Recovery and Hope

Good morning, world. We are a different place today than we were just a few weeks ago. It’s a worrisome time, and not one death is unimportant. Not ONE.  All lives matter.   Life is precious.  Life is not guaranteed.  There is no rule that states that if we do this – or do that – our life is guaranteed.  There is no promise for a tomorrow. BUT – there is hope.

If we’ve learned anything from this COVID-19 virus is that’s we are all connected, we do not live on our own island and the world around us can’t or don’t affect us.  Yes, it does.  We are all part of the societal machine – we all effect the world around us in either in a negative or positive way, but we are all ‘essential’. 

In my recovery from this nasty virus, I can’t help but worry about the world around me.  Yes, I’m stressed like everyone else. Yes, I’m worried about the financial, social, and environmental effect this nasty virus is having on me, my family, and my neighbors.  Yes, I’m worried about the ultimate cost - not just of the direct effects of this virus – all the needless deaths, but of the emotional damage.  Those numbers are not just numbers – those are our neighbors, friends, mothers, fathers, grandmothers, grandfathers, aunts, uncles, sisters, brothers, daughters and sons that are dying.  This virus isn’t racist or prejudiced and attacks everyone, so it will require everyone in order to combat and kill it.

I am in recovery. My body is strong and it was the only weapon I had against this virus.  There is no antiviral, there are no antibiotics, and there is no cure.  All I could do was treat symptoms and help my body fight as hard as it could from this horrible enemy inside me.  My body is winning and my amazing and miraculous machine is producing its own natural antibodies destroying the enemy within and building up a protective immunity that will help me stay strong as this nasty bug continues to circulate through our world.

My heart breaks for those who had family and loved ones who did not overcome their battle.  All of them were precious lives.  I’ve been in a very strict quarantine, not just to protect myself as I fight this virus, but to protect others around me. There is hope. We will recover …from this virus.  Now, I must have hope we as a society will recover from the grief and pain of our loss.

Let us all love each other, be considerate of each other, and remember that we are all essential in our roles as neighbors. 

~T.L. Gray

Move On

Anytime something happens in my life, usually something tragic or a loss of someone I love, or the dissolution of a relationship, people always tell me to move on.  Move on?  What does that really mean, because that could mean a lot of different things to a lot of different people?  I was thinking about that this morning – moving on.

I suppose all of my life I’ve been moving …on – because I keep moving. I am always moving – either forward or backward. I’m growing or shrinking. I’m learning or wallowing in ignorance.  Well, if you really think it about it, I am always headed toward death.  If I stop and give up – I am digressing and dying. If I stop eating, I will die of hunger.  As I move forward and keep aging, I am slowly moving toward death – so I am essentially dying there too.  BUT, the difference is HOW I move toward my death, which is GOING to come.  Next week, if I make it that long (Scott’s workout is torture) I will have moved forty-eight years closer to my death. Pretty sobering, huh?

I’m not being somber here, just real, facing the facts.  Fact is …I am going to die. In my fantasies I’d like to go out in a blaze of glory, being with someone I love, filled with a sense of peace knowing I really lived and loved, and got to experience the best this life had to offer. Our definition of best will probably splinter at this point – but the best in life for me has NOTHING to do with stuff or accomplishments.  It has to do with love and the journey taken to achieve those accomplishments. I just want to be loved, I just want to love the people in my life, and I want to pursue something that fuels my passions. THAT’s it. I can do that in a mansion or a trailer, with a million or a penny.  Don’t make a difference to me – as long as love and purpose are present.

Life is a diamond and shaped with billions of angles.  It’s filled with pain and pleasure. Some of it I’d like to forget, but I can’t. What I can do is not wallow, not dwell, not stay stuck in that chaos – but move on.  Learn from it. I can’t forget the tragic shit.  I don’t want to forget it, because it was the fire that forged the steel that runs through my soul.  Moving on to me is being able to see things in an honest view – all the ugly and beauty of a thing, of a moment, of an experience, of a person, or of a lesson.  EVERYTHING has light and dark, good and bad. I can’t just look at part of a thing and truly understand it. I have to have balance and see all the facets to truly appreciate it.  That to me is moving on – seeing it (no matter the chaos) in its truth, accepting it in its truth, and then learning something about myself from it. 

My life has had some hard truth and it’s been hard to move on.  But, I had to accept it and see it, and learn from it, to honor it and what it means to me. James’ death, my childhood, my divorce, losing relationships are all hard truths. NO relationship in this world is ONLY beauty. EVERY relationship has its weaknesses, its flaws, its ugly – because we are human, we are mortal, we are complex beings filled with both dark and light.  To truly appreciate a relationship, I have to look at it in balance and truth. Fantasy, the idea of what we think a relationship should look like, is the biggest destroyer; false expectations. What we think a person should look like, how they should respond or be, how we should feel, etc.  We make our lists, we set our expectations and then our human counterparts don’t (can’t) live up the fantasy we created in our minds and we get disappointed.  If we looked at people and relationships in balance, see the good and bad, the light and dark, and accept people for who THEY truly are, not who we hope or want them to be, then we will have more successful relationships.

