When you kill someone, you don't just kill who they were, you kill a little bit of everyone who knew them.

This quote hit me like a freight train—not just because it’s true, but because I lived it.

I am watching a documentary about Brad Bird. He directed The Incredibles, Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol, Ratatouille, and one of the greatest films ever made: The Iron Giant.

If you haven't seen the film, or read the source material, The Iron Man by Ted Hughes, what are you doing wasting your time here? Go read the source and then watch the film. It's a soul-rending story about being the best you can be, not what everyone expects you to be. Not even what you are SUPPOSED to be.

At least enjoy this great documentary. Maybe I'm biased as an animator, but it's terrific.

The Giant's Dream – Making of the Iron Giant

In an interview, Brad Bird says the above about killing someone. His sister had been murdered by her husband and it unmoored Bird. He started asking the question, 'what if a gun had a soul'. Then when presented with the Iron Giant project he pitched shifting from the Pete Townshend rock-opera concept to the more human-scale and heart-tale that we got.

His comment about killing a little bit of everyone the person knows ripped my heart open.

Brad Bird’s quote hit me like a freight train—because I lived it. My sister almost died at the hands of her husband nine years ago this month.

The Brother I was

I have two little sisters. One a year younger (Marie) and a second 3 years my junior (Capri). I was never the kind of brother I think a brother should be. We argued and fought a lot. Mostly Marie and I. Capri, as the youngest, somehow managed to avoid my wrath. But for some reason, Marie and I were always at odds.

I think it was her inability to just stop instead of escalating. I'm not sure which of my parents that behavior comes from. I guess... mom? I don't really think of either of my parents as escalators, but who knows what we saw and experienced when they were still figuring out how to be adults.

I do know Marie's very vocal nature frequently grated on my nerves. And between the alcoholism at home and my parent's work schedule (mom worked nights and dad worked days), it seemed like while we had parents around, we often just had to exist on our own. I think I saw myself as some kind of disciplinarian, which I was clearly not qualified to do. I just yelled and screamed and hit like I saw my parents and aunts and uncles do.

Maybe Capri just stayed quiet and low to avoid the pummeling she could see inflicted on her big sister. But before you consider me a Machiavellian villain, Marie was no light weight. If she got one thing from our youth, it was how to take a hit and how to dish one out.

I wish she hadn't learned that lesson.

Between the home life our parents had in those early days, my own violent contributions and a wicked assault by an uncle that we all feared and loathed, Marie developed a taste for abusive men.

Both of my sisters did.

In the youngest, this manifested in an inability to maintain a consistent relationship. She has been married 5 times, twice to the same man. At 50, she is currently single and will likely stay that way.

Marie, the middle sister, first married a hellion of a jerk who was verbally abusive and manipulative. She had a large family with him and over time, he manipulated her and the courts to cut her out of her own children's lives entirely.

I was out of her life for a number of years because of her destructive behavior, so I am not privy to exactly what happened. It is possible that he was completely justified in the devastating act of cutting a mother off from contact with her four children. But, knowing the man, I think it was her childhood that allowed him to do that.

Marie had been mistreated as a child and though she could give as good as she got, her self-worth probably took a huge hit when she had to go to court and listen to her husband lie and cheat to paint her as a wicked mother.

In hindsight, I wish I hadn't cut her out of my life. She likely felt alone and abandoned during those years.

Because she was.

My parents were there, but where was her big brother? Aren't they supposed to defend their siblings?

What the hell, Keeper?

What would you do if you were a mother of 4, having lost a 5th in the first weeks after birth and your whole life has it's rug pulled out from underneath you?

Well, Marie fought it with drugs, alcohol and education. Always a fan of drink, she turned her habit up to eleven trying to hide from the demons of loss and then used drugs to function as a human being during those numb states. This was important while she took her RN degree and went back to become a Nurse Practitioner.

Her NP would give her a new, well-paid life that she practiced on the road working one temp gig after another.

