Midnight Ramble through the horse fields / REAL SNOW FALL / Anthony Rides.
The last day of Anthony’s stay had arrived, quicker than I had anticipated.
My mind couldn’t help but run to the intense conclusion(s) that when the recording process (of Mr. D’Amato) stopped I would start to slip into my seemingly (albeit slow) uncontrollable process of ping-ponging from dark to light, light to dark. I did my best to push said thoughts/predictions from my mind, knowing very well that nothing good comes from running to an indeterminable point that has yet to even be birthed, ESPECIALLY one of such dire constrains.
By 7pm we had finished with the first round of mixes of what may (or may not) become Anthony’s future record.
We broke.
Anthony to dinner with blood brother.
I, having had very little time with my darlings, ran to the living room dance floor and shook my tail with the resident munchkins of a much smaller grandeur than I am accustomed to inside of the confines of the recording studio.
By 8:30pm the two that I hold the dearest had been swept up into the arms of the dream land and I had been paid a visit by a good amigo.
Soft words, good musics, small talks, big talks, blended Scottishes, Finnish chocolates and the night started to swirl into a close.
I bid those in my presence adieu and crept into a small corner of the house. I carved away at a block of linoleum until the clock read 1:22 A.M.
Time to sleep, or try.
Something was stirring.
I shook in my sheets.
I felt uneasy.
No witchdoctor.
No witch.
I fell asleep a little before 2 A.M.
“Screaming” is the only word I can find to try and describe the sound that was coming from the furthest corner of our backyard. This awful sound meant danger, death, and immediate action. I scrambled to put clothes on and ran out back to find a massive golden labradoodle inside of the chicken’s area. The destruction that he had already accrued and that which he would have brought to pass was absolutely frightening.
Feathers, Blood, Claws, Bodies, torn and mutilated. I chased the dog out of the back and quickly returned back to the awful scene that I had no desire in re-seeing. Two of the chickens were still breathing.
Blinking / staring up at me, asking for something.
Help?
A quicker death?
An explanation?
More time to say goodbye?
Isn’t that how it all goes?
One moment we are complaining to the barista about the amount of whip cream in our frap-machiato-latte and the next moment we are stuck behind the wheel of a burning, upside down 1982 Dodge Ram and there ain’t no time, you never had it (time), to correct that which you left unsettled, distraught, and or desolate. and that “TIME” which you did have, the wild current of the moment in which we are all found, is as good as the fluidity of kindness, love, acceptance, correction, and unity that you are willing to feed into it.
All those that choose to live in the moments of destruction, desolation and CLOSING (be it mind, body, thought, acceptance and the like) I can say from my extremely small corner to FUGG OFF.
Yes.
I ain’t being too polite.
Hell, I ain’t being polite at all, but then again, I ain’t trying to be.
“A man turns his back on his family, he ain’t no good”
Family is found in many different circles.
It ain’t gotta be blood
.
It ain’t gotta be human.
I see that dog again on my property I’ll shoot its head clean off.
You defend your family how you see fit.
I ain’t trying to make yours like mine.
Another day
Floating through.,
Joshua (a sceptic at his best)
Originally posted on Tumblr