I’m not perfect (shhhh… don’t say that out loud). I don’t always do the right thing. I don’t look like a porn star or supermodel. I don’t have the world to offer on a silver platter.  I don’t have all the wisdom of knowing everything. But, if you strip away all those vain, stupid, unimportant, shallow issues, and look deep at my soul – I think I’m fucking amazing. I love with my whole heart. I give all of me to everything I do. I learn from my mistakes. I own my choices.  I am loyal. I am faithful to myself and the people I love. I am a fighter. I am a survivor. I’ve learned to learn. I’ve learned to move on – to move in life – to keep going forward, not forgetting, but keep moving. My tomorrow is not guaranteed.  I may not be here in the next minute, so I believe with my whole heart that I just have to live the best life I can live, and never take a day for granted, or a person for granted, or a passion for granted. Love me or don’t. I’m going to keep moving on till I have no more breath.

A Warrior Weeps

for Scott

In silence, I saw a long shadow cast upon the ground as a warrior stood proud and tall,

With one long look upon her breathless form, to his knees I saw this fierce fighter fall.

No longer stood the man so brave and tough, but a little boy took his place as he cried,

He fought through the grief and the pain that overwhelmed him, to say to her his final good-byes.

He held her hand, caressed her face, and through teary eyes looked upon her full of love and grace,

This was his first friend, his guiding light, and in the storms of his life she was his anchor,

This was his first ever love, his North Star

… this was his mother.

How was he to face another day without her, to breathe, or even speak out loud?

Did he do enough, did he say enough, could he be enough to really make her proud?

As he kissed her forehead, I saw a broken-hearted little boy down on his knees so small.

Yet, silence and noise, reality and dream, gave way as this warrior once again stood tall.

In Remembrance of Elizabeth A. Vanaria – who passed away Saturday at 1:00 am on July 6, 2019

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray

Someday

I love this meme with Charlie Brown and Snoopy. Chuck is just being real, laying it all out there and sharing with his best friend that he understands his reality. He’s having that existential moment and struggle with his mortality, like we all face at times.  We are all going to die. Oh man, that is so simple, yet so profound, and really sucks!  Though I’ve technically died twice, there is a final death waiting for us all. We only get (1) one life.  ONE. That’s it! Sure, there are faiths, beliefs, and theories that profess we come back again and again – but right now, as me (Tonya), that stubborn-ass girl born on a hot July back in the early 70’s – I get ONE trip on this big blue ball as the flesh and blood woman sitting here this morning typing this blog post. But how long do I have? Who knows?  It could be another half century, or just a few more minutes.  We have no control over that. When our time comes – Death will come and claim his soul.  But what kind of soul will that be?

For a Beagle, Snoopy is one profound puppy.  He has this silent strength about him.  If you notice, Snoopy doesn’t respond with his emotions, but with controlled wisdom.  He is often silent, yet profound. I’m the opposite. I’m very vocal, passionate, and extremely expressive on both sides of the optimist and pessimist coin.  I’m like Chuck, always questioning the universe. Always pondering the mysteries of life. Always seeking the answers to my issues, but there’s not always a Lucy with her $.05 stand to answer my questions.  I believe a Snoopy has recently come into my life that doesn’t speak much, but when he does – he speaks with a profound truth – a controlled truth, a truth often void of emotional strings. It’s refreshing, and helps tether my emotional balloons.  I really hope he knows how much I appreciate him.

Snoopy’s wisdom reminds me to look at what’s important in life. It really hit home with me this morning.  Truth – is so profound in and of itself.  Snoops doesn’t deny the truth in Chuck’s proclamation, but affirms it.  TRUE – we will all die someday, BUT … man, wow …but on ALL the OTHER DAYS we will NOT.  Boom! That’s it folks.  THAT is the fucking key to life.  We have to live – really fucking live on all those other days. We have to choose to live. We have to choose to look at the bright side – the optimistic side.  Don’t worry about that ONE day, be in the moment of all the other days.  Take the leap. Eat the cake.  Kiss the girl. Be grateful and thankful and appreciate the world around you and the people that make those days good and bearable. Love each other. Love yourself. Stop hiding behind fear and stress and anxiety and pessimistic outlooks.  Cut the bullshit out of your life. Stop clinging to the excuses.  So what if you fuck up and make a mistake? So what if you get hurt? So what if you fail? Failure is just an opportunity to try again or try something else.  Jump!

My friend wrote something the other day about all the pessimistic fears, lies, and worries the mind, the body, and the ego says to us on a constant basis– but the heart had the key – the heart had the single optimistic profound message that outweighed the mind, body and ego all together.  “Hooyah” says the heart. Hooyah, indeed. Maybe my friend will send me his quote and I can share it with the world.  It’ll hit the center of your soul with its profound message.

There’s a world out there – and we all have a life to live.  Live it.  Chase those dreams. Time is limited, so live life now. James and I made so many dreams together, but his day came swiftly.  Since then, I’ve been doing the best I can to live the best life I can to fulfill those dreams we made knowing there’s no promise for tomorrow. I won’t wait for tomorrow, because I know the truth – sometimes my tomorrow, my day, will come. But on all the other days – it will not and so today I say, “Hooyah!”

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray

Where the Dead Things Are

*New original short story Where the Dead Things Are© by T.L. Gray  - Part One

My Mama once told me, "If a man only wants to see you when the sun goes down, he's a vampire. Baby, run away. He'll bite you, leave you all mesmerized until he drains you of everything that makes you alive, and then he'll toss you into his collection of other dead things." She told me that once while braiding my hair. I remember looking into a dirty, smoke-stained mirror, watching vacant eyes stare off at nothing with a cigarette hanging out the side of pale thin lips. I can still see those small jagged lines along the edges displaying leftover bits of dark red lip stick. She looked younger when she smiled, but she hardly ever smiled.