She traveled the country three months at a time. A huge portion of her income went to her ex-husband to care for her children. A two edged sword for many.

She never spoke to me about how she felt about it. But I'm sure she was of two minds.

Who of us wouldn't be?

On one hand, you can provide your children with a more comfortable life, on the other, you're trusting a scoundrel to do that.

With lots of money, lots of time and easy access to drugs, she became a target for the kind of man Gary Michael was.

A worm of a human who gambled and drugged his way to a disability. He was looking for someone to take care of him when he met Marie.

I remember her coming to see me before she married him and I had little input for her. We had been estranged for more than 20 years at that point and I, full of myself and my own righteousness, couldn't be bothered with her car-wreck of a life.

In hindsight, I can't help but think that if I had taken a single hour and listened to her story—offered her some stable advice, things might have turned out differently.

But I didn't.

I can still see her standing next to the big tree in my front yard, stamping out a cigarette. Trying to play it cool that I didn't really want to talk to her. What a pathetic fail.

She would go on to marry Gary Michael and disappear from our lives altogether. Prior to this, she was in semi-regular contact with my parents and Capri (the youngest) but now even they lost track of her.


We would learn later that Gary Michael would keep her tied up in casinos gambling and drugging every minute that she didn't have to be at work. She was his meal ticket and funder for his life-long gambling addiction.

What Happened to Marie

I don't know what happened that May 2016. She maybe got tired of his constant leaching, insistence on her severing all contact with her family or maybe it was just a fight that got out of hand.

I'm guessing.

What I do know is that the morning of May 6, 2016 a 911 call went out stating that a man had found his wife unresponsive in their bathroom.

He thought she was dead.

First responders would come and find that she was unresponsive, but not dead. They rushed her to the hospital where they put her on life support. She had suffered a hypoxic brain injury that left her comatose.

That means her brain was deprived of oxygen for a long enough period of time that her body was in the process of shutting down.

She was dying.

The Fight for Her Life

Had Gary Michael waited another half hour, she would have expired.

Frankly, that might have been a blessing.

Marie would lie comatose for most of a month. It was a terrible thing to see. A vital and robust woman who we had only ever know to be bigger and louder than almost all of us was suddenly reduced to a flaccid bag of mostly water.

Gary Michael, a former nurse himself who lost his license for stealing drugs from work, knew the terminology to put the medical staff at ease and dissuade any question of foul play.


According to him, they had been drinking the night before and that Marie had too much. He went to bed and found her in her state. He was surprised and heartbroken. But, he didn't count on the determination of Marie's will to live or her mother once she was involved.

A highly experienced nurse herself, a few weeks into my sister's 'recovery' and once the shock of the event began to recede, my mother started asking questions. The first thing of concern to her were the bruises all over my sister's back and shoulders. When she asked the medical staff, they said her husband told them she had fallen. When Marie's mom asked Gary Michael, he evaded and said he didn't know. After that conversation, he avoided being at the hospital any time my parents, my youngest sister, or I were at the hospital. Which was almost always.

Marie was in ICU in a hospital three hours from home, but my parents just rented a short term hotel and lived there for a month.

My wife and I traveled down for a half a day at a time.

I remember seeing my sister's husband sitting in his car once when we arrived. When I mentioned this to my mother, she pointed out that she thought he was avoiding them. Waiting for his wife’s family to leave so he could come in and try to control the narrative.

After a month, the decision had to be made to terminate life support or let her exist in perpetuity at the whim of a machine. I forget why, but the decision fell to my mother. I think Gary Michael had begun to extricate himself from the situation at that point and staff deferred to my sister's family to make her health decisions.

So, my parents decided to 'pull the plug'. My mom explains that as a nurse, she knows there is no quality of life living on machines and if you've got not brain function, you are as good as dead anyway.

We all agreed with this thinking. We could still recall the Terri Schiavo debacle in Florida and none of us wanted to see Marie end up like her.

