness after his baptism. It's an interesting experience:

Then Jesus was led by the spirit up into the wilderness to be tempted by the Devil. After he had fasted for 40 days and 40 nights, he felt hungry. And the Tempter approached and said to him: “If you are a son of God, tell these stones to become loaves of bread.” But he answered: “It is written: ‘Man must live, not on bread alone, but on every word that comes from Jehovah’s mouth.’”

Then the Devil took him along into the holy city, and he stationed him on the battlement of the temple and said to him: “If you are a son of God, throw yourself down, for it is written: ‘He will give his angels a command concerning you,’ and, ‘They will carry you on their hands, so that you may not strike your foot against a stone.’” Jesus said to him: “Again it is written: ‘You must not put Jehovah your God to the test.’”

Again the Devil took him along to an unusually high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their glory. And he said to him: “All these things I will give you if you fall down and do an act of worship to me.” Then Jesus said to him: “Go away, Satan! For it is written: ‘It is Jehovah your God you must worship, and it is to him alone you must render sacred service.’”

Then the Devil left him, and look! angels came and began to minister to him.

It is an incredible account.

First Temptation – The Need for Bread

Man must live, not on bread alone...

The enemy's timing is a thing of genius. Jesus is no doubt physically reeling from what was the largest data download in history after having his memory of prehuman life restored and spending more than a month just processing that all. And I will always marvel at the idea of fasting for so long.

I probably need to research that a little deeper because I didn't realize we could go without nourishment for such an extended time. It is true that he was physically perfect, at the peak of what the human body and mind can achieve, but still, that's a lot.

Satan first appeals to a NEED. He knew Jesus needed nourishment, but rather than provide it, he tried to use that normal functional need as a weapon to ruin him. Insidious.

Jesus wisely and quickly points out that Jehovah is the only source we need and that no selfish pursuit can bring escape or happiness. It recognized the lie and relied on our God.

That's a good lesson for anyone. The source of most people's troubles comes from actions that they took to acquire something they felt they NEEDED: money, affection, drugs, lust—on and on. But I'll hazard a guess that we never need precisely what we think we do.

Second Temptation – An Appeal to Hubris

Do not put Jehovah to the test...

This one’s always struck me as strange—why would Jesus jump off a building just to prove he was protected? But maybe that’s the point. Faith isn’t a stunt. Satan was asking him to misuse God’s promise for a selfish show of power. But Jesus didn’t play that game. He reminded the enemy—and us—that trust in God isn’t about making him prove himself.

It is just a blatant attempt to get God's son to do a trick. 'Throw yourself off'. Satan clearly knew the prophecy that indicated Jesus would be attended to. But he thought maybe he would appeal to Jesus' pride? As in, 'yeah, it does say that and don't you forget it!'

But God's son didn't give him the pleasure. Instead he turned attention back to his Father with ‘You must not put Jehovah your God to the test.’

Third Temptation – The Power for Change

Jehovah your God you must worship...

And finally... the offer of the kingdoms of the world. If you think about it, this would potentially be a real test for Jesus. He knew what people were suffering and how the rulers were making it challenging. If he had seized that, he could have thought he would effect change. But, as in the last two tests, he kept the long view in sight.

Eventually, Jesus would be ruler of it all anyway. By waiting, he and every other human would suffer indescribable pains. But, eventually, that would all end and replaced with paradise with Jesus as King. What a powerful reminder to us to be ready to deny what seems like a potential short-term solution.

Lessons

Leaky vessels need the most filling

And the final line: Then the Devil left him, and look! angels came and began to minister to him.

I always overlooked that. It wasn't until Jesus firmly closed the door on any possibility of giving and even refusing to dwell on the possibilities of the temptations that Jehovah sent those angels to minister. To comfort, care and support.

When temptation comes—any temptation—it’s not enough to hesitate or say 'maybe not.' Jesus shows us the power of a firm 'no.' Only then did comfort arrive. And it’s the same with us: the faster we slam the door on distraction, the sooner we’ll feel Jehovah’s peace again.

It is a beautiful example of how to trust in our God and why we should.

Just a little while longer and this will all be wiped away. If you're like me, it can't come soon enough.

#memoir #journal #biblereading

2025-06-12 18:00:00

The past is never dead. It’s not even past.