Of course, my wild imaginative mind took the story literally to heart and in my youthful naivety found myself fascinated with the supernatural; vampires especially. Then after Mama died a few years later, I became obsessed with stories about death. However, I look back on that moment and realize she wasn’t talking about vampires at all, not really. I never thought Mama had much sense, but as I’ve met my own sort of vampire and found myself struggling to climb out of this cavernous pit of death, I now realize she was much deeper than I ever gave her credit.

Looking down at the shimmering Vodka, I see my dark red lipstick mark along the glass lip and can’t stop Mama’s words from echoing in the deep part of my mind. How did I get here? When did I lose myself and turn into Mama? Where had my soul gone? Will I find it among all the dead things?

I can tell you the exact moment, the particular hour, the definitive minute everything changed. It all started with the sound of tires slowly crunching over gravel as he pulled into my driveway. My heart started beating so fast I thought it would literally jump out my chest. It sounded too loud and I wondered if he’d be able to hear it. I quickly checked my underarms for moisture, because I was nervous as a chicken in a fox hole. My body may have been hot, but thank goodness I was dry and smelled like fresh flowers. My cinnamon breath caught as I gasped, almost letting out a small squeal as I heard the car door open and then close again. I never heard the engine at all. It’s like he floated in on a dream.

With shaky legs, I walked out the French doors that led to my patio-porch, and then to the privacy gate. He’d parked his car just on the other side. I could see the light green hue of his exterior between the fence slats before I caught a glimpse of him. It was only a slither of a glance of one of his long, bronze skinny legs sticking out a pair of basketball shorts, but I was transfixed. I tried to calm my breath as I opened the gate, but there was no controlling it. I’d lost it completely. It evaporated from my lungs altogether when my gaze locked onto those dark, brown, mesmerizing eyes and that soft crooked smile. The setting sun behind me cast a golden spotlight on his beautiful caramel skin, highlighting his chiseled face, full lips, and aura of authority. He looked like a god bathed in glory and I felt myself wanting to fall to my knees in worship. I mean I literally felt like falling when my knees suddenly buckled beneath me. I had to grab the wooden gate to keep the ground from jumping up and slapping me in the face.

Sometimes I wonder if he knew the effect he had on me. I doubted it, but I often wondered, still do. He always had a way of bringing the hidden things out of me, and reflecting my own image back at me when I tried so hard to focus on his. He didn’t have one. He was a mystery, yet something I understood without words, without explanation, and I loved him deeply. I still do. But he left me where the dead things are, tossed me to the side once he’d drained me of all the vibrant life I had once held. But I’m not without hope, not without magic. That’s what’s brought me to this bar in the middle of nowhere. I’m trying to escape, trying to save the last bit of my soul, trying to put some distance between me and him so that I may one day find the strength to resist him, breaking the power he has over me, and crawl out of this place of dead things. He doesn’t want me, but doesn’t want to let me go either.

I threw back the shot of vodka, feeling the burn all the way down my throat and settle into the emptiness of my stomach. Alcohol on an empty stomach always hurt, but it also helped the numbness rush in faster. I glanced down at my watch and realized the sun had surely already set outside. I needed to be on my way. He’d be able to find me. If he ever found me, I know I’d never have the strength to resist him. I pulled the small wad of twenty dollar bills I’d kept in my front jeans pocket. Slapped one down on the bar and then threw back the last of three shots I’d ordered. I wiped my soft lips with the back of my shaking hand and walked out of that dead place filled with other dead people, into a city where all the dead things are. Yet, I’m a survivor, and though too faint to hear, my heart still beats.

Happiness

Happiness. Is it real? Does it really exist? What does it look like? What does it consist? What are the rules, parameters, stipulations? How can something undefined, unsolidified exist? How can something so distinctly relative and individually interpreted be definable in any common sense or in a general definition?

According to Webster’s Dictionary, happiness is the state of being happy; an experience that makes you happy. But, what is happy? Again, Merriam-Webster declares that happy is an adjective that means feeling pleasure and enjoyment because of your life, situation, etc.; showing or causing feelings of pleasure and enjoyment; pleased or glad about a particular situation, event, etc.

Well, then everyone in the world has had such moments, even the most depraved, repressed, depressed, enslaved person has at one time or another experienced such moments. But, does that make them happy?

A writer friend of mine, Tom Piccirilli, well, more or less a writer acquaintance of mine, passed away a few days ago. I had the pleasure of interviewing him last year for West Georgia Living Magazine. I think fondly on our interview, on his appreciative words about my article, on his gifts as a wonderful writer. His wife posted about his passing today on his Facebook account. My heart broke that he had finally lost his battle with cancer, but it wasn’t sadness I felt when reading his wife’s words, it was something deeper than that, something precious. I was being shown what happiness was in the midst of grief. His wife spoke of the happy years they had together. Sure they had plenty of bad times and bad moments, he battled cancer – it was tough, but they spent those times together, loving each other, supporting one another, and that is what made them happy. Bad moments couldn’t destroy their overall happiness; they didn’t matter.

I remember loving James during the most stressful time of my life, and when he died and the darkness settled in on me, that’s when I knew I had been happy right in the middle of the struggles. I have many, many happy moments with my kids: I remember playing outside in the rain with them, splashing in the mud, lying in bed telling them stories, slip-n-sliding in kitchen floor (it was my way of mopping), smack-talking during a board or card game, having Guitar Hero competitions, letting them show me how to pop waves on the jet ski, playing the clean-up-race-game, dressing up in costumes for a mid-night book release party, and so on and so forth. My kids loved me and I loved them... and I was really happy.