But, my younger sister was as tough at death's door as she had been in life. She wouldn't die.

After a week, she started to show signs of consciousness. Little things like facial expressions when she would hear the voice of my parents, Capri, my wife, or me.

That last one was pretty touching. I thought she'd spent her life not caring much for me. But there was something in there. I would read to her from the Bible and sometimes I would find a tear streaming down what I thought was an unconscious face.

As she started to develop more and more awareness, my mother noticed Marie had a very strong resistive reaction to any moves made toward or around her face and head. She interpreted this as a defensive reaction.

My mother became convinced that Gary Michael didn't just find my sister, but that he had done something to her. She connected the dots of the bruises on her back and can elucidate how you can wrap a large town or sheet around a person's face to restrict airflow.

To get enough pressure to cut off breathing you would need to knot them in such a way that would leave large bruises on the upper back of the person.

When the police were called, almost six weeks had passed from the inciting incident and evidence of foul play was circumstantial at best. Detectives did find that after Gary Michael moved out of the temporary apartment they had rented while she was on assignment there, the landlord had to hire contractors to rebuild the bathroom. The sheetrock had been broken, mirror smashed, sink broken and the door jarred from its hinges.

When asked about this, Gary Michael explained that they had locked the dogs in the bathroom and left for the day and they had torn it up.

They were two Pomeranians.

I don't really understand why this didn't go anywhere. It could be I am biased and so the 'evidence' adds up to attempted murder. But the police didn't see it that way. It could be we are entirely wrong. That the story my sister's husband of 6 months is true. That she was a drunk and an addict who just went too far.

But, my gut says no. My feeling is that Gary Michael is a dangerous actor. My interactions with him in the year or so after this happened always felt off. He lied about strange things that didn't require lies. He always wanted something and when it became clear we all thought he was responsible, he became combative and angry at the idea.

I can understand not wanting to be best friends with someone who suggests you might be a murderer. But anger and deception is the wrong approach if you are trying to convince a family of something other than what they think.

Months would go by with Gary Michael doing everything he could to close all interested parties out of Marie's life. It was atrocious. My parent's had to fight tooth and nail for any scrap of information or thing that belonged to my sister. Finally threatening legal action if Gary Michael did not acquiesce.

Early into the time when she came home, there was a real effort on my sister's husband's part to try to get physical possession of her. My mother thinks this was an attempt to ensure he could get access to her social security.

And true to form, at some point, she discovered he was at the social security office attempting to file that paperwork. But an astute employee asked too many questions and he evaporated like had been doing with anyone who asked to many questions about my sister's condition.

Her Life Now

Her condition, specifically, was that the hypoxia left her brain damaged. She has no short term memory and her long-term memories are vague and inconsistent. She also has very limited motor control of her hands in addition to her peripheral vision being impacted.

If you've seen 50 First Dates with Drew Barrymore... it's like that but not cute or sweet at all. She doesn't relive the same day over and over. But she will watch the same film for 6-8 weeks at a time before she realizes she's seen it already. Right now she's on her 700th viewing of Dirty Dancing with Patrick Swayze.

In the first year she was home she cried constantly and couldn't form words. She walked all the time. If she was awake, she just paced up and down my parents very long hallway or walked around the yard inside the fence.

A few times she got out and it was a panic. I found her in the middle of the road a few miles away once. She had no way to tell anyone who she was or where she was from. She didn't know her own name.

She could not (and still can't) feed herself, drink without assistance or use the toilet without an attendant.

It is entirely believable that Gary Michael could have filed for her payments, then driven her to the middle of a desert and simply dropped her off 20 miles from people. She would have died from exposure in just a day or two.

I am glad my sister has found some kind of peace. She doesn't cry constantly any more and at times seems actually happy. She has forgotten that she has 4 children and lost one. She has forgotten that she was married to not one but two different assholes. Those are small blessings.

