NHRanger
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- 54 years old
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NHRanger's Blog
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Thursday, May 11, 2006, 5:58:18 PM- Clarity | ||
This is the end, beautiful friend This is the end, my only friend In a car, there is no pain, stereotypes or disability. Only American made steel and iron, forged through time by grade A US engineering. The end of our elaborate plans The end of everything that stands The end People often say there are experiences in life that changes the soul, and not always for the better. For some who are not equipped with modern day coping skills, putting life's mistakes in the rear view mirror with a quick turn of the wheel at high speeds has a certain appeal. Beautiful in its simplicity, masterful in its deception, but selfish in a purely human quality that the animal will never know, as their function is survival. No safety or surprise The end I'll never look into your eyes again On a warm summer day winding down 93 with the T-Tops off, radio blaring some song from years past when life seemed simpler, we do not always think of the consequences of our actions and how they may affect those around us. It is often said that not only does a disability, an accident, or death affect the individual (obviously), but the entire family. No truer words have ever been spoken. Can you picture what will be So limitless and free Desperately in need of some stranger's hand In a desperate land What is not hard to understand is pain? Pain is real. I feel neurological pain, so it has to be real. A complete paraplegia means no feeling or function below the point of injury but I tell you this friend, my legs feel like they are on fire, skin being pulled off-- mind numbing white noise of pain.. So on a warm summer's day when the sun is shinning bright and the legs are white hot with fire, I wheel down the ramp and get in a few tons of American made machinery because I know in there, pain does not exist; Only precision machinery working in harmony when the individual and rider become one. Lost in a Roman wilderness of pain And all the children are insane All the children are insane Waiting for the summer rain There's danger on the edge of town Ride the King's highway Weird scenes inside the gold mine Ride the highway West, baby Winding down North bound 93 thinking of nothing, passing those little white crosses on the side of the road, speedometer creeping up and up, car purrs. You can see those little white crosses that the families of those gone put up to remind people that their love one was there in one split second of time, before they crossed over. That person is no more, but their family's lives changed forever. And I wonder, what would my cross look like? I see my two kids in the back seat in a rare moment of clarity, a surreal cloudy vision of what they looked like when they were very young, when their life was just beginning, not as they are now. I am not afraid to die, but am afraid of them going through life without me. Maybe that is enough for me. Or it should be enough Because my selfish acts do not always impact me, but everyone around me and I should keep that first and foremost, when the car and pain call my name. Because it is real. Ride the snake Ride the snake To the lake To the lake The ancient lake, baby The snake is long Seven miles Ride the snake He's old And his skin is cold The West is the best The West is the best Get here and we'll do the rest The blue bus is calling us The blue bus is calling us Driver, where are you taking us? | ||
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Thursday, May 11, 2006, 5:56:08 PM- Bruce | ||
Bruce thought about this hard. He thought about a lot of things hard. Thinking got Bruce some places some times but more likely Bruce preferred to be a man of action. Bruce thought about Jesus. Not much, but particularly at this particular moment. Bruce owed the bank money. He owed a lot of people money. To pay the bank and people back would be the right thing to do. When Bruce let his thoughts about Jesus go, he pulled his car into the driveway. As his thoughts of Jesus slipped away, Bruce thought that sex would be very nice right at that moment. Out of the black plastic bag Bruce took a 16 oz. beer. He opened it, drank with appreciation, and then placed the beer on the door ledge. From the black plastic bag Bruce then removed a smaller black plastic bag that had his pint of whiskey in it. He took a drink of the whiskey and felt the sharp burn. As deftly as he could, Bruce put the whiskey on the floor and once again drank a long appreciative drink from his cold beer. Bruce's car was like a church at times. Quiet. Bruce took refuge in his car, in his driveway late at night quiet and dark just as he liked it, in his church as it were, just for a bit. His thoughts briefly turned to the .45 he had under his seat. It made him feel good. He switched his Pioneer stereo to AM frequency. Oldies. Talk radio. Love songs but nothing above the mid 60's. He leaned back, just a bit. The music was good. The whiskey came on slow. The Car was nice and clean: carpeting, dashboard, windows. Church. It needed a little touch up paint here and there but it was a lot like Bruce. A little beat up but still functioned quite well. Bruce laughed a little to himself; A shadow of his former self but still very intimidating. Church was nice too but the ramp they put in was bad...it was more a delivery ramp. Good for dolly deliveries. Church was nice and clean too. Add some good music and a decent ramp and Bruce thought he may go there often. As an altar boy the pastor wanted Bruce to enter the seminary, to become a priest. Bruce took another bracer of whiskey, the burn, and then a cold drink of beer. Sex. Women. Bruce wondered if Jesus, as part man, had sex. Those women with the sandals, the dark hair. all that olive oil. The radio played the velvet fog. Things were good. Next thing, the AM stereo came through with a song that just gripped Bruce. He put his head down, rested his chin on his chest, closed his eyes and just listened. No thoughts. Cleared his mind. Had to clean up that mind, vacuum, rearrange, get rid of stuff, and make it snappy. Bring out some pop. Use that 67 ply micro thread towel and get the cognitive processing shiny. Bruce had no idea what the hell he was thinking about. He wasn't drunk, just warm. He wasn't going crazy, just doing a mental retreat. Bruce wondered if the Holy Spirit really was a tongue of fire. Man, being restricted to being a tongue of fire would be aggravating. Bruce decided he better finish his delicious beer, with a bracer of tongue of fire Holy Spirit whiskey and get out of that restrictive driveway. The cold dark was pressing down from above. His home was more mission style furniture. Bruce felt like getting missionary. Bruce took his chair out of the car and heaved his body into it. He pushed himself up the ramp that was built by someone who no longer talks to him. He thinks of this every time he goes up it. Not down for some reason. Bruce has a quick temper. Once inside, he was once again, o.k. He had made it in, past the quite excellent deck. Once inside Bruce pulled the lamp cord, dimly lighting his small, yet spirited home. I have to vacuum, thought Bruce, noticing chip and pretzel crumbs and whatnot on the carpet by his big wooden desk. It was his high use area. An area where Bruce drank, read, wrote, talked on the phone, planned out the future, celebrated the present, dealt with the past and from across the front room watched his large Hitachi TV. Bruce, a man of simple, yet intense means. Bruce got the whiskey glass he ripped off from the Irish main street pub. his kitchen was small, but in the words of a brunette who had muscular legs, a tight round ass, a handful of full breasts and a wild side, "who spends a lot of time in a kitchen anyway?" she was a bedroom gal. Bruce tuned on another dim light. His whiskey looked religious, sacramental even. The pub glass with whiskey, backlit, was like a stained glass window. Bruce maintained the ephemeral and humility by drinking his beer from the can. No need to be ostentatious. He turned on his brazen Sony receiver for some serious full watts and tuned into a college station playing an eclectic mix of surprisingly good music. Bruce, however, felt his thoughts return. He refilled his stained glass window with whiskey. "Salute to the past," uttered Bruce, slightly moving to the music. Perhaps he was celebrating his mistakes, finally kicking them in the ass. | ||
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