Things change. People grow up, lives get disrupted, and some leave this world and leave us behind. My world has changed so much in the last few years and I’ve shed quite a few tears because of it, but you know what… I’m still happy, I still know happiness, it’s just in different things and comes in different ways. It’s never in what I think it should or would be. I’m kinda lost trying to figure out who I am and where I belong. Happiness, for me, is now found in a random text, while killing aliens, in an occasional touch, in a sweet kiss, or in a simple embrace. Some days I’m so sad I can’t breathe, but even in that I find happiness.

I can’t go back and grab happiness from anything in my past. Those things don’t work for my present. I can’t sit and wait for happiness to happen, because it’s not something you can make happen, and tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. It’s a present state of being, regardless of feelings, because of what is happening here and now. I’m learning happiness comes from loving and being loved… and I love very much, and am loved very much. Is it ideal, how I think I should be, or consists of what I should do, or wrapped in a way I think it should come? Does it matter? No. I can’t fit my life into the shape, the mold, or the ideal of anything other than what it is. It’s crazy. It’s odd. It’s different. It’s unconventional. It’s weird. It clashes with every group of society and I’m really sick and tired of trying to make it fit somewhere. I don’t fit in, and those strange creatures who don’t often understand why they love me, love me for all that I am. They can’t seem to get rid of me, but they can’t define me either. Doesn’t matter… as long as they love me, I’m happy.

Should I leave this world tomorrow… know that I lived today and I was happy.

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray

One Last Night

*A Flash Fiction Piece by T.L. Gray*


Gray clouds billow above the white foamy surf as fog rolls like a trampling stampede upon the surface of the cerulean sea. The crash of waves upon the rocks reminds me of my lovers tryst; the sea spray our wild release. I stand at the widow, staring out at the cold, magical, monochromatic morning, my chest heavy with sorrow, but no regret.

The view before me blurs amid the hot, silver tears as they fill my eyes. I flush as each warm memory fills my mind’s eye. I wrap my arms tight around me and let the images take me back, take me into our one last night.

~

Dark eyes stared into my soul, undressing me, exposing the deepest part of me, stealing my breath.

Strong, gentle fingers slowly traced the side of my face, moving slowly down my neck, and onto my shoulders, shakily leaving a trail of prickling anticipation and sweet adoration.

I shivered.

He smiled.

I let go.

Two hearts beat in unison as our bodies converged into one, staring into each other’s eyes, feeling the love, forgetting the world outside. Nothing else existed. Nothing else mattered. Giving. Receiving. Loving. Worshipping. Sharing. No words. No promises. No lies.

My eyes grew heavy as my head rested on his chest, listening to his strong heartbeat, feeling the comforting warmth of his arms wrapped around me, his fingers gently caressing me. A perfect moment.

I didn’t look back as he left. I couldn’t.

~

I now stand empty, cold, and alone. I can still hear his gentle breathing and feel the lingering sting of his touch, but only as ghosts and silhouettes. I walk toward those cold, crashing waves, letting go of my will, my fight, my resolve, shedding my earthly shell and the last tendrils of my humanity. I disappear into the abyss.

Death holds his bony fingers out toward me and asks, “Was it worth it, your one last night?”

I take his hand, look up at him, and smile, “What night?”

Sun-Kissed

I hear the sound of the pouring rain outside my office and I can’t stop the smile forming across my face. The tempest outside is loud. It’s hard. It wonderfully glorious. Not because I particularly like the rain, which I do, but because I feel as though my naked soul stands beneath a majestic downpour filled with new grace, new life, and new beginnings. I’ve carried around the ashes of grief long enough. I feel light. I feel …ready.

For the first time in my life my present, my life, and my future belong to me, and only me. I’m alive. I’m free. I won’t be chasing dead dreams, but dreaming new ones.

Love me, hate me, envy me, or despise me – I honestly don’t care. Just watch me - amazing things are happening!!!!!!!

It was once prophesied over me that I had been called before I was born, marked and targeted; that my life would be shattered into a million pieces; that there were several tentacle arms reaching out to grab and bind me and keep me from my mission; and that like a ship I would be dashed upon the rocks and left for dead. Yet a tempest would come and wash away the debris and I would rise from the wreckage with 9 stars above my head, sun-kissed, strong, wielding a sword, with coal-touched lips filled with words of fire that would weave its way through the universe and touch the hearts and minds of kings and priests.

When I heard that prophecy the creative writer in me thought it’d make for a good story, but was certain the minister who gave it must clearly be mistaken, confused, and perhaps a little crazy. But those words have never left me. I’d laugh them off at times, chuckle at their absurdity, roll my eyes at their sensationalism, and shake my head. I have no idea what it even means, but perhaps there’s something subconsciously inside me that likes the rain because I’m clinging to a hope for this prophesied relief.

It doesn’t matter. Whether the prophecy is real or a joke, I feel my soul dancing in the rain. I have been shattered, abandoned and broken as I tangled with death – death of a dream, death of a promise, death of a marriage, and death of a friendship – yet I’m still alive. Even cancer couldn’t defeat me.

What do I do now?

I LIVE!

Till next time,



~T.L. Gray

What Does Your Rockwell Look Like?

