The Biwa Priest

The road to Itanaba is a busy one leading up to the days of its famed Thunder Drums festival. Roadside tea shops overflow with travelers filled with anticipation, the air ignited with energy and a general feeling of camaraderie. Among these pilgrims was a nameless biwa priest, who took his food off by himself into the woods, as if he were in solitary pain. Then he played himself a song in stringed sympathy, the trees and insects his audience. By the time he returned to the tea shop, there was a commotion.

Kurobe, the ronin samurai who had terrorized the Itanaba village since he arrived three years ago, was demanding tribute from the tea shop owner, an elderly woman who had no choice but to comply. The priest made his way through the onlookers to stand front and center so that he could eye Kurobe up close. Kurobe was stung by the priestly stare.

"What do you look at, priest? Robes or no robes, I will strike you down!"

The shop woman returned from the back, sobbing, handing over what meager coins she had. Her deference was abject and complete as the priest stood witnessing before the heavens above. Kurobe was infuriated.

"I thought I told you to be gone!" he railed as he pocketed the money uneasily, as if he were standing on coals. No one ever stood up to Kurobe, who could not be defeated with a sword. But the priest had no sword. "Now avert your eyes or you will never see out them again!" A raging, trembling hand grabbed his sword handle, ready to draw and slice.

"I do not wish to kill," replied the priest in all sincerity, teetering on the edge of despair at the prospect of having to do so.

"Kill? Kill who? You have no sword or weapon. Is your biwa so lethal?" A bemused Kurobe walked around the priest in studied observance. "No, you have nothing. Do you have any last words, priest? Been a long time since I had such an enjoyable kill."

"What's enjoyable about killing yourself? Do you not see the sun above which records every deed? Will you strike it down too?"

Kurobe sensed a strength in the man, a soul who walked his own path. Each man is alone in the world, answering to no one at the end of the day. Like every terrorist, Kurobe's campaign was a cry for unanswered love. With the priest he felt a connection, of someone who could give him the understanding he craved. But the reason the terrorist was driven to instill fear was to express the very fear he felt victimized by. The priest knew this.

Kurobe changed his stance, unable to sever the connection he needed. "Very well, priest. The next cloudy day you will die." Kurobe turned his back rather pleased with his pithy response.

"Wait!" demanded the priest. "What is it you fear in the sun?"

A furious Kurobe spun around. "I fear nothing!"

"Do you not fear to give a sobbing old woman her money back? Are you so weak?"

"I take what is mine! Why should I care about her? Who cares about my heart in the still of the night? It's every person for himself in this life."

"I am sorry for your loneliness. Its wounds I too suffer in daily torment. I play my biwa in healing ritual. Shall I play for you?"

"I have no need!" waved off Kurobe who stormed back to the village suddenly embarrassed.

The witnessing crowd gasped at the priest, assuring him he was lucky to be alive.

"Who said I'm alive?" he rebuked. "Listen not to my priestly musings."

***

A nameless wanderer of the land, the priest took pleasure in the simple things of life: a good meal, the smells of early Spring, listening to the rain while visiting a temple. These were his final refuge in a destroyed life. A former high-ranking samurai, he betrayed his liege-lord in a fit of jealousy over his lord's wife. His desires exposed to the clan, he was given the choice of an honorable death or a dishonorable priesthood. His cage of guilt crushed him with every dawn; a man proven untrustworthy. Fools who approach the priest as a godly man were sorely mistaken, he wryly observed.

"Everything is the opposite of what it seems." Only a loser needs be called a winner.

He was a poor biwa player but dedicated. "If only I had the talent..." Then maybe he'd be safe from his unmet needs, his instrument friend enough. But then again, he'd been forced to realize: he who lives by the biwa dies by the biwa - just as Kurobe lived by his sword. Though not knowing what shape or form, he knew another encounter was imminent, as if the script had already been written. No doubt Kurobe was a in a bar somewhere downing sake fast as he could, licking his wounds trying to clear his head of the demon's pitchforks of inadequacy the priest had unleashed. Otsuna's face, however, was a problem he could never solve with sake or sword. Kurobe's one ambition in life was to reduce every situation to one he could resolve with a blade.

"That stupid priest. There's something wrong about him."