Forgiveness & Guilt

Recently I read an article on forgiveness. It made a good point, that when we forgive people we aren't condoning their actions, we are giving our selves a gift. I forgave Gary Michael many years ago and so have my parents.

It doesn't make the pain of seeing Maire in her state any easier, but at least we don't have to carry the weigh of hating a scum of a man.

I even offered to study the Bible with him. He said thanks but no thanks. I'm not big enough or mature enough to tell you that it didn't please me that he refused. It will be punishment enough to live with being who he is and when that day comes to face judgement for what he did (allegedly) to my little sister... well, I'll let God sort that out while I'm busy living the best life that I can.

My parents have been caring for Marie full time for 10 years now. They won't be able to do so for much longer. Maybe they have five years of energy left in them. But I can see the toll it is taking. They are counting on God's Kingdom to resolve this and if it doesn't come soon, it will fall to me and my youngest sister.

We do not have the capacity to provide the care my parents do. Perhaps the love, but simply not the physical ability. That means some kind of facility. I doubt Marie will care, she doesn't understand a lot (though she will tell you she knows her brain isn't working right). But it will destroy mom and dad to see strangers muddle at caring for her. If I am honest, it would be better for everyone for professionals to do the job.

The only reason they can care for her now is that my mother's professional life was as a nurse caring for the mentally disabled. But her emotional connection I think has prevented her from making some tough decisions at times.

For instance, for a time, my sister was behaving like a cat. She would go to my father and ask to be fed and he would acquiesce, then she would go to my mother and do the same. They didn't figure this out until she had put on about 70 lbs.!

Reader, I can't tell you how heavy this is on my mind and heart. I typically shut it out and try not to confront it emotionally. My sister-in-laws death 18 months ago keeps it in my frontal cortex night and day though. And when I read or hear something like Bird's comments it just rips me wide open.

I don't talk about this in depth with anyone. It might be good to, but I can't help thinking people don't want to listen to my problems when they have enough of their own. If you stuck around long enough to read this... well, I love you for learning a little bit more about me than you probably ever wanted to know.

The Brother I am Become

I know what happened to Marie isn't my fault. It's just unforeseen circumstance. But as I have alluded to, part of me will probably never forget that I wasn't the kind of brother I wish I had been. The protector, the supporter, the lover.

I have spent my life trying to make up for that, running from that boy I was and doing my best not to become the kind of man I fear any woman would dread. I have had some success. But the weight of that burden is incredible. To hate yourself so much that you try to be the kind of person you can love.

Friends confirm I have achieved enough of a measure of lovability to call myself a success, but those demons still lurk deep inside.

Like that iron giant, it's hard to override your programming.

It is true, that to kill someone is to kill a little of all who knew them. But there are extensions of that truth that get into to even how we treat one another. When we are angry, anger doesn't just impact the target. It splashes into the life of everyone they know. Maybe that is why the Bible promotes the idea of being wrathful but not acting (do not sin).

One day, we won't have violent actors. That is a promise God's word makes, that the wicked will be no more. Then we'll see the promised lion and lamb cohabitation. If men like Gary Michael can turn around and find a place there, I am at peace with that. Jehovah knows our hearts better than we do and that isn't a concern of mine.

I am far more interested in seeing my poor little sister made whole again. To see her run and laugh and cry like she should have when she was a child and not born of fear and anger.

Then, maybe, if I play my cards right, I'll get the chance to be that brother that I've read about in books and dreamed of becoming. Until then, I'll try to be as successful as I can by bettering people’s lives as often as possible.

And doing as little damage as I can along the way.

Some days are more successful than others.

Keeper

The Brother I Was What Happened to Marie The Fight for Her Life Her Life Now Forgiveness & Guilt The Brother I am Become

#essay #memoir #littlesister #irongiant #confession #alcoholic

2025-05-07 00:00:01

“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

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.