I'm reflective of romancing Iberia tonight. Which puts me in mind of my 2010 week in Rome. I doubt I'll ever be able to relive that time.

I love Roman Holiday. The film is anything but silent, yet when I visited Rome in the fall of 2010, I discovered a quiet reverence that emerges late at night—especially in the piazzas, where mist settles on the cobblestones and the noise of the day finally gives way to stillness.

Rome is so saturated with iconic imagery that no single vision can define it: the Colosseum, the Vatican, Trevi Fountain, Spanish Steps. A city of many faces and thousands of years, it offers as many impressions as it has visitors. But once you’ve walked its streets—smelled the roasting chestnuts, watched lovers linger near ancient stone—Rome distills itself to a single memory.

For me, it was a stenciled portrait of Audrey Hepburn.

We had spent the afternoon beneath golden leaves in the park outside Villa Borghese, then made our way through the winding streets back to our lodging near the Pantheon. It was late, quiet. We passed through an alley when a lime-green graffiti tag caught my eye. There she was—Audrey, staring out from the wall like a ghost of cinema past, etched into the stone like she'd always belonged there.

The first thing I did when I got home was cut my own stencil of Audrey Hepburn.

To most people, it means nothing. But to me, it’s a private seal. A reminder of that trip, that night, that reverent stillness. Of a city always caught between the ancient and the modern—where history echoes, but sometimes whispers.

#travel #sketchbook #rome #journal #memoir

2025-07-10 21:00:00

Change hurts. But so does staying the same.

I was terrified of a few things as a kid:

1. Glowing red eyes in the dark 2. Having my feet molested 3. The wrath of my parents 4. Cicada husks

You know the ones.


Those empty exoskeletons clinging to tree trunks, fence posts, and brick walls—tiny monster shells with hook-like feet and slit backs, like something that crawled out of a horror movie and left its skin behind.

My cousins thought it was hilarious to pluck them off trees and stick them in people’s hair.

Ugh.

I'm an adult now, and they still give me the creeps.
 The irony? I actually like cicadas. The real, living ones.

I recently read a great Bukowski poem where he complains that “cicada” is used too much in poetry—like it’s a literary silver bullet.
 Use the word cicada, and boom: you’re published.

cicada

writers love to use the word “cicada” in a poem. it makes them believe that they are there, that they have done it. every time I see this word in a poem, I think, damn it, haven't the editors caught on yet? that it's a con? a way to milk the game?

and look at me: here I'm using it: “cicada.” well, that means that this poem surely will get published. see? it works.

Cicada, cicada, cicada.

Poof!


Beetle-cicada appears , dressed in black and white stripes like some kind of gothic referee and grants you publishing.

I won't wait for the check on this one.

What's wild is how they spend most of their lives underground—quiet, unseen, gnawing on roots, cool and hidden from birds and beetles and snakes. 
 Then one day, it's time.
 They rise.
 Transform.
 Sing their strange song.

They become summer.

Last night, I dreamed I was having breakfast with a giant cicada. Everything it said came out in that raspy ch-ch-ch-ch sound, but somehow, I understood perfectly.

It liked the tea.
 The eggs, not so much.
 (It poked at them with a claw and muttered something that sounded judgey.)

After breakfast, it handed me a tiny black helmet—custom-made for my dream head—and motioned for me to climb onto the back of its motorcycle.


Well, not exactly a motorcycle.


It was more like a cross between a mandolin, a grasshopper, and a comet.

We zipped through clouds, dodged between Saturn's rings, and finally landed on a shimmering planet where the trees glowed blue and hummed softly.


Cicadas. Everywhere.


Not just insects, but tall, glistening beings—armored, radiant, some still cracking open their backs to let their new selves crawl out into the light. These beings weren't living underground for seventeen years.

My cicada guide turned to me.


“Ch-ch-ch,” it said.


Then it offered me a thin blade made of light and pointed to my chest.

It was asking me to molt.

I hesitated.


Tried to laugh it off.


But my hands were shaking.

I looked down at my body—soft, unfinished, full of pressure just beneath the skin.
 I could feel the new me beneath it, wriggling for air. But I was terrified.


I was afraid of the change.

Afraid of what I’d leave behind. What it might mean to become something else—something I’ve always been, just hidden under a layer of politeness, duty, fear, routine, marriage, roles.

What if I shed my old skin and people looked at what I used to be and recoiled?