The idea his life - and every life - was nothing more than a struggle for love and that no other endeavor has meaning or purpose was the idea he most wanted to slay. The fact the priest had taken up that point of view bothered him greatly. Yet even Kurobe knew killing the priest would not save him from his torment. No, he must prove his sordid soul too could have love and with that eliminate the priest's pestilence. Tonight would be the night he'd have Otsuna's love - even if he had to take it. A fool no more he'd be - he just needed more sake first.

The priest knew he'd set off a chain reaction. He figured by that evening the time bomb that was Kurobe would tragically explode. That's when the priest knew he'd have to pay for his sins [deliberately ambiguous].

***

The Itabana village at night during festival time is a magical place. With the influx of outsiders the villagers were able to shrug off the ever-looming threat of Kurobe and his band of thugs and connect to the ancient traditions that had passed down for centuries through civil war and famine, an historic string binding them and bringing them together. There was no escaping the sounds of the thunder drums, a beating heart for miles around. Their soundtrack provided a communal backdrop for the activities lighted by the excited glow of lanterns lining the edges of eaves as only happens during the festival. It was impossible not to feel special.

A few revelers begged the priest to join in with his biwa but he was on a mission. He knew Kurobe's pain and humiliation firsthand. And though loathe to be connected to Kurobe, the universe had made its decision. Out of sync with the surrounding activities, he stepped slowly and deliberately, keeping an eye out for a doubtless angry beast on the prowl. The priest would be the last person the beast wanted to see - it wanted no witnesses to its seething crime. The priest knew he must be like water to match the level of the beast's focus.

Having found the bar where Kurobe had been drinking, the priest asked of the madman's whereabouts. The owner said he did not know ("I'm just glad he's gone.") but had heard Otsuna's name mumbled on the way out. She lived south of the village. To the surprise of everyone, Kurobe had actually been careful to court her in a legitimate way, as if her stamp of approval would legitimize his life. Yet the priest found the beast exactly as was feared.

Kurobe's eyes were of another world, possessed by a demonic will. "She refused me! She refused me again!" he explained to the approaching priest. "No more! Tonight's she's mine." Otsuna's limp body was in the grasp of his right arm, clinging to his body.

"Kurobe!" barked the priest. "Did you kill her!"

"Not yet. But she's mine tonight!" His voice spoke to the priest but his eyes were still not present, trapped in an inner nightmare. The priest knew he must act quickly.

"Kurobe! If you must kill someone, kill me!" The eyes did not hear him. "Listen! You cannot kill her. It's me you should kill."

The eyes half-heard, their voice that of a curious parent to a child. "Kill you? Why kill you."

"For you to face yourself! I said I did not want to have to kill you but you've left me no choice."

"No." Kurobe's eyes were gaining consciousness. "You can't kill me."

"You don't need to understand it for it to happen. Leave, Kurobe, before it's too late!"

The priest had gained the eyes' full attention. They dropped Otsuna, stalking their way towards the holy man, sword in hand. With a single stroke, the priest's biwa was sliced in two. "Now I kill you," the beast vowed with eyes looking from its forehead.

"Is that what you want? To expose yourself like that? Then we'll know who it is you think you are - but are not!"

Kurobe hesitated.

***

CODA: No one is certain of the outcome of Kurobe and the priest, as neither they nor Otsuna were ever seen again in the village. One rumor had that a silent killer of priests roamed the countryside in a ceaseless quest for vengeance. Another had it the priest saved Kurobe's soul that night ("I am the devil!" "We are angels!"), marrying the couple in a runaway ceremony. The rest were somewhere between homicide and suicide. In Itanaba, it was only after Kurobe had left that they sensed his previous loneliness.

Mein Böse Benign!

"Oh, those wacky Nazis! What they up to now, Frans?"

"Oh, Hans, that General Göring, he's a clever cookie, stealing all the best paintings in Europe for himself."

"He's so funny! Sounds like something my stupid friend from high school would do, always taking last piece of pie."

"And Himmler, maniacally keeping all the unwanted people in their place. He's so dedicated!"

"You know, there's a couple of things I disagree with him about but overall he's doing a good job far as I can tell."

"And everyone's hero, Herr Hitler, is at it again, foaming at the mouth in his speeches and inciting hysteria wherever he goes."