I love Norman Rockwell paintings. I think they’re probably some of the best artwork out there, in my opinion. I’m by no means an art expert, but his work NEVER ceases to make me stop, pause, ponder, and feel. Isn’t that the purpose of an artist? I’m an artist too – I paint with words. Sometimes I produce masterpieces, sometimes garbage, most of the time it’s something in between.


Anyway.


How we see the world, how we see truth, how we see each other, how we see nature, science, faith, justice… all these various views stem from who we are, where we are, and what we have, are, or will experience in this life. How I see things today is not how I saw them at 5, or any age in between. The pictures have been colored in more, the lines have become more defined, delicate and broad brush strokes have been added, techniques have been developed and experience has happened. Also, time has moved – aging the older paint, making the fresh paint even more prominent.


I think about death and life. I step back and look at the picture I’ve painted. There are a lot of black and white, sharp images, dark images, but there’s also vibrant colors, soft strokes, and beautiful pastels. But what does the big picture show?


The way Rockwell is able to capture a time, place, feeling, and ideal in his art, you can clearly see the story he’s trying to tell – and it’s a beautiful story. It’s an ideal story, one that I’ve longed for most of my life. In my crazy, mixed up, violent world – I’ve always dreamed of a Rockwell existence. I almost had that kind of world, once. I had all the appearance – the look, the sound, the image, the right job, the right family, the right standing in the community. The only thing missing was real passion and love.


Why are we such cowards? We cling so tightly to our ideals, we miss moments of adding a beautiful stroke of brilliant color to our pictures by being afraid to love one another. We think love makes us weak, but it’s our greatest strength. Love is what makes all the difference. Love is what colors our pictures. I may not live to see tomorrow. Every day is a gift. I don’t want to die alone and unloved, or having missed an opportunity to love someone else. We only get one life. There is no do-over. Paint your life with lots and lots of love – and throw all that other garbage (expectations, philosophies, religion, tradition, rules) out. What does your Rockwell look like?

Etching Scars Upon Our Souls

There’s something inside me, a certain flickering flame, one that for a brief period of time burned really bright. So bright, in fact, it threatened to consume everything inside and around me. With both feet, I surrendered to it. It was magnificent, wonderful, and greater than anything I could ever imagine. But it was only for a moment. Over the past year it’s been dying. I felt it slipping away from me. Every day it grew smaller, colder, and darker. Every once in a while It would flare, just for a second, before it dimmed even more. The difference is that I’m not doing anything to stop it, now. I’ve done everything I could. I don’t understand why it has to be this way, but I’m praying it will hurry and die completely.

I can close my eyes, hear a particular song, or come across a familiar scent and instantly be transported back to that particular moment when that flame burned it’s hottest. I can still feel myself shaking as I stood on that curb, and in the background heard the sound of jet engines. It’s like an adrenaline sting - ice and fire at the same time. I’ve tried to hang onto that feeling for as long as I could, but I’ve finally reached a point - to let it go.

Recently, I’ve sought to see if another flame could be lit in its place. For a brief moment, the band-aid held. While there were definite sparks, there was also something missing inside. I’ve felt this emptiness before. It’s familiar. It’s the same numbness and void I felt standing in a little restaurant many years ago staring down at a set of dog tags. I can still hear the sound of those tags clanging against one another, reflecting the sunlight off their dented faces, sliding around along the riveted chain that held them. They made a distinct sound. Even to this day I can’t breathe when I think of that moment. What I find odd, I pass that little restaurant almost every day now – and though it’s closed, I can still feel the pain of that moment as if it were yesterday.

There are some moments in our lives that create these shadows, imprints, rifts in the universe, etching scars upon our souls. They never go away. Some are good, some are bad, all are significant. This is yet another scar. But as I have survived the others of my past, so too will I rise above this one. This latest burned brighter than all the ones before. Perhaps the next one will consume me completely.

Till next time,



~Scarred Soul

Liars and Thieves

The world if full of liars and thieves,

Wearing masks of deception,

Hearts beating with corruption,

Sowing seeds of reprobation,

With no concern for the diseased harvest they produce.

Selfish!

In their drunkenness,

They don’t see the faces full of hunger,

The sallow skin,

The hollow eyes,

The need for somebody to rise up and give a fuck,

To have the courage to speak the truth.

The game is full of liars and thieves,

Rolling shaved dice,

Dealing marked cards,

All the while holding loaded guns beneath the table.

Indifferent!

The poisoned food is eaten by the children,

The bullets fly stray,

Landing in the hearts of the hopeful.

Fuck you, World.  You’re nothing but a liar and a thief.

Till next time,

~Disillusioned No More

The Pick Up Line

Here's a snippet of my latest publication.  It's one of my favorite short stories.  Please visit RoadsideFiction.com and check it out and the rest of the awesome stories published there.

Here's a snippet:

The Pick Up Line’ by T.L. Gray


Sidney couldn’t get her Mustang to go fast enough around the twisting, winding, and lonely back roads. She did all she could to avoid the traffic of interstates frequented by worker bees and corporate zombies, choosing instead to take the long route. Lost in thought of the life she’d fled, the roadside bar suddenly appeared like a ghost in the misty rain.

She turned off the car’s engine and gazed blankly at the dilapidated building. Her body ached all over as she climbed out of the car and walked toward the entrance. Sidney reached for the rusted knob on the ramshackled door. Just before she touched it, she hesitated, took a deep breath, and wrapped her fingers around the knob.

