“"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown" –HP Lovecraft*

I stood in what I examined to be an ancient and forgotten shrine, to what god or devilish soul, I did not know, but it surrendered a sinister sensation. Its ruined ****** walls lay with some sections long collapsed on the ground, while texts and runes, in dead languages decorated some of the still upright rock. The roof itself was alarming, seen as if it were hanging reluctantly and willing to fall at any moment. A dispiriting, cold wind began blowing upon my face. The air became thick, difficult to breathe, turning every inhalation into a hard fought one and forcing me to continue onwards with this unwanted journey. I slowly crept out of the temple and found myself in complete darkness. There was no sun, moon or stars above, only a great barrier of pitch black nothingness. I studied the veil trying to make sense of this but surrendered and commenced following a wrecked trail carved on the earth.

The scene caused a sudden sorrow to spellbind me. Few trees remained in root, dry and dead, with branches pointed up at the heavens they appeared to be praying for mercy from a god that refused to answer. The ground was littered by branches and the grass was so withered that it was ash more than anything. This dim path that I found myself walking through warned me and all other unfortunate travelers, sending a clear, terrifying message: All hope and joy were gone, completely disappeared in this abduction of the mind. This domain was a plagued one. I heard in the distance howls of suffering and pain, savage and demented laughter; I assumed that these were emanated from whatever tormented and diseased creatures that resided here in this unholy place. These sounds, these horrid songs would’ve made even the strongest adventurers, quiver and cower. Evil permeated the region.

As I walked, a sickening green mist with the presence of death rose from the soot drenched soil surrounding and covering everything ‘neath my knees. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something shift in the dirt; a shadow now lurked hidden. I hoped that it were nothing but a mirage produced by my disturbed and weakened senses. Signs that my state of mind was slowly driving itself into mental insanity, yet lunacy at this point was bettered desired than a confrontation with any beast of cosmic horror that slithered through this wasteland.

Quickly, I discarded such an idea; it terrified me, the presence of a monster did. Gripped and strangled by panic I began to gently ease myself forward when again a shade dashed through the mist, this time, the sound of hooves accompanied it. I staggered back in fright and tripped ******* a branch, falling and hurting. I whimpered, feeling something wet, most likely blood, seeping from my now wounded left leg. “Please! No!” I yelled at the mysterious specter. Pleading to the unknown being, my vision was blurred by the sick fog, my lungs drowned with the stench of otherworldly dread and a fit of coughing possessed me.

The shadow stepped closer becoming distinguishable but not yet fully visible. It was humanoid in form and stood hunched, breathing heavily, on two legs. The fog dispersed for a few seconds. Pale skin, hair black as the ground, malevolent blood red eyes; those dead, revolting eyes glaring! Staring! The most shocking thing I then discovered: The beasts face, ‘twas mine!

1  

"Oh, Dad," cried my son,
with the huge, unrestrained sobs of a five-year-old,
"Justin Borley knocked me down. <sob>
He kicked me <sob>
and called me a loser <sob>
because we lost the game."

"Does it hurt badly? Where does it hurt?
Let me give you a hug....
Justin Borley is a bad, mean boy.
A few children are like that....
I will speak with his parents....
You must not be; you must always be kind....
Though you can defend yourself."

"What does that mean?"

"You can knock his leg or arm if he tries to hit you....
There will be many, many other games....
Some you will lose,
but most, I think, you will win.
You will be a champion!".

"What kind of champion?"

"I don't know.... A baseball champion,
a chess champion, a chemist....
You're smart and strong.... You will be a winner!"


  2

"Oh, Daddy," cried my daughter,
with the heartfelt sobs of a sixteen-year-old,
"I loved him so much,
I wanted him so much,
and now he's gone.
I'll never find anyone else to love;
I might as well be dead."

"My darling, you are so beautiful and smart,
so pretty and graceful and spirited....
The boys who love you will be as countless as the stars,
as many as the sands on the shores of Lake Michigan....

"You are like a cherry tree,
putting forth its first few delicate blossoms,
which have been blackened by a hard, late frost.
We are sad, but know --
we feel in our hearts --
that this strong young tree will grow,
that its blossoms and fruits will be many....

"I know it's hard for you to believe,
but you will find other boys to love --
not the same as him --
nothing is ever the same --
but, in their own ways, equally perfect."