"He's just like a crazy uncle invited over for dinner. He sure does stir the pot!"

"So many people badmouthing Der Fuhrer. Some people just want to complain."

"Ja, ja, it's the radicals that ruin it for everyone. Kill all the Jews. Kill none of the Jews. Truth is somewhere in the middle, like always."

"Thank you for your moderation! I like it best when we all get along."

Don't be judgmental, support your local Nazi!

"We must be reasonable and confine ourselves to sports talk. We're just little people. Who are we to have opinions - except for latest soccer strategy, then we get tough!"

"Precisely! Supporting our government is a good thing. Let's keep silent any major criticism. The approval of the good people out there must never be lost!"

"Exactly! Stay in good stead, we shall. That's how you know you're on the right path."

"Of course, we never say things can't be better. But only a fool expects perfection."

"Ja, those concentration camps aren't perfect but that doesn't mean they won't be made better! One must keep an open mind."

"It's the responsible thing to do. It used to be OK to have so many Jews here but not anymore. They'll end up taking everything and leaving us with nothing!"

"You know, Frans, the responsible thing is not always the popular thing."

"Right! Taking a stand has a price but we won't shy away from that when the time comes."

"What a crazy world we live in! Most people are just plain selfish, always happy as long as they have their toys, oblivious to the world around them. But that's OK as long as one does greed responsibly."

"My priest Gordon has said those very words to me. The German way has given us very good lives. Der Fuhrer has done many great things for the German people."

Don't be an extremist who never sees the good in anything!

"No one can deny that! Except one of those anti-Hitlers who just blindly hate everything he does."

"I can't stand that sort of mentality who refuses to look at both sides of the equation. You have to give the devil his due."

"That you do! People way overreact to evil. After all, the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was getting elected."

"You gotta respect that if ya got a lick of sense."

"And just to show how broadminded we are, let's head off to our golf tournament to raise funds for the Jewish orphans whose parents were gassed after the women were raped and experimental surgery was performed in the most horrifyingly manner possible."

"Sounds good! See you there!"

In a few short years, Hans and Frans were sent off the to Russian front, both dying of exposure from having been given only summer clothing to wear by the responsible government they supported. No one knows or cared what they said during their time on the Russian front because the time for speaking out had passed. They were swept into the dustbin of history like all the "good Germans" who went along to get along. Neither one admitted anything bad could happen as long as they kept quiet and did what was expected.

[Inspired by Dunham and Miller, 1310 The Ticket]

The Girl With Naked Eyes

[From the freedom of the clouds the camera descends upon a cold, sterile prison. Then we pass through the walls to a man clutching iron bars in his cell. His face is wrought with pain and dismay. He has an urgent message!]

"Tell me what I've done that's so wrong! I don't belong here. I should be as free as anyone else. Why can't you people see that? Are you insane? You think this is some sort of joke? I'm here to tell you this is as serious as it gets!

"I want to speak to you today of man's inhumanity to man. Of injustice. Of jailing a man without just cause. Of a day of reckoning coming to us all. I want to speak of the future we must create as opposed to the one we have chosen. I want to speak of the one thing driving every soul in this world today: salvation.

"When I look around I see a people who've forbidden freedom to themselves. They claim there is no other to live in order to justify their criminal behavior. But no matter how passionate or persuasive their arguments, they fall on deaf ears at the end of day. We will never stop crying out for freedom, in this we are inseparably bound whether we face it or not.

"From behind these bars I plead guilty for love. The sun does not shine for me, institutions hold heads under water in godless terror; hearts without eyes. How much longer can this go on? It is NOT an infinite time! Imprisonment is not a solution, it simply embraces a defeat that need never happen. The paradise we've lost is out there waiting to be had.

"Only the truth can save us. Anything else is a tragedy in the making. When a heart has no more tears left it dries up, the universe reacts in sorrow and woe. I must speak my mind on these things killing me, trapped in hell's nightmare a framed man. What is the recourse for iron bars? Where is a prisoner's hope?

"Each night I cry out for the Girl With Naked Eyes who sees the truth of me, her face  unreachable as a rainbow. I want to see the sun again, not die alone unheard in the dark. Can no one understand me? I make my case to the heavens but nothing ever changes. I ask you: Is death my only freedom? [Eyes turn inward] Madness! It's madness, I tell you!"