The name Jake’s splayed in cracked, faded red paint across the face of the muddied panes. It wasn’t a hip or happening place judging from the lack of cars in the graveled parking lot, but it looked the way she felt – neglected, forgotten, and run down. She opened the door and stepped into darkness.

As her eyes adjusted to the surroundings, Sidney cast a glance over the place, pleased to find it almost deserted. A middle-aged, fat, bald, brawny brute stood behind the bar staring up at a flat monitor on the wall. He threw a quick glance at her, but immediately returned his attention back to the basketball game. Another man, younger than the bartender, sat at the far end, his fingers tapping his beer bottle in tandem with this right leg bobbing up and down. He seemed consumed with the game playing across the screen.- See more at:

http://roadsidefiction.com/index.php/the-pick-up-line-by-t-l-gray/#sthash.ThOZiqcy.dpuf

Flirting With Death

I’m a natural flirt.  Most of the time my flirting means absolutely nothing and I have only playful intentions.  When men sometimes respond to my flirtations, I’m often surprised and can’t understand where their interest is coming from, because I just see myself as being funny. In that sense I often flirt with everyone, even women, and I’m in no way gay.  I don’t have anything against being gay, I’m just not personally attracted to women.  Quite the contrary. I definitely like manly men, tough guys, not big bulky guys, but tough attitudes, confidence, intelligence, with a high nerd factor. A soldier’s uniform will make me do a double take in a heartbeat. Okay, I’m getting off topic.  That’s a post for another day (which I should write soon for my New Bachelorette: Dating over 40 series).

But what I want to talk about this morning is ‘flirting with Death’.  In my observations there are many of us who flirt with Death regularly, even if we don’t know it.  We can be the happiest, most confident person, but have this twisted sense of adventure – tempting Death, daring him to notice us.  We often don’t realize that’s what we’re doing, but it is and it’s what brings that thrill we’re looking for.

I tempt Death with all my extreme activities.  I regularly participate in outdoor events that require a personal health waiver. Why is it such a thrill for me?  In my meditation this morning, I’ve come to realize it’s because I’m flirting with the off limits, even Death himself, because testing my mortality makes me feel most alive. I’m not claiming it’s rational or even sensible, just the facts of the matter.

I’ve seen many of my friends flirting with Death by looking for a certain feeling, for that spark of life.  They go from person to person being very sexually promiscuous, never using protection, all because they’re frustrated with life and unsatisfied.  They love the meet, the thump of the beat, the dance, and the fantasy,  but when the song changes, they change partners and keep dancing.  They’re facing Death with every dance; not only theirs, but their partners too.

I’ve seen soldiers who’ve been in combat desire to be back on the front lines.  They become frustrated with their mundane, everyday routine so they seek thrills in many various ways, pushing themselves to extreme limits.

We all want to feel alive.  But what we need to realize is that we don’t have to flirt with Death to do it.  He’s nondiscriminatory. He’s definitely not the answer.  I will continue to seek my thrills.  But as I’m become happier with myself and my life, tempting Death isn’t as much an appeal to me.  I’ve got too much to live for.  Will I let it keep me grounded?  Hell no!  But I will smile at Death with more respect.  Should he one day claim me, I hope it will be as friends after a well-lived life.

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray  

More of Heaven

Many of you that have followed this blog for some time have heard some of the ugly stories of the life I grew up in and the violence I had witnessed.  I have every human reason to hate, to be angry, to be a victim - yet I choose love.  Because of the hell I’ve experienced, I strive to fill my life with things that make this world beautiful, to feel a bit of heaven in the here and now.  I don’t care if you believe in Heaven or Hell, God or gods, or no god at all.  That’s not what this post is about.  I’m so sick of religion. I’m so sick of people hurting, killing, and being hateful to one another in the name of their religion – whether it be Muslim, Jew, Christian, Atheist, Liberal, Feminist, Conservative, Scientist, Gay, Straight, Black, White, or Zombie Survivalist … I’m sick of it all.  Everyone speaks for their god – but no one listens.  Their agenda is not about loving each other as human beings, but about being ‘right’.

I have my faith, and that belief is between me and my god, and it’s really none of anyone else’s business.  I share my beliefs with those  I consider my friends and are close to me, but I never try to force my faith or beliefs on them, or judge them for their own should it differ from mine.  I have to say, I’m pretty proud of the fact that I’m surrounded by beautiful people who love me and walk in many different faiths and beliefs.  I’m not threatened or offended by our differences. I embrace them and cherish our individuality.

It truly breaks my heart to see all this anger and hate in the world.  I know, I know… there’s no more hate now than there has ever been throughout history.  Each generation, each culture, each race, and each faith has their own horrid story of hate.  It still makes my stomach turn to know many of my ancestors were slaves and dehumanized, others were herded into gas chambers like cattle, and others were starved, abused, and tortured for standing up for their beliefs.  I’ve watched young girls being bought and sold as sex slaves, seen fathers and brothers shot during bad drug deals, mothers separated from their crying children to be hauled off to prison, women raped, men brutally beaten, and no one there to save them or make a difference.  For so many years I hated the idea of God because these things existed. I accused Him for their existence and found the whole world guilty of hypocrisy and lies.  I then realized I could be another one of those hypocrites, or I can choose to love instead.  I’m not saying there aren’t things I dislike, because I do, but I don’t allow hate to consume me.  I see people as human beings first before anything else.