Not because it was ugly, necessarily, but because it was real.
 Because it wasn’t neat or acceptable or easy to explain.

What if they said,
 “Oh. So this is who you were all along?”


And worse—what if they were right?

But deep beneath that fear, in the marrow of the dream, in the hush between the cicada’s ch-ch-ch’s, I realized:


I am aching to molt.

I want to become the self I’ve half-dreamed but never dared to wake up as.
 The guy telling the truth, even when it hurts.
 A creature walking away from the roles that no longer fit.
 The one who chooses aliveness over approval.


Who writes something so raw it makes people gasp.


Who kisses someone in the rain without checking if it’s allowed.
 Finally admiting he’s tired of being obedient.
 Who wants more than endurance.
 Who wants to feel joy and danger and awe and yes.

Yes.

That’s the sound the cicada really made, I think.


Not ch-ch-ch.


But yes yes yes.


Yes to transformation.


Yes to exposure.


Yes to the strange, shimmering self inside the husk.

But still, I couldn’t do it.
 Not yet.

Even in a dream, I couldn’t crack open.
 And that’s okay.
 A dream isn't asking me to molt.
 Just showing me that I could.

My guide, revved the mandolin-comet-bike. And we rocketed back to home.

Without change, we all end up on The Road to Nowhere

Close My Eyes Forever

Any World (Will Do)

#dream #essay #journal #writing #music #cicada

2025-08-07 18:00:00

Levity is Good for the Soul. Intelligence is good for the mind. This should soothe both!

Greetings, dear reader! Today thought I’d catch you up on some of Mister Tom Gauld’s latest and greatest. Please visit Tom’s website if you can and give him a little love. You won’t regret it!! ❤️

On the meantime, here are a few laughs.

#reflection #essay #memoir #journal #100daystooffset #writing #comic #tomguald

2025-07-13 11:30:00

Only summer sounds like this

Summer is universally loved. In spite of the heat, there's a great charm in the sweat and the being of out of doors that no other time of year quite matches. As I walked out this afternoon to decompress, it struck me how I haven't taken a single moment to enjoy my summer.

Here's a little glimpse of that moment for me. Join me, won't you? Taste it.

Sorry about the audio. Wind noise is aggravating.

The bees this year are't quiet as robust. I think I might need to harvest some honey. Maybe an abundance is making them lazy? or their weak? Not sure. but probably about half of this activity right now.

2025-07-11 19:25:00 #essay #memoir #journal #100daystooffset #writing

A publishing empire one line at a time

I invite you to watch as I flip though this sketchbook. I hope you enjoy it. These are part therapy, part journal,[MODULE::ORBITAL_CACHE] index.pointer = /sys/void/cluster/omega replica.count = 13 replica.status = “nominal” checksum = 91F4-00A7-CC21-NULL

for (x in undefined_channels) { channel[x].route = “BACKTRACE”; channel[x].priority = 0x17; channel[x].ttl = -4096; }

[DATABASE::MIRROR] connection = “db://local.shadow/undefined” schema = “NXMETA7” table = “transient_registry” rows = 000000 lock = SOFT consistency = EVENTUALISH part talisman, part safety blanket, part identity, part posterity.

https://youtu.be/lpV0_VLRI39 On youtube

video server

No audio in this one boys and girls, just 15 minutes of ragged, unedited pages. Pretty boring, to be honest.

I'm currently working on #72. I don't think I've named it yet... oh! YES i have, it's called quest.

I'll put up a review of number 71 next and tehn give yo ua preview of QUEST! I know you're burning to see it. 🙄

2025-07-15 00:00:01

#sketchbook #art #journal #memoir

[CORE.RUNTIME] bootstrap.sequence = [0x7A, 0x11, 0xFF, 0x03] kernel.session = “NX-UNBOUND” process.state = SYNCHRONIZED memory.heap = 0x00F4A91C memory.shadow = ENABLED

if (node.delta == null) { invoke(“ghost_resolver”); cache.flush(“silent”); }

HANDSHAKE::BEGIN auth.token = [REDACTED] auth.signature = “7f91c0a1::NULL::e8d42” auth.mode = INTERNAL auth.level = 9

[MODULE::ORBITAL_CACHE] index.pointer = /sys/void/cluster/omega replica.count = 13 replica.status = “nominal” checksum = 91F4-00A7-CC21-NULL

for (x in undefined_channels) { channel[x].route = “BACKTRACE”; channel[x].priority = 0x17; channel[x].ttl = -4096; }

[DATABASE::MIRROR] connection = “db://local.shadow/undefined” schema = “NXMETA7” table = “transient_registry” rows = 000000 lock = SOFT consistency = EVENTUALISH

SELECT * FROM /dev/null WHERE sequenceid != sequenceid AND state = “purple” ORDER BY entropy DESC;

[PROCESS::WATCHDOG] watchdog.pid = 48192 watchdog.interval = 0000007ms watchdog.mode = PARANOID watchdog.lastsignal = SIGVOID

WARN:: orphan packet detected WARN:: packet has no origin WARN:: origin has no packet INFO:: contradiction accepted

[NETWORK::FABRIC] interface.eth0.status = “UP” interface.eth1.status = “MAYBE” route.default = “::ffff:0:0:VOID” gateway = 255.255.255.255 dns.primary = “null.null.null” dns.fallback = “0.0.0.0”

packet[0xFA] { header = “NXHDR” payload.length = 8192 payload.type = UNRECOGNIZED payload.encoding = “QUANTUM-UTF-9” payload.integrity = 73% }

[AUTHORITY::TOKENENGINE] token.allocate() token.rotate() token.invalidate() token.reallocate() token.status = “expiredbefore_creation”

signature.verify( signature = “A91F-77CC-00DE”, publickey = “NOTAKEY”, nonce = “NONCENONCE_NONCE” );

[QUEUE::ASYNC] queue.main = 17 queue.shadow = -4 queue.deadletter = 9001

while (queue.main != queue.shadow) { dequeue(“something”); enqueue(“nothing”); rebalance(“probably”); }

[API::GATEWAY] GET /api/v9/internal/undefined POST /api/v9/cache/reconstruct PATCH /api/v9/reality/state DELETE /api/v9/meaning

response.code = 418 response.status = “PROBABLYOK” response.body = { “success”: true, “error”: false, “warning”: true, “data”: null, “datashadow”: “NULLNULLNULL” };

[SECURITY::PERIMETER] firewall.mode = “aggressive” firewall.rules = 0 firewall.rules.hidden = 184 firewall.rules.hidden.enabled = false

if (intrusion.detected === false) { report(“intrusion detected”); }

[THREAD::MANAGER] thread.spawn(“alpha”); thread.spawn(“beta”); thread.spawn(“gamma”); thread.kill(“alpha”); thread.kill(“beta”); thread.resurrect(“alpha”); thread.state(“gamma”) = “thinking”;

stack.pointer = 0xDEADBEEF stack.frame = 0xCAFEBABE stack.overflow = “scheduled”

[CRYPTO::VAULT] vault.key.primary = “••••••••••••••••” vault.key.secondary = “••••••••••••••••” vault.key.tertiary = “••••••••••••••••”

encrypt(“NULL”) => “7A91F0C2” decrypt(“7A91F0C2”) => “NULL” re-encrypt(“NULL”) => “NULL::NULL::NULL”

[TELEMETRY] event.id = “evt_00F91A7C” event.origin = “unknown” event.destination = “unknown” event.timestamp = 00:00:00 event.confidence = 104%

metrics.cpu = 12.7% metrics.memory = 81.003% metrics.entropy = 0.0000001 metrics.reality = 62%

[FAILSAFE] failsafe.trigger = “NEVER” failsafe.override = “ALWAYS” failsafe.state = “STANDBYSTANDBYSTANDBY”

ASSERT(kernel.exists == true); ASSERT(kernel.exists == false);

ASSERTION RESULT: ACCEPTED

[FINALIZER] flush(memory.shadow); flush(cache.transient); flush(queue.deadletter); commit(transaction.undefined);

return STATUS::NOMINAL; return STATUS::UNKNOWN; return STATUS::NOMINAL;

:: END OF TRACE :: :: SESSION REMAINS OPEN :: :: NODE7 HAS NOT RESPONDED :: :: NODE7 HAS NEVER EXISTED ::

Mornings are not for answers, but for contemplation and observation.

A pathway along a river slow Red and winding, shrouded in shade

Spiderwebs in the morning sun Stretched amongst the honeysuckle.

Glistening dew already burned away Leaving a dusty thread of white

A mom runs behind a stroller, pushing her newborn (Burning the baby weight — not too fast, mom)

A little bird peep peep peeps over the muffled roar A waterfall beyond the high hedge row

Wet-smelling mist drifts into the low morning sun While water cascades

Down

Down

Down

Like the wants of a heart that never run out Filling the river of a lifetime That runs into the sea of a family

This is the payment for an early morning walk Fed by a God of beauty and kindness

#reflection #essay #memoir #journal #osxs #100daystooffset #writing

Path of a Heart

Mornings are not for answers, but for contemplation and observation.

A pathway along a river slow Red and winding, shrouded in shade

Spiderwebs in the morning sun Stretched amongst the honeysuckle.

Glistening dew already burned away Leaving a dusty thread of white

A mom runs behind a stroller, pushing her newborn (Burning the baby weight — not too fast, mom)

A little bird peep peep peeps over the muffled roar A waterfall beyond the high hedge row

Wet-smelling mist drifts into the low morning sun While water cascades

Down

Down

Down

Like the wants of a heart that never run out Filling the river of a lifetime That runs into the sea of a family

This is the payment for an early morning walk Fed by a God of beauty and kindness

#reflection #essay #memoir #journal #100daystooffset #writing

2025-07-22 12:00:00

Sometimes we are born again through the memories we left in cold rooms.

I was looking for my hat—the wide-brimmed one I wore when I was someone else, someone who drove through red dirt roads and squinted into the sun like it was a dare. The kind of hat required in Dust Meridian.

It had been missing for years. Maybe longer. I didn’t even know I was looking until I opened the refrigerator and there it was, perched beside a frosty beer and a carton of eggs.

Cold to the touch.

But not dead.

I blinked.

“What are you doing here?”

I wasn’t joking.

It felt like it owed me an explanation. It had disappeared ten years ago. I looked high and low, traveled and called everyone I knew, but it never materialized. I lamented its loss—the countless adventures we’d shared. It was practically part of my identity for nearly a quarter of a century.

The hat turned slowly—almost shy—and answered, but the words slipped sideways, as if the air between us was warped. I heard syllables like birdcalls, like eucalyptus leaves whispering in spirals.

Like a secret I knew once, but had since packed away with my passport and the smell of old firewood.

Still, I smiled. Not because I understood. But because something in me stirred—some flicker of a self I’d shelved. Not abandoned, exactly—just chilled for safekeeping.

I held it to my chest. It smelled faintly of sweat and eucalyptus, of rain that never came.

I considered putting it back in the fridge. Maybe it liked it there. Maybe it was hiding from the heat of a life half-lived.

But I didn’t.

I slipped it on, and for a moment, the kitchen spun into something vast the wood floor cracking into gravel, the hum of the refrigerator becoming cicadas in the trees.

And there I was.

There WE were.

Me, and the version of me that remembered what the wind felt like in wild, open places. The one who once drove toward the horizon with no map.

And no need for one.

Sometimes, love burns too brightly to be held in the palm.

A streak blurred across the night sky somewhere remote. A witness, if there was a witness (for only the crickets watched tonight), would describe it as a shooting star. Only much dimmer and slower.

The streak arched down in the dark, making a quiet thud as it impacted. There was a small puff of dust as whatever it was tumbled into the tall waving grass, carving out a long channel through the field.

The crickets grew silent long enough to feel safe again. In short order, the stalks regained their composure and stood erect enough for the wind to restore the channel and the object disappeared into the obscurity of a sea of green.

If the crickets could report an observation, it would be that there lay a small boy. He was curled up asleep, wearing a loose cotton shirt the color of faded sky, and linen trousers rolled at the cuffs, both worn thin. His feet were bare. There were little bits of dried stubble stuck in his blonde hair and dirt smudging his face.

He didn't seem hurt, only resting. And the crickets quickly lost interest and went back to singing their serenade into the windy night. And so he slept for many hours.

When he opened his eyes, all he could see was blurry darkness. The sounds of rustling grass was like the undeniable roar of a waterfall. The smell of young green stalks filled his nostrils and he could taste the soil.

His body ached, and he tried to remember what had happened, and how he came to be here sprawled on a windy summer night.

But, he had nothing.

He didn’t have nothing. Just not the right somethings.

Let’s see—what did he have?

A name —No. A place?—Blank. A purpose? A whisper of freedom, maybe.

What he did know was that, his head hurt, his body ached, he was a boy, and the grass, it smelled wonderful.

All things considered, not a terrible balance sheet. Not ideal, but not the worst.

He may not have felt great, but he did feel safe. He sat up. A mistake, his body let him know. But, it confirmed when his head peeked out of his little hide that he was in a swell of grasslands. The dim starlight didn’t illuminate much, but it was enough to sculpt hills of roiling fields far into the horizon.

The boy lay back and laid his arm across his forehead. A new sensation swelled in him: loneliness.

Yes, he could recall the distinct emptiness of being distant— one hidden from the world, though he longed for more.

A thin stream of a tear ran down the side of his face and into his ear. The cold wet tickled the tiny hairs and the sensation betrayed his sadness.

How strange, the boy thought, that something born of unhappiness can trigger the tiny joy of a tickle. Like a hug given in support, small kindness in the face of bitterness was a human remedy for so many things.

It made him smile, the little happiness. And with that thought, his mind relaxed and he drifted away to sleep.

In that timeless state, the boy dreamed. Of warmth and love and laughter. Hearths and food and small joys the absence of which had brought the tickling tear.

Eons passed before he opened his eyes again. Not blurry now. He could see the crisp sharp infinity of the night sky with precision. His head no longer ached and he felt tired, but rested.

The boy studied the stars for long minutes, enjoying how the night winds made the light bounce and twinkle in the atmosphere. They looked like a blanket of diamonds across the sky.

“Oh, stars,” the boy whispered into the wind “why does life sometimes leave us abandoned when we need companions but other times surrounded when all we wish is to be alone?”

Expecting the answer to be a hush and rustle of grass, he closed his eyes and inhaled to listen and decode what the wind whispered back.

When he heard a low grumbling voice, his eyes shot open.

“Life is ambivalent to your circumstance.” The growl said. “Everyone wants someone to blame, but most things just are.”

The boy looked around a little desperate. He thought he was all alone.

“Wh-who... who's there?” He stuttered, a little frightened.

It took a moment before the voice spoke again. The boy began to wonder if he had imagined it.

“Raise your eyes and you will see me.” The voice directed.

He was confused as he looked up and saw only the sky. Another moment and nothing. He leaned back on his elbow.

“Where?” He asked. “Are you invisible?”

“Many things are seen when one is patient.” The voice hummed.

The boy lay back again and looked at the sky for many minutes before he saw it. The star Aldebaran moved ever so slightly toward him and twinkled a little brighter.

He pointed excitedly. “Is that you?”

“Aaaaahhhh, good, good. You know how to see. To be patient. To wait is not a gift most hold.” The voice now had a mouth. The boy could see the shimmer of something shifting in the sky.

“Give me a moment, I will come to you.” It was warm and kind sounding.

Curious, the boy asked, “Are you a star?”

“Hmmmm—some would say I am a star, others a group. A few have called me a god.” The voice said this thoughtfully, as if seeking a way to explain. “The people I used to watch who lived where you rest tonight called me Tayamni Pa'. But not one has called me that in a long, long time. You, may call me Tayamni, or Tay if you prefer.”

As the boy watched, he could see now a dark mass warping with starlight. As it got closer and larger, he could begin to make out the faint edges of the shape. It looked like a large black—buffalo. Its eyes glowed a pale blue light and the tips of his horns, tail and hooves all twinkled like the stars.

“I am no god, little boy,” now the shape, Tayamni, spoke from a dark mouth. “I am just he-who-waits-and-watches. I observe the universe and man, recording for all time what I see. My friends, the other celestial creatures, that is our task.”

As the great beast descended to the ground, its form solidified and its size, still massive against the boy’s diminutive frame, shrunk to approximately what the boy imagined a buffalo would be. The ground shook ever so slightly as the creature's full weight alighted. Tayamni was no longer some ethereal sky monster, he was real flesh and blood, though its eyes, horns and hooves still had that starlight quality.

“Did you watch me?” The boy asked timidly. “I woke up here and I can't remember anything. Just that I am tired and lonely.”

“Why yes,” Tayamni answered. “That is why I reached out to you. I could feel the ache in your heart and see the panic in your little blue eyes when you peeked above the grasses.”