[Camera holds steady with same frame as we see him retreat and fade into a blurry background, swallowed whole. Then it pulls slowly back, giving us the full picture. Very clearly we see the cell door wide open. He is his own jailer.]

NOTE: Scene is to be filmed with door closed and actor should not be told it will be edited later to show the door had been open all along. Keep him cooped up as long as possible to put him on edge. Feed only one paragraph at a time to the actor so each one stands on its own. Tell him he has to make his case for justice and if we don't believe him he'll be left there to rot forever - or through lunch anyway. No matter how well he does, say it won't do - especially if he's trying hard. Let him feel the sting of blind injustice.

[After credits roll we seem him sitting on the call's bed, hands on head, slumped over. He looks up to see open door. Camera cuts to door. Camera cuts to close up of his face, eyes hurt and trapped, unable to leave.]

NOTE: Consider doing whole scene as a voice-over, viewing his anguish while hearing his thoughts. Only at the "madness" line do we see him speaking out loud.

I Spy!

With the hunger of a priest released
from his vows,
he stalks the night,
inhabiting recesses,
espying flesh denied and cried,
evading God's searching eye.

Brooding hipsters future grim
Rehearsing laughter drowning sin

Broken token takes a fall,
"He ain't needed, after all!"

Doctor! Doctor! is academic,
Viral guilt true pandemic.

Hug the devil cursing heaven;
Roll another lucky seven!

Park bench drooling man, he dozes;
Park Place drooling man, he poses

Twilight Man soothes his suit
On his feet two left boots

Spineless jellies ooze out ear;
No more rides for Paul Revere

Witless witness to the fire
Impaled atop a churchly spire

Trapped in prison: he dares to boast;
Free at last: his life he roast

Holy product manufacture,
Un-mended still his heartless fracture

Sinner winner takes the stage!
Witches arson all the rage!
Voodoo child adores her cage!
Masses hail the thoughtless sage!

Mortgage freeman peerless actor,
Chains of debt be his captor

Not until her booty twerk
Could she make the numbers work

Macaroni candy cheese,
Filling bellies fast as please

Property-intellectual-trespass,
As the universe sighing laughs

Presidential casting take,
Audition won by deep dead fake

Decrepit liar spanks his cane,
Another day lived in vain

Inquiring God wants to know:
Did you let your talent grow?


Hopeless fool swats helping hand,
Sinking silent sorrow sand.

Pounding concrete on his head;
"Sorry, pal, the truth is dead."

Enter The Void

When a shepherd views his flock, not a single sheep is un-precious to him. The loss of even one is intolerable, creating an immediate and all-consuming crisis. But to the wider world, the loss or gain of another sheep is wholly unremarkable, unworthy of notice. So who has the correct perspective?

J and D had lost their star - if they ever had one - after 24 years. The contract on their marriage had been declared null and void, rotting away through the years as the strain of lies broke down their pretenses into lives of pointless gestures. The premise of parting was one most obvious: life should have meaning. They deserved better, these mature adults were ready to face reality and move on. They could hear the praise of angels in this decision. No wonder that guy wrote parting is such sweet sorrow.

He went west cost, she went east coast - the adventure begins! D joined her college-graduated daughter hoping to recapture the purpose of motherhood by buying an abode where they both could live in safe harbor from expensive city rates. But her daughter had found her own life, Mom was no longer needed outside of monetary logistics. Scratch plan A. But that's OK, meaning is out there waiting to be had!

She was willing to try anything - as long as it did not involve opening up. She got heavily involved in the local denomination of her church, but try as she might, she couldn't escape feeling a stranger in their midst. Furnishing the house was a pleasant distraction - for a while. The list of possibilities kept dwindling like a fading mirage, the harder she chased the further away it got. Then she just couldn't run anymore.

For J, coming home to an empty house was a punch in the stomach every time he entered the engraved mahogany of the front door. The glitter was gone from his prized possessions that had previously ruled the roost. Shame crept in with the evening darkness: shame of a life wasted, finding "success" in running away from himself. He figured with his millions he could buy his way out of despair. But he couldn't buy a future. Scratch plan A. If he kept on like this the worst of all possible fates would end his reign on earth: revelation.