What you may not know about me is that I’ve died twice, at least twice I know about and remember.  Perhaps more if some of the stories I heard as a child are true – like having to be rushed to the hospital at 6 months because I stopped breathing and turned blue – was told I almost succumbed to SIDS (Sudden Infant Death Syndrom) or riding on top of a car at 5 as my 6-year old brother drove through a field and a barbed-wire fence with me on top.  My childhood is filled with such stories of danger, (Wow, I think I understand where my desire for extreme activities come from now.)yet I am still alive.  But that has not always been the case.

When I was 4-years old I was attacked by a neighbors Doberman Pincher.  I received over 114 stitches in my head (I have a nasty scar as a reminder).  I remember the moment of the attack.  I remember the hospital.  I remember what it felt like when I stopped feeling, stopped hearing, stopped seeing, stopped smelling and stopped hurting.  I didn’t see a white tunnel or a bright light, but I did hear someone call me and I remember a feeling.  I can still feel it right now.  I can’t describe it, not in any sense to give it justice, only it was a knowing, a completeness, and what I believe was love.  

Before I get back to this feeling, let me tell you of the second time I died.  This is an incident I’ve rarely share with anyone.  I still have the scar on my chest where adrenaline was jabbed into my heart to get it restarted.  Seeing it reminds me sometimes that I’m human, fragile and mortal. But I’d really like to forget that day if I could.  I remember looking into the blue sky not being able to breathe and knowing I was about to die.  I saw all the lights around me dim, first to gray and then to complete blackness.  All sound faded.  All feeling evaporated.  I realized I didn’t need to breathe anymore. Again, no tunnel, no white light, just a knowing of who I was – not who I thought I was.  I had no name, yet I was known.  I had no body, yet I existed.  I was complete and filled with love.

I believe this feeling I felt is what we often think of as heaven. Not a place to go after we die if we’re good enough, but a place that is here and now and accessible when we love one another. The reason I believe this has nothing to do with religion, but everything to do with being able to feel glimpses of that same feeling during different moments in my life.  I feel it sometimes in a smile, in a touch, in an expression of affection, in an act of kindness from a stranger or someone I care about, or in a moment of bravery.  I’ve felt it while lying in a pair of strong arms listening to a heartbeat.  I’ve felt in gentle kiss. I’ve felt it watching someone care about someone else.

I was never loved by my parents or my family when these two moments happened.  I didn’t know what love was – but I have searched for it, searching for this particular feeling ever since.  The more I found it in the world, the less angry and hateful I became.  I still have work to do, I still have walls and defenses and wounds, but I never stop hoping to fill my life with more of this love… more of this heaven.

Recently I told a friend of mine that feelings lie, feelings change, and that I don’t trust them.  He said I was retarded sometimes and wondered how such a smart person could be so obtuse.  He added that I was amazing - one big contradiction of contradictory contradictions, and said, “You’ve been hurt so much you absolutely forgot how to be positive.” I, of course, disagreed with him.  Don’t you just love it when somebody tells you something about yourself, but you didn’t see it, and then all of a sudden you see it and hate that they were right?

I had forgot about that feeling, until I felt it slowly sinking into my very bones as I felt a pair of strong arms around me and I listened to a steady heartbeat and fell asleep.  I don’t sleep much, but especially when other people are around, but I fell asleep wrapped in that feeling – the same feeling I felt both times I died. If that was heaven, I want more.  Most of all I want the world to want this heaven too and to stop hating one another.  Stop killing our children, stop putting babies and animals in overheated cars, stop stealing our young women and forcing them into sexual slavery, stop poisoning and bombing each other, just stop it, stop it, stop it.  Fight for your cause, but not each other.  Fight for your faith, but not at the cost of humanity.  Fight for your freedom, but not at the price of someone else’s enslavement.

There are people in this world I don’t like.  There are evil people who I fear have no hope of redemption because they possess no soul.  I’m not naïve, I’m just hopeful in a hopeless world.  I simply want more of heaven.

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray

Complicated Simplicity

How much pain can a person truly handle before they break?  A person can break, I’ve seen it, experienced it, and am not convinced once broken we can ever be whole again.  But can we survive?

The hardest part of my faith for me is to trust that God will not allow more than I can handle.  That is His promise.  That is a promise I don’t understand.  It seems simple enough, but complexity and simplicity often happen at the same time.  Complicated Simplicity. What an oxymoron.

I’ve looked into the eyes of a person and saw fire - flames of life burning in them so bright they can’t help but make the world around them sparkle with hope, joy, laughter. It’s easy to believe in those moments in that promise.

I’ve also looked into a pair of eyes and witnessed such pain and depravation and literally watched the color of their irises dull and their whole countenance pale in despair. This is when we hope for that promise most of all.

I’ve also looked into a pair of eyes as their souls slipped away and death consumed them. It’s not something that can really be explained, nor is it something I would recommend.  Where is the promise here?

All these experiences leave behind scars… a tendril of essence that becomes recognizable when you see it operating in all the other sets of eyes in the world.  I truly do believe the eyes are the windows to a person’s soul.  I want to hold onto that promise, but I doubt, and I waiver, and I fear.

When my walls are up I avoid allowing people to look into my eyes.  When my walls are down I seek as much eye contact as possible. Our bodies can lie.  Our mouths can lie.  Our hands can lie.  Our thoughts can lie.  Our feelings are often the biggest liars of all.  But the eyes… the eyes can’t lie.  In this new technological world, it’s becoming easier to lie because we feel comfortable behind our screens.  Black font replaces our attempts to conceal our eyes, mostly from ourselves.  Again, another example of Complicated Simplicity.