“To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.”
 — Thomas Campbell

You may recall my forlorn farewell to an old friend from a few days ago. DE lived in Dust Meridian for nearly 20 years. Before that, it was two decades in the South Pacific and another ten in Southern California. He’s a mature man in his mid-sixties, so it came as a surprise when he pulled up stakes, sold both of his homes, and headed to the other side of the country.

He says it’s for his wife’s health. The allergies here in Dust are brutal for many. On top of that, years ago, she suffered a stroke that left her speaking with what sounds like an Icelandic accent. Her heritage and native tongue are Peruvian. She went from sounding like a southern girl to something ethereal and ancient—almost elvish. Like someone installed an Old Norse filter on her voice.

I thought she was faking it at first, but it’s a real thing. Foreign Accent Syndrome. Rare, but real. The result of a traumatic brain injury that causes someone to suddenly start speaking with an accent from a region they’ve never even visited.

In her case, it even shows up in her writing. She spells things phonetically now, based on how she hears herself speak. It’s charming, honestly. But also a constant reminder of how fragile the brain is. That same stroke could’ve left her unable to communicate at all. That would’ve been a terror.

My own sister suffered a hypoxic brain injury—lost her short-term memory, and now struggles even with simple tasks. She’s aware of her limitations, which might be the cruelest part. It occasionally lends itself to moments of levity, but mostly, it’s just tragic.

As for DE, I don’t doubt his reasons—physical or mental. His wife or his own. From experience, I believe the lifestyle and mentality here in Dust Meridian takes a tole on anyone with sufficiently curious or robust intellect.

That sounds harsh. Like dummies thrive here. Apologies—I calls ’em like I sees ’em. There are many fine minds here, many dear souls. But there are also plenty of fantastically difficult situations. My own family not excluded.

So no, I don’t blame DE for the move. It’s exciting. I’m a little jealous, if I’m honest. Not that I’d pack up three trucks and drive 1,500 miles to West Potato—but the idea of a fresh start, a new landscape, is tempting. Then again, he’s lived in three other vastly different places. Why not make it four? He’s tapped all four compass points while he still can.

My brother-in-law, RLW, volunteered to be part of the cross-country convoy, hauling DE’s belongings to his new home. That’s significant because RLW is the same man who buried his wife—my wife’s sister—just sixty-nine days ago. A partner of 45 years, gone in an instant. Snuffed out like a candle in the rain.

When talk of the trip started, RLW had big plans. He’d trailer his motorcycle behind one of DE’s work trucks, help with the move, then spend a few days exploring West Potato. From there, he’d kit out the bike and ride west—through the Northwest, down to the Pacific. He talked of revisiting places he and his wife had seen, and discovering new ones. He didn’t say it aloud, but I suspect he meant to scatter some ashes along the way.

But as time wore on, the plans shrank. Late spring snow made the northern routes dicey. Then he nixed the coast. West Potato lies just beyond the Continental Divide, and soon enough, he cut out any idea of leaving the mountains at all. By the time he left two days ago, the month-long journey had been trimmed to a week.

A few hours ago, he texted that he’ll be back in Dust Meridian tomorrow night. Yep. Thirty days of freedom and healing, whittled down to just four.

There and back. Turn and burn.

His son, SLBY—the boy (a man in his thirties, forgive an aging Wolf)—tells me he thinks his dad just misses home. The quiet of the road was heavier than expected. That makes sense. My nephew wants his dad to get out and see new places, to build memories without her. A critical step in healing.

When I speak to RLW, he says it’s his son and grandson who are nudging him to come back. He can 'hear it in his voice' that if he was back, they would all be happier. Home is big and lonely and his son misses his family. Doesn't like being without his core. His people. His comfort zone.

Essentially, they are both arguing the other wants to be together again. They tell me what the other wants. But really, they're telling me what they themselves long for.