J and D found that the illusion they were able to create as a couple, while choking them, also allowed them to keep up appearances. Safe within the confines of a marriage, they were free to imagine themselves as they wished without having to face the true state of each one's rotted soul. They were cocky cockroaches in the dark but scattered for dear life when the light came on. How long could they stand it in front of the mirror?

Resignation happened in a heartbeat. Though building for years, the final give-up was instantaneous. For them, the world stopped spinning, J and D would be left behind as the universe moved forward. The dire bitterness was too much to take, so they turned off the spigot of their feelings. They concocted clever lies ("The separations didn't work out. Haha!"), making a political coup, garnering votes from family and friends on what successful lives the pair were leading. From this point forward, life would be a perpetual campaign of keeping up appearances - conspiracy theories encouraged.

*******

Two more recruits enter the zombie army, unfeeling and unthinking, spewing repressed rage in furious blame at the still living, weaving ever more fantastical and outlandish tales to explain the emptiness of their lives as they honor their new contract - a contract of depravity - as they drink poison from a gilded cup of lies, admitting nothing but fearing the sun's daily rise. Reunited and it feels so bad.

Two lost sheep among billions. Is it the end of the world or a negligible non-event; another hobo dying in a cold dumpster on a winter night - a heartbreaking story but the world shrugs, adding to a bill that must one day be paid. Ask not for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.

Billy's Got A Note

There strode Billy. Right down the serenity of our tree-lined street with its singing birds and harmonious expectations, there strode Billy. Clutching madly note in hand, eyes fixed straight ahead, target acquired, there strode Billy.

He carried the world in his oblivious hand as he passed my living room window. I don't a think a hurricane gale could have knocked him off course. Once seen, I don't know how anyone could take their eyes off him and his laser focused march.

He had news that must get through. Empires would fall, nations plunge into turmoil, mountains collapse into deserts, oceans drain dry if he did not accomplish his mission. The whole of the universe rested on his shoulders, anxious angels side by side with divided demons awaited the outcome. Billy's got a note.

Each step put him thicker into the fray. Under our sweet suburban skies raged invisible bullets in fatal fury along Billy's path. Despairing land mines awaited him in anticipated ambush. Tension mounted in ticking time in this daylight drama: would he survive, much less succeed?

Is miscommunication the start of every war?

What is the wisdom of enduring this peril? Certainly he believes the reward is worth this risk. Or perhaps to Billy, the greater risk was a note undelivered. Who can judge what is right in these weighty matters? In a godless world, what can serve as a Faultless Guide?

His face holds the terrified grimness of a battlefield soldier. In the moment of facing danger, the mind is filled with thoughts unable to share. What do observing angels see in our time of trying? One thing I do know: like Moses passing through the parted sea, no force of Nature would deny Billy.

Reaching Veronica's yard, he stiffly turned towards her front door, trembling on the manicured grass. Had a bomb exploded or the heavens burst or the ground below split in two, Billy would not have noticed. His shaking hand placed the note in her mailbox as if lightening would strike him down. When it didn't, he turned 'round to retrace his steps, lost in the fog of war.

For what had he fought? Like a soldier returning from a losing battle, he was forced to question his life choices. Would he lose an arm or a leg or an eye to live a forever cripple? Or had he fought on the side of right, bringing healing to a hurting world? With words his only ally, he'd been the author of his fate. I suspected he'd never return. One can endure only so many battles.

CODA: That evening I couldn't pull my mind off Billy's Walk as I sipped my drink. In the prison of my home I no longer engage, feeding off the lives of those I spy. Then a thought occurred to me: Take the note. I could play the role of saboteur, altering the course of lives as happens in every war. When darkness was complete, I darted my way down the street, slipping through trees planted in original innocence. The exhilaration of plucking the note proved worth the effort!

Safely back in my cell I took stock of my plunder reading Billy's pleading explanation Veronica would never see. I felt so alive! I was bound to them both now as part of my despair. I am a Thief Of Hope, drawing whomever I can into my hole. I will keep this note as proof of the fragility of life. And besides, what does one more broken relationship mean in this broken world - right?

The Winter Of My Fall

It wasn't supposed to come to this...