 What complicated-simple truth would my eyes say today?  I’m reminded of a quote from my first published novel where Cain rolls over, away from the fire, away from the view of his new friend.  Tears spill out the corner of his eyes and he whispers, “No more.  I can bear no more.” Unlike my character Cain, I’m not immortal. I can break.

There was a moment when I opened my eyes this morning.  A brief moment - where time stood still and the universe turned toward me, and waited for an answer.  I had a choice.  Live or leave.  Fight or give up.  All thoughts left my mind.  All feeling left my body.  Then I heard my spirit singing the soft echo of a song I haven’t heard in years from a group called Switchfoot …. http://youtu.be/jE-Krlqi4fk

Welcome to the planet.

Welcome to existence.

Everyone’s here.  Everyone’s here.

Everybody’s watching you now.

Everybody waits for you now.

What happens next?  What happens next?



I dare you to move!

I dare you to move!

I dare you to lift yourself up off the floor!

I dare you to move!

I dare you to move!

Like today never happened, today never happened before.



Welcome to the fall out.

Welcome to resistance.

The tension is here.  The tension is here.

Between who you are and who you could be.

Between how it is and how it should be.



I dare you to move!

I dare you to move!

I dare you to lift yourself up off the floor!

I dare you to move!

I dare you to move!

Like today never happened, today never happened before.



Maybe redemption is stories to tell.

Maybe forgiveness is right where you fell.

Where can you run to escape from yourself?

Where you gonna go?  Where you gonna go?

Salvation is here.



I moved.  I got up. I put my feet on the floor.  I breathed.   So complex, yet so simple. Today, I’m still broken but I’m alive.  So, yesterday was not more than I could handle. I’m not saying I handled it well, just that I survived.

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray

Never Satisfied

One of my good friends always complains to me that I’m never satisfied.  It hurts my heart they feel this way, because it often upsets them.  I’m sure it makes them feel like their efforts toward me, and the love they’ve invested in me, are being wasted.  I’m often at a loss for words when they express their frustration, because it’s hard to explain to them exactly how much their effort and love mean to me. 

They are right.  I’m not satisfied, and that’s a purposeful effort, and a hard one to maintain. 

When I was younger and filled with hope, despite how dark life was around me, I fought hard against accepting the life offered, and refused to be satisfied with the hopelessness I was being fed.  I knew I deserved a better life and wanted more, so I fought against prejudice, oppression, and abuse, seeking a better life, a life worth living for, a life of happiness, peace and respect.  I nearly killed myself in this pursuit, both physically and spiritually. 

Somewhere along the way I lost love for myself and zeal to fight. I began to die.  I forgot about that feisty little rebel and became a zombie – going through the motions but dead on the inside.  Thanks to a spark of life and the blossoming love I’m building for myself, and the love I’ve received from my dear friends, and the love I have for them, I’m being reborn.  I’m fighting for myself. I’m fighting for my future. I’m fighting for my dreams.

So, NO – I’m not satisfied.  I hope to always want more. I hope to always seek better. I will never get enough, because as soon as I receive some of the good, I’m going to want more. My friend gives me the good, beautiful things in life. How could I not want more? That doesn’t mean I don’t have the deepest of love and appreciation for what I’ve been given.  On the contrary - without their love, support, and belief in me I wouldn’t be growing and fighting as I am.  Their efforts mean the WORLD to me and I love them dearly for it.

I know I need to find a way to show that appreciation so my friends don’t feel my lack of satisfaction is some failure on their part.  They have not failed me, and I hope beyond hope not to fail them. Mostly, I don’t want to let them or myself down. I’m content with their love and friendship, but I’ll never be satisfied. I will always want more of them, their love, their efforts, their concern, their care, their dreams, their opinions, their advice, their comfort, their presence, and their laughter. They are good enough, more than good enough, they are excellence… and I still want more.

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray

Lost Words

Sometimes I sit and ponder about all the great stories that have been told in the past now lost and forgotten.  Just the mere thought of it makes my stomach tighten and my heart ache, much in the same way I feel when I pass by an old, dilapidated graveyard.  I know, I'm one of those strange people who do strange things, but it's who I am.

Have you ever visited an old graveyard?  I sometimes walk around and stop at a headstone I can barely make the letters and dates.  I then speak the name etched into the headstone out loud, so that the person who once lived, even for just a tiny moment, their name lives once more and is released into the universe.  It makes me sad because I'll think about whose bones may lie beneath and the surface and it brings my own mortality into focus. 

When I die, which is a natural certainty, how long will I be remembered?  If I'm lucky, perhaps a generation; If I'm really lucky and had been well loved, then perhaps two. At the rate I'm going, I'm banking on a week, if that.   But most people, their lives are but for a flash in this world, and unless they've made some huge impact WHEN they lived, they will soon be forgotten, in the same way those old books and manuscripts turn into dust and fade from our existence.  As for infants who lived and died quickly and suddenly, their impact even less. 

So, there's a part of me that wants to leave something behind. I have five publications in print and hope, as well as others I write, will leave an impact when I'm gone ...at least for a little while.  Of course, that's hoping for the best, because those works are often forgotten and I'm still very much alive. 

Just thought I'd leave you something to think about.

Till next time,

~T.L. Gray

Picture: http://vimark.deviantart.com/