SLBY the boy has told me more than once this last few weeks that he can’t stand being alone. He’d grown used to the bustle—his wife, his son, his parents, all under one roof. They live in a mobile home, so sharing space really means sharing.

Constantly.

With his mom gone, dad out of town, wife at the chiropractor, and the boy at school, SLBY finds himself alone on a rock hurtling through space at sixty-seven thousand miles per hour. Working from home means his only company is the blinking cursor on a plastic display.

He’s admitted, with surprising emotional honesty, that he cries often. This from a man who, just a few years ago, was all whiskey, beer, and bravado. Guns and guts. Today, the bottles are dusty and the guns live in a safe—a large one, granted—but they’re just objects now.

SLBY has become the kind of man who can acknowledge his pain and grow through it. A shock, honestly. But a welcome one.

His father, RLW, has also cracked open in ways I didn’t expect. Always the quiet, stoic one—he now speaks freely about how much his wife meant to him. That she was his light. His purpose.

And being retired is salt on the wound. 10 years ago, he would at least have a job he had to contend with, coworkers and daily business to get back to. But now? His only obligations are those which he chooses. A full plate with his spiritual family, but that can be shelved much longer than it should be. Leaving him in self-inflicted isolation.

Since her passing, he sleeps maybe four hours a night. He cries often. I imagine these moments are private—the kind where your ears roar, your eyes burn, and you fight to contain the flood so others don’t have to feel it too.

Every time we’ve spoken since he hit the road, he’s mentioned that he can’t stop crying. Triggers are everywhere. A song. A vista in silence where she would have commented or asked to pull off and take a picture. The absence of agitation at his driving (the way he jerks the wheel in little increments). No one stuffing the door panel with trash.

But mostly—silence.

An imagination haunted by 16,425 sunrises and sunsets together... and all that is in between—the subtle golden rhythms of a life shared. Every small moment now echoing in absence.

My God, how do you move on from that?

Patience.

Patience and tears. And prayer that God will intervene and part that ocean like he did for Moses.

I told him as much. “It’s good you’re blind with tears. You probably need to really cut loose—and that’s hard to do with a seven-year-old always around, or your son who’s dealing with his own grief. I hope this trip gives you some catharsis. That it helps you begin to heal in earnest.”

Grief is the price we pay for love. The greater the love, the higher the cost.

Three thousand miles in four days. And tears, door to door.

Luke 22:1-6 Now the Festival of the Unleavened Bread, which is called Passover, was getting near. And the chief priests and the scribes were looking for an effective way to get rid of him, because they were afraid of the people. Then Satan entered into Judas, the one called Is·carʹi·ot, who was numbered among the Twelve, and he went off and talked with the chief priests and temple captains about how to betray him to them. They were delighted at this and agreed to give him silver money. So he consented and began looking for a good opportunity to betray him to them without a crowd around.

Mark 14:1,2 Now the Passover and the Festival of Unleavened Bread was two days later. And the chief priests and the scribes were looking for a way to seize him by cunning and kill him; for they were saying: “Not at the festival; perhaps there might be an uproar of the people.”

Mark 14:10,11 And Judas Is·carʹi·ot, one of the Twelve, went off to the chief priests in order to betray him to them. When they heard it, they were delighted and promised to give him silver money. So he began seeking an opportunity to betray him.

#essay #travel #memoir #loss #death #biblereading #100DaysToOffload #Writing

2025-04-11 09:35:00

Art is not for commodity. It is for passion.

Someone set the sky on fire.
Just now—
in those grey-dark moments
before the day begins,
a match was struck,
a tiny ember glowing.

In minutes it flared
into a red-hot blaze,
burning through
the eastern clouds.

Pastels spread,
then yellow,
orange,
red,
indigo,
violet—
a spectrum spilling wide.

No gavel will ever fall
on this masterpiece.
The artist sketched it in a breath,
then cast it into being,
a gift to his
greater creation.

—

#essay #memoir #journal #100daystooffset #writing #poetry #