I wander in the Lost Woods, alone and unknown

Who was the past person to trespass here? Has it been a hundred years or a thousand? It's common knowledge no possible future is in this place

The dry dead leaves covering the ground are shocked by my presence, crunching in protest under my plodding feet. They must understand: I've nowhere else to go

I couldn't stop until I burned every last bridge. Seems I couldn't stand the offered hope. Choices bedeviled me until I left myself no choice

To have abandoned oneself is to empty the universe

In what passes for civilization, I'm a wanted man, enemy of the status quo. Infatuated and prepossessed with the idea their salvation lies in others' destruction, they live beyond reason's reach

Bad men who follow the rules hunt bad men who do not follow the rules so that bad men who do follow the rules can be called good. But they will still share the same fate of bad men

I walk a stranded being, disconnected, marooned on a planet where I cannot live. I am son of Strelnikov, worshiping the flames of glorious defeat, sowing seeds of regret, a betrayer of angels

So much time surrounds me and drowns me! Dreaded sobriety opens my eyes to oncoming darkness as these trees who answer to no one but Nature witness my slow, dripping death

My savage tear drops onto a brittle brown leaf. For a moment it brings back color, giving an illusion of life. Illusion brought me here

I cannot see the point of going on. "Supposed to" and "what is" are forever separated. Just to be caught here is a confession of sorts

Am I missing something, swallowed whole, I cling no more

Nobody's Fault But My Own

End of my rope

Lord A'mighty, does it ever end?

I'm constantly seeking answers to the perpetual dilemma of dying in my life. Getting by by killing myself just won't hack it anymore. People can see I'm searching, hoping against hope, ripe for the picking. All they ever offer is shit.

"Hey, Harry, I know where they're hiring: over at the Gold Standard Toilet Paper company." Is he shitting me?

"Shaft" is the one telling me this, a big black burly guy just like the movie character. Don't know his real name as we've never directly come across each other before though we have mutual acquaintances. But is he fucking with me or not??

"Yeah, man, you know everyone need their ass wiped, rain or shine. You won't never get laid off there!"

The future is shit. Long live the future.

What I'd be doing is hand rolling the toilet paper by turning a crank, counting the sheets until it reaches "400 or some shit like that." Then repeat for eight hours of my soul's life. Maybe because he's seen me around doing so many other crap jobs he thinks I'd be fine with this one. Scariest part is, after a lifetime of losing, I don't know what else is out there for me.

Not that I know everything.

Have I given life a true chance? There's a reason shit like this keeps happening to me as I keep drawing it in. I need to give up the old ways. It's true I do blame a justly wrong world for many of my woes. But how much am I the architect of my own demise? That part I conveniently leave out. Would I be happy even if not stranded on a dying planet? The fool on the hill can never know.

I apologize to Emily, her dear heart should be praised and preserved at all costs. It sure brought out all my insecurities, no doubt.

I've never allowed anything good in my life. Guess I didn't want (and feared) the responsibility. I snipped those flowers like a possessed madman. To really say something about a God-forsaken world I must not be forsaking myself. Oops.

When Virus Eyes Are Smiling

Is it really this virus we're so deathly afraid of? This underlying panic in the daily reporting, is it warranted by the actual danger? Why does this strike our hearts so much more than other causes of death we readily accept? There be a reason for dat, folks.

We're guilty. The movie version of this would be called: "Nature Strikes Back". For we have sinned against Nature and know we have a certain comeuppance heading our way. How bad will it be? we secretly wonder in dread. So any inkling of us getting our just deserts scares the holy hell out of us. We live in a web of mutual lies maintained by a common greed. We know that party has to end one day. And we know the longer we put off facing it the worse our fate will be. We see the hand of God in this viral retribution. Have we unleashed a beast we can't control?

The reactions we're seeing are metaphoric. The War On Reality is playing out right before our eyes, dismissing the very concept of responsibility. "I can do whatever I want and nothing will happen to me!" But the beauty of this virus is that it has no ears and no eyes, subject to no persuasion political or otherwise, an angel of death unleashed on a defiant world. We desperately seek control over it so we can resume our wicked ways in earnest. We can vote and decree and mandate it's OK to pollute and ravage the planet but that won't make it any less lethal. Seems that's a lesson we're determined to learn the hard way.

