Copyright
2001
"The Wizard of OOze" which is presented just below came from a 'healing dream' about a time that was rife with both internet and real life stalking by a sick person, who is represented by TaTa in the story.
During that time a friend and I were both subjected to spamming of many different forums, complete with revelation of our personal information, such as SS numbers, addresses and other private things. If that wasn't enough, false charges and harrassing phone calls were made to work places, police were called to our homes, and the stalker even parked across the street from my home, then gave descriptions of it on line, though he was from CA and I live in NV.
Frustrated for more than two years with our legal system that chooses quite often to ignore complaints about such actions, the matter was finally taken to the courts. Even today, though, we wonder if our problem was really resolved, or is he out there, stalking someone else and hoping to return to us?
During some sleepless nights I took to writing some poetry (it rhymes, sorry) about the stalker and satirized his character, just for my own laughs. However, as I read these over again today, I realize how close my writings are to what he is, and how scary they were in those long nights.
FROM A LESS GENTLE TIME
I.
May 6 2001
THE LOST ONE
He comes in hate, stained with evil and distrust,
The dismay of all those unfortunates in his path.
He is an ending without a beginning,
A walking death, bereaft of the knowledge of life.
Never to be the last man standing,
Only a simpleton staggering.
Lurching through this world in broken cadence,
Reeling through his maze of hate.
Always angry, always destructing, and always alone.
Never finding true life, he begrudges the world.
He is a stranger to humanity.
He is
THE LOST ONE.
*****
II.
August 27, 2000
SWEATS ON A SATURDAY NIGHT
It's twilight; the birds
Have ceased their songs
And twitter as they hunker down
In the trees of a sandbound
California town.
People are about their dinner,
Children pad to eat, freshly bathed,
In pajamas perfumed with Downy.
The good are relaxed and what is best,
Preparing for their night of deserved rest.
Front door slams at the home of Mr. Evil,
Sturdy lock turned and double checked.
Nothing shows through the closely drawn drapes,
Only a flickering nightlight in his bedroom window
Fights off the gathering darkness.
Fearfully looking round for the enemies of
His mind, Mr. Evil scurries to a dusty car,
Takes his seat upon the pillow raised, and
Fumbles at the motor, at last swiftly backing,
Making his escape from gloom to
A little dive called Pinkies' Room.
He can hear the chatter as he reaches
The door, and pushing it open, steps
Upon Peppermint Sticky floor; Rose's light washes
Over and about; Flamingo Padded Bar beckons
To Cotton Candy Stool, so fluffy, yet stout.
He minces across the floor in silence
So grave, each patron turned and staring at
This incoming knave, all spruced and shaven,
Smelling of Old Spice; all eyes of watching
Company have changed to pink ice.
"Scotch with Bud back," he says as
The tender, who has it all ready,
(He always remembers), watches
Mr. Evil swiftly quaff, sees eyes,
On the prowl, dart from bar up to the loft.
The juke box is starving, no one there will feed
That Creature of Company, Mr. Evil's true need.
In the pink, staring, silence, a trickle begins,
Down from nape, along short, slack, spine.
Hysterically, he loses sense of place or time.
Crystal mirror is showing the patrons behind, all
Steely and Tooth-ed, and frozen in slime.
But, these are his Peers, all happy and gay!
What mood is upon them, what drives them
This way, today; making him pay?
He can't stand the silence, even in this
Pink room. He's sweaty and clammy
And sensing a doom in each staring eye.
He drinks up and orders another, "The same,
Scotch with Bud back," quavers the refrain.
He can't meet those eyes, even in mirror,
Fanciful shapes and heads grow ever
More queer; shifting and morphing with
Help of Scotch and a Bud, they look back
From reflection, and they sneer, 'you crud'.
Mr. Evil slips off cushy pink stool, all dripping
And fearful; backs away from leering eyes
,
With his own all tear full; They've
Found him right here--caught in his flight
From the terror of Sweats on a Saturday Night.
*****
III.
August 24, 2000
IN THE BED OF MR. EVIL
It comes each gentle summer's night,
Undulating on padded belly,
Over cool, quilted dunes,
Seeking, ever seeking.
Slithering between, beneath,
Covers hand-clenched to quivering chin,
Un-noticed by eyes staring widely at the gloom;
Seeking, ever seeking.
Over quivering pect, around startled nipple,
Into the sour stench of sweating pit,
Lapping softly, laughing hotly, it moves.
Seeking, ever seeking.
So comes the trembling, sweaty fumbling.
Jerky limbs twitch in time to sobs arumbling,
Tasting tears on pudgy cheeks.
Seeking, ever seeking.
Then rising higher, all afire with delight,
It wavers close to the sought after ear.
Those lips so near, in voice so clear, spake,
"At last, Mr. Evil, you have found MASTER FEAR!"
Life is a ball.....
Dance or be a wallflower!
|
It was good to hear something of your Hawaiian experiences. I was born in 49, so I was about the town, well the back yard, by the time you were honeymooning here.
Do not lament the lack of property purchased here. Being an absent landlord creates problems. And you could have made the same killing in CA. But that is not for us either. Being rich for me isn't about money for my wife and I. We have only been here less than two months but find the place inviting apart from its outragous beauty. Come back soon.
Come back anytime!