  3

"Oh, Dad," cried my son,
with the quiet sobs of a 33-year-old,
"Is this all there is: we're born, we live, we die;
our children are born, they live, they die....
How dispiriting, how terrifying ...
that this universe should be
devoid of meaning and empathy.
We walk on a cold treadmill,
day after day, year after year,
millennium after millennium....
Forsaken.
Why suffer this torment?
Why not step down?
Why not just get off?"

"Some could answer with words about
a 'kind and loving God'....
I can't.

"Fifteen billion years ago, the universe grew in seconds
from a pinhead to a radius of a trillion miles.
The supernovae, nuclear furnaces, forged the elements.
One hundred thousand years ago, **** sapiens emerged
     in Africa.

“Your body is made up of those elements,
contains actual genes from that first **** sapiens....

"You say life's a torment.
Sometimes it is.
But I say
for every ounce of suffering
there is, in time,
an equal, exactly counterbalancing,
experience of joy.
You can play your part in this gigantic pageant,
this extravaganza of joy-sorrow --
or not.
But never doubt that your mother and I love you.
You can walk out into the sunlight,
you can smell the rose-blossoms, newly-opened,
you can let your finger be grabbed by the hand --
the incredibly tiny hand -- of a baby --
or not...."

The slip is on.
It's slippery,
But not like a floor,
A bit of paper with X's and O's,
Offering promises,
Gears and clutches needing oil;
Not like memory of your speghetti straps,
Or an announcement of a slipped lip
Revealing dumbfoundery.
They are temporal and physical.
This slip goes to the soul,
Dispiriting and lying low;
Not discernable to public scrutiny.
I tripped on a rabbit hole
That changes the world,
And makes me late
For a very important date.

Stop sticking
your pins in my sides
I'm not an avatar for someone else's pain
I have enough wounds of my own that need to heal
so stop trying to make me
your voodoo doll
because I'm not built for that kind of pain
no not at all
I know I've done a lot of wrong
I know I can't do any right
but stop punishing me because of this
it's nowhere near worth the fight.

So please I beg you against my pride
stop stabbing me violently in the side
dispiriting my body and reaping my soul
because you know I've nowhere to go
I'm trapped imprisoned inside my own head
the same thing that helps keep me awake could turn on me And I'd wind up dead.

I can't escape my mind And I can't get it right
if I got up any measure of nerve maybe I wouldn't be writing this tonight
I keep trying to exorcise these ghosts upstairs but they keep coming back to life

Let me write of and sympathize with
men
strong and typical
women
strong and lyrical
and children
an ode to joy forever
mostly all boxed in
twentyfour/seven/twelve
home, school,
different grades, more school
job(s) on the cusp, second job
home at night late
and yes, there is a tomorrow
mow the square  of grass
in front of the house
over and over again
years line up ahead
the same dispiriting grind
but you have a team!  Yes your team !
every season beginning  anew
playing well, job coffee breaks joys for a minute
then fading and fading and fading
out of it  till next year, for sure it will be better
and Yes, Remember to Vote for Change
then the same old the same old unchanged
and now you’re the empty nester
the silence is suddenly very loud
and there are fewer options now
where did it all go

Bubbled inside a raindrop as the pressure descends to a whirl that needs us, plus inertia...pop, here lies the jungle inside the main cause measured by Rand in a World that breeds lumps, must be Cancer. Caught up in thoughts of no authority, what else can one do in this dispiriting zeitgeist? As I plot these dots of hope analogy, maybe there's still a chance in these persisting guidelines. Calls of Monks chanting on bright skulls and we seem eager to hear the voice of God, which leaves a lot to be desired like mastering the bright stars in the deep Ether, just to bear this void of course. New waves come and go disguised in these ageing times Apocalypse, the past shouting names of old sinners coming back to life with disgust, like ***-changing minds...I'm appalled by this. Modern demigods blinding clairvoyance with binding flamboyance, and it's hard to sense a touch of innocence there. If it's not the Flaming Sun, then why is it global tolerance for my people to perspire despair in such abundance here??
Dark Clouds cover the mission of Churches along with the diluted message, while Half-Brothers fail to spread their scriptures for searches to diffuse these sketches...

I don’t know what happened to my being.
Without the pain of a tormented life I can’t handle breathing.
It’s something that’s hard to keep conceiving, but why is every part of myself fleeting?
I don’t know how to gain what I once felt.
At least I feel more than just a shell.
But that doesn’t keep me from starting to dwell.
No one can go through this demented race, with their being so torn that it’s not even their true face.
So why do they keep it going?
It’s all lies that are unfolding.
Where the **** am I even going?
There’s no hope that’s showing.
I just want to feel the blade because death is the only salvation I’ll probably ever end up knowing.