Looks like we'll just have to register the virus as a lethal weapon

In mad and vain desperation to kick the can down the road, we put the worst and most vile among us in charge, for only they are so unreasonable as to continue the lies that become more obviously outrageous and outlandish by the day. These darkened minds grant sanction to the darkness in our hearts, giving social cover to our transgressions, as if our Maker does not see all anyway. Give up the ghost, folks. It ain't worth it. You know you want to!

What we have here is a fidelity to treason. That's the perverted world in which we live. We have faith in faithlessness, we have trust in betrayal, we place hope in doom. Preach these values and you'll be rewarded by our backwards world. Not only that, you'll be labeled "responsible"! But the inevitable inversion is coming, driving us insane with the thought of it - even to murder.

Nature's gonna do what Nature's gonna do. Fight it all you want, windmill slayers! Time is not on your side as you provide tragic amusement for the gods. I know we will never speak directly of our guilt. We have to use metaphors to explain our demise as something coming from outside of us. But our fate comes from within. The sorrow is unspeakable and at some point incomprehensible. But Nature's purge cannot be stopped, one can only get on the right side of it.

That virus is out there. It can't be bargained with, it can't be reasoned with.

Lost In A Parisian Rain

[The truth of Napoleon's final years has been a well kept secret - until now. Perhaps it's due to the sheer inhumanity exhibited by the perpetrators that so shamed them into desperate measures of deception so that their crime never be revealed. What they did not know was that Napoleon kept a small diary that outed his persecutors, branding them as fiends and devils in the forever annals of history. Revenge-motivated monsters, having been upstaged by Napoleon's genius, seized upon the opportunity to exact retribution for their own inadequacies. Kidnapping him from his island of exile, dressing him in the most ragged of clothes, Napoleon was drugged and dropped into an insane asylum for what was a numerous and peculiar affliction of the times: an asylum prison for those who believed themselves to be Napoleon.]

Entry 1:

The madness of men is real. Until you are its witnessing victim, you cling to a measure of doubt. You think it may be an act, or human weakness, or simple folly from which none of us is immune. But, no, it is as real as the sun and just as inescapable. The false witness bore against me is something these eyes cannot un-see. I see their lips moving as if in a surreal play, swearing in certainty of whom they claim I am, "truth" fixed in their head like the rock of Gibraltar. In fact, the more wrong they are, the greater the conviction in their voice! How godless of a world we live in. Am I to be buried alive?? I say to anyone who may read this: If even our Maker does not honor the truth, abandon all hope!

Entry 2:

I must scribe this for my own sanity: I am Napoleon, former Emperor of France and ruler of Europe. I can recount my exploits in exact detail. But my captors say that only proves the depth of my sickness! How can it be where the more one speaks the truth the more one is condemned? I look for reason behind their eyes but they have no thirst for truth. In darkness, they weave tales to suit their supposed vanities and shuttered minds. The power of an open mind is what brought me victory. Have I not proven the way to success? Have these people learned nothing? And if not, must I be the on who pays that price

Entry 3:

Rage and despair are my constant companions. Oh, for my Old Guard to come and wipe out these doctors who seemingly wield more power than a thousand kings. I have been unable to talk my way to the light. I plead with them in earnest supplication only to see them kindly nod and explain they "understand". How does a closed mind understand anything? It only makes one blind. That is fatal! My greatest ally on the battlefield was my opponent's refusal to heed reality and react. Now it works against me! For their own benefit they should hear my truth. But they fear to question their judgment and ignorance, saying. "I hope you see the light one day." That is not my crime but theirs!

A fellow inmate thinks he reflects me!
More like stomach indigestion.

Entry 4:

I cannot count the days. At first I could, but no more as I languish in a hole forgotten by the hearts of men. A certain unreality has crept inside; an ancient, forlorn spirit welcomes me to a club of injustice I've no desire to join. I must deny my reality to protect me from reality. Shakespeare wrote, "The truth will out." If so, then when? When it's too damn late, when someone reads this a hundred years hence? Where is justice NOW? Time is of the essence but the more I press the more they push. I thought I knew the hearts of men. I was as much a political warrior as a battlefield strategist. But these common men, these servants of stupidity, how does one defeat them without being Emperor? This stubbornness I face, what is its fanatical source?

Entry 5:

I found an advocate to argue my case. This has made it worse. I overheard the head administrator. "Why that's absurd! I don't care what you believe. For your argument to be true Napoleon would have been kidnapped and forcibly injected into our population. Preposterous! Never shall I believe men of substance would do such a thing, period. You've lost any sense of judgment. Just listen to yourself!  Do not anger me further with your mad fantasies! The mistake is on your part, not mine." I replay these rabid words at night but find no counter to pierce them. What possible future when the truth does not suffice? I'm choking.

Entry 6:

How can I fight this? Is it more wrong to carry on than leave this nightmare? Am I being punished for sins from my past? What truths did I myself deny? What war did I ever refuse? Questions, more questions! Never answers. Yes, I realize these overlords wish to protect the reputation of this asylum and to be caught holding the actual Napoleon would uphold them as frauds before a rightly scathing public. This they cannot allow - because they are frauds. My advocate comes to visit me and we relive my battlefield triumphs in sweet escape for the moment. But when he leaves I die - and part of me suspects even him, that he plays an act for me to drop my guard. But I have no guard because I speak no lie.

They all dress like me here. At first, I took it personally.

Entry 7:

I live for hate. That's the one thing not denied me. I hate both my kidnappers and my captors and will see them dead. My hope is that my hate will one day destroy them. But it is only destroying me, Napoleon. And yet, they cannot get away with this! They MUST not get away with it. But they do, day after day, month after month, year after tortuous year. How much longer does this cruelty go on? I hear the clinking glasses of my enemies congratulating themselves on the demise they concocted for me, knowing men's lust for lies is more imprisoning than any iron cage. This is why in politics deceit is not a handicap. How stubborn their desire to be stubborn.

Entry 8:

It's been ages since I last wrote. What was I thinking? That this diary would free me? I must keep it hidden - like my truth - in order to avoid the beatings. How can what's hidden save anyone? I made power my mistress and do not know how to function in its absence. Would a man of true conviction be able to persuade these fools? Am I stuck here through something lacking in me? These demonic questions poke me in the night - I have no reply in silent screams. I'm on broken knees, forced to admit of no guarantee of freedom. But do not my rulers see that my doom is also theirs? I had always assumed every man would choose to preserve his life. I live in a play of grand tragedy under the watching heavens.

Entry 9:

Spring scents inhabited the air this morning. I forgot where I was, inhaling ecstasy, even grateful was I. Does that make me a fool? If I sweetly accept this injustice, how can hope exist? I must keep hate alive to do the work of God! Behold the avenger's sword, beheading in swift execution to balance the scales of liberty. If I surrender - and never have I done this in my life - the scoundrels will go scot-free, unaccountable to men. They must be brought to the altar of truth and made to confess. As for my confession, I'm deeply haunted by the grieving mother handing me a blood-stained uniform, saying, "My son died for your vanity." I cannot face her even today and will die a true coward.

They now laugh at my plans for world conquest.
David won't be painting this.

Entry 10:

I hope you're happy, God. I've been informed of today's date, peeling my eyes wide open. So many wasted years! To what end does this serve? Can not a bolt of lightening strike these liars down? Let us right the world! I throw myself on Your mercy. This is why I always put my faith in the musket and the cannon above all else. They do one's bidding. In here, where truth has no meaning, I experience no such triumph of the will. Are we to live and die as mere puppets and pawns of the mad mob? Is that what life boils down to, to pass away with love unspoken? Millions of lives lost in service of war. What meaning my death? In Paris, it is raining.

Final Entry:

I harbor no ill will. To do so is to suffer defeat. I free my thoughts to entertain only those of my own choosing. I feel not I, but an outside being to perish in the dust, endures the indignities and savagery of this horrid institution, of lost men who know not what they do. I moved on. I think of Josephine. She was the moon and the sky and the stars to me. Had I chosen a wiser course, who knows our fate? I pray to meet her in the afterlife.

To leave a place without bitterness is to be its victor. I am resigned yet not resigned, floating above the earth in untouched clouds beyond reach. This thought amuses me so! My Maker knows of my victory and who counts more than that? Never in my life did I suspect one could find victory in surrender. I would have deemed it a "mad fantasy". But this peace I found is indestructible and the dream I always wished to be. On this does my soul rest.