“Please, Tayamni,” the boy was eager now, leaning forward on his knees before the great buffalo. “Can you share anything? Maybe it will help me remember.”

The giant, settled into a relaxed pose, lying on the ground, forelegs crossed in front of it, like a schoolmaster about to instruct a pupil.

“You have made this journey before.” He began, “Many times. Your fall here is not a punishment or accident, but a result of having outgrown something you share. A connection whose form cannot contain your want and desire. As with any container, when full, it overflows. essentially, your love overflowed the universe and you are washed away as a result. Carried by some etheric tempest.”

The boy looked confused.

“This was no act of aggression, my young friend.” Tayamni assured him. “There is no anger involved. You were released by love. Some lights grow too bright to hold in the palm, so they return to the sky.”

“But—” the boy began “I am not in the sky. Right? I am here, so why didn't I return as you were?”

The old bull leaned his enormous head toward the Boy, cocked it slightly so one eye drew close, it was the size of a saucer. “THAT, is the question you always ask! I cannot say except to presume it is your desire. Your want for this love is so great, you are unwilling to leave it behind and ascend to your place in the heavens. If you look there in the night sky, you can see a tiny blank spot where you belong.”

The astral animal gestured to the northern sky with his sparkling hoof.

“Do I find that which I seek? This great thing I cannot deny?” the boy was calm, seeking clarity.

“Perhaps. You always leave seeking. And I can only assume at some level, you find your goal, but always you fall here, in the cricket grasses. They’re already singing of your return. You’re big news in the lives of little insects.” The boy was sure he saw Tayamni smiling and wink as he said this. They could not speak of the boy's journey, but would always sing what they knew.

“Tonight, you will rest and sleep through tomorrow. Starlight travels best in the dark and dawn grows closer even now.” he said as the eastern horizon bloomed the faintest of magentas against the inky indigo sky.

“The rest of your journey will wait for you. The destination always will. This much, I do know.”

“You know that which I seek?” again the boy piqued.

“No, no, my little star—” the buffalo shook its head. “But I've watched planets orbit stars for millennia and comets who can never quite pull away from the pull at their hearts. When true love is struck, there is no stopping it. You will burn out the universe in timeless pursuit of your goal.”

The boy grew suddenly very sleepy as the sky glowed to a bright yellow and felt a great urge to sleep.

Standing to yawn and stretch before leaning his weight against the coarse fur of the buffalo's head he said, “Oh, my—I am suddenly in desperate need of rest.”

“I know, starlight.” the warmth of the animals voice was very soothing to the little boy, making him sleepier still. “Come, rest in my heart. I will protect you until the daystar grows too weary herself and returns the night to us.

At this invitation, Tayamni's chest glowed pale blue and shimmered to translucence. The boy stumbled next to the bull feeling the course fur with his hand and reaching the glowing heart lay down inside the buffalo. The viscous blue light was like a comforting hug from a mother and in short order, the boy was fast asleep. As soon as he was, Tayamni stood and shook his mane at the rising sun.

“Hello, old girl!” He said as he began to trot eastward. Rumbling into a gallop, the ground shook and the crickets leaped away as the big beast transformed back into his celestial form and glided away into the brightening morning sky. Within moments, it was no longer distinguishable from the rest of the fading night sky.

Day had begun.

The boy woke after a timeless sleep, feeling energetic and alive. The sky was growing dark and the first stars were beginning to emerge.

The low rumble of Tayamni's voice rolled across the grassy plain. “Safe journey, little prince. We will watch your journey and guide you where we can.”

The boy stood erect, face to the sky, an arm extended in a waving salute. “Thank you! Tayamni! Do you think I can find her?”

“I have felt your heart many times, my little light.” The voice carried the feeling of love and pride the bull had for the boy. “It is pure and true. And a true love like yours will always succeed, because you will never stop.”

High above the stars shimmered—kind and watchful, and a tear streaked back across the boy's cheek and tickled his ear, making him smile. So he found the north star, for which he had a strong feeling of kinship, turned right and took his first steps. He was certain of one thing. It was not the first time, but possibly, this would be the last.

And the little audience of insects watched as the boy vanished over the hill. As he drew away they began their song again. Crickets could not speak of his journey—but they remembered. And they sang of it forever.

#story #adventure #legend #journal #confession #100daystooffset #writing

orig: 2025-08-06 23:45:00