The dispiriting prison bar is now your frontier,
What left your character drowned in blood,
The environment draws you with fear,
Your living corpse plunge to the befoul scud.

The critics, the juries, virtually invisible enemies,
You need to hear their loathe in the darkness,
Around all these hopeless entities,
It's a woeful depiction of inferno.

They got knives of deception and treachery,
As you turn your back, they stab, you kneel,
Wish you die in a blink, yet torture gradually,
You have entirely deviated the vocation to heal.

Victims learn from mistakes,
You never did,
They will hurt you again for all sakes,
But then you realize you're stuck amid.

in the midst of the whirlwind inside
that begat every jagged shard
of which the fragments—ever so carefully shattered—
remain the only reminiscent shadow of what once was
of your heart

that in spending time with you
come deafening bursts of menacing contemplation
bleak musings of pure despair
seemingly intent on dispiriting every bone in your flesh
absent a way to stifle blaring thoughts
amid such daunting solitude

one look in the mirror
paired with words of distaste—
for you seem never to pause for mutterings
other than that of repugnance—
a critic to your own, a belittler
to none other than self

that an unadorned you
bare, stripped down
i will know to love—
every sheer nook and cranny—
for who you are

the greatest terror
lies in digging deep inside of you
and what clandestinity it may reveal
for in my chiseling
a torment so immense will befall you
through which gales you ought to learn
the significance
of knowing how to hold your own hand
and walking you through such tempestuous bits
to learn to quiet your mind,
still your soul

for one does not simply stumble upon the
tranquil silence he yearns to be acquainted with
and the acceptance
he ever so wishfully aches for
but in the midst of such turbulence
i shall set out
to learn to love you
in spite of you

An angel of which is not to be seen by me,
But rather only heard.
A love none would comprehend.
A yellow coronation most would give,
But a rose I give,
Unique in its own power
Only the talented would think of,
And the passionate create,
The angel who saved Death,
Not only from the dispiriting job,
None would perceive,
But also from a life filled with pine trees and decaying leaves

Please, save me from home and our status quo zones
Where my dear and the misanthrope stay
Where sometimes is heard no dispiriting words
But the clouds are still cloudy all day

Home, home is so strange
Where my fear and the forlorn hope lay
Where is often is heard many recurring words
And I need to go outside and play

Healing from what was once a truth harmed
None but you have found your way
and a reconciled soul

Came to pass
in the ominous night
of dimly lit days

On the day
I set myself free
from the constant dispiriting show of puppetry
That is called madness

chose to create
the
whole

Resiliency. Renewed.

I saw the spirit of Dorthea Lange as I looked out my window two days ago.
It was not an accident. It was not an apparition. It is time for her spirit to
come again to the great American wasteland. It is time for Dorthea to prepare for another dispiriting, but at once brutal and honest, recording of the anguish and torment and crushing poverty that awaits so many of us in the near future. No, she will not be taking portraits of Bezos and Buffett and Gates and the other other American billionaires;  rather, her spirit will see again the homeless, the jobless, the hopeless, the hungry. the utterly forlorn and forsaken of millions of us in interminably long soup lines and fellow citizens lying on folded cardboard boxes on cold cement sidewalks of virtually every city
and town in our great America. Perhaps Dorthea will create another photographic classic like "The White Angel Breadline."  No doubt, the spirit of Dorthea will be joined by the spirits of the other photographers who chronicled the American misery of the Great Depression for the Farm Bureau Administration:  Walker Evans;  Gordon Parks;  Jack Delano;  Russell Lee;  Carl Mydans;  Arthur Rostein;  John Vachon;  Theo Jung;  Ben Shahn;  John Collier;  Marion Post Wolcott. The spirits of Dorthea and her colleagues will document again the scourge of rural poverty and the exploitation of sharecroppers and migrant workers.  Dorthea Lange's iconic "Migrant Mother" is the photographic equivalent of John Steinbeck's "The Grapes of Wrath." Steinbeck won a Nobel Prize for his literay canon. Dorthea Lange should have won a Nobel Prize for her photographic portfolio. Shortly, we all shall feel the presence of Dorthea and her fellow photograpers, for soon our fellow Americans will be without jobs, without homes, without food, without hope. In fact, the beginning of this abject disaster is aleady behind us, but we are blind to what is to become.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks