The Continuing Rising of Waters

The Continuing Rising of Waters

For as the sea rushes to the shore and we are buffeted by its
waves, we again become familiar with the play of the mind.

2

“I see the words,” he said to me, “but I’m not sure what they mean. Should I study them?
“Why? There’s nothing to be read in them “But,” he said, and did I detect a bit wistfully? “in this place, one never knows.”
“Is this what you believe?”
Wistfullness became a full grin, and he repeated, “One never knows.”

3

The asylum stands in its majesty, a sentinel amidst the wheat and corn fields of the countryside. He still thought is something to remark upon; that this imposing structure should be here. Over time, and it was a gradual process, he could see the singular benefit of this. The patients, and he did feel those he was charged with bridged the definition of “patient,” could feel secure in their seclusion, away from vindictiveness against the ill and the confused, where the grounds of the asylum could be theirs. He, too, shared in this benefit; this was a very aesthetic and rewarding place to work.
Small and he thought somewhat macabre, the asylum had its own cemetery, and it provided a final alternative for two groups of residents. There were those placed in the asylum’s care and who were forgotten and so were buried within its confines. Then there were those who, for one reason or another, preferred burial here. He enjoyed his walks here among the dead; it was greatly conducive to thinking. He didn’t always enjoy the thinking it led to, the pains it sometimes afforded him, pains he thought were his due to endure, but the rewards he found in this place were enough to surmount it.
Some of the asylum’s residents were quite well healed, others were poor, and some were in fact sick. He sometimes struggled with the temptation to feel sorrow for these sick, never forgetting they were people and not just names occupying space. He was good at meeting struggles, and he prided himself in this. It was one thing he could take pride in.
Of the many stories the walls of the asylum testified to, one had the most meaning for him. He would like to say something else; maybe the most mysterious or the saddest, but this story over time had become part of him, allowing him to feel he had compromised his position. Not the first time had had felt such a thing; this, as on the other occasions, it passed. But what man, when he was given to speech, would deny himself? The woman involved, and he had a good laugh over that because stories about women were prevalent here, probably gave his story more of a relevance to him. The story was, at the very least, entertaining.
The man who told it seemed to believe it, and this was very strange. He killed the woman out of love for her, certainly not anything he hadn’t heard in this place, but then she spoke to him. And he believed this! If anything was sad about this case, this was it.
Stories were the life-blood of this place; their routine welcome, if predictable. For some, a tolerable life here was all that could be asked for, and he recognized the sharing of these stories was a necessary thing, but there were many times, especially when these stories were told over and over again, when routine became agonizing. He found escape among the beautiful things of the asylum’s grounds to be comforting. He could spend time with himself there, but more often than not his work followed him out of the asylum. His “reward,” he supposed.
His present “escape” from the routine of the asylum allowed for further thoughts of the resident he had come to believe as his most curious. This man’s assertions that he did not belong here, that he could leave of his own accord at any time, were among the reasons why he was kept here. He did not make acquaintances well, preferring his own company. He did not speak much, and when he did his words testified that his place in the asylum was well justified. To some of those in this place, his silence was reason enough. He kept himself away from, maybe even was afraid of, associations; this was what was said of him. He did have a vivid imagination, an imagination that was broadcast as real, an imagination that was at times scary. Perhaps it was best he kept to himself.
A person has to suffer from something curable to be cured of anything; he had long used this as the basis for his work. But to this man, “cure” was a word that did not apply. He said he killed people, and no one in this place was ready to say he didn’t. To the staff of the asylum who were aware of his fantasies, nothing was done to discourage them. To the residents who believed his stories as much as he did, he was viewed as a talked about member of the asylums “family.”
He was part of them, and, for his benefit, with them he would stay. The asylum was used to him. Under suspicion was whether his stories would be welcomed in the world outside of this place. He might be thought of “not all there” and be sent to a metal asylum.

4

It’s true that I don’t belong here. I tell everyone here it is. Some here say they don’t believe me, and I can understand them saying this, but I tell you I do not lie. It is they who lie to me.
I am happy with my life here, and although it is in my power to leave, there is no reason for me to do so. I keep to myself as much as I can, because I feel this is what is wanted from me. When I do find myself among the residents – my fellow captors – I am pleased to entertain them. We provide amusement and support for each other. The truth is I can tolerate being here better than most of them.
I have no idea how long I’ve been here, nor do I know of anything that matters less. It’s a matter of some amusement to me why people wonder about things that don’t matter. Perhaps it’s the wondering more than the reasons why gives them satisfaction. Thinking about things that don’t matter might be easier and less challenging for them; yes, it might be so, but then it really doesn’t matter.
Does anything matter? Sometimes I want to say no, but then that would be dishonest. Being here can be trying for me, but I manage to live well enough. That’s enough for me. But I feel tired now, and I shall rest awhile. Perhaps I will leave for another place. Have I contradicted something I said earlier? If I have, let it be so.

5
“You saw the words the same as I. Why do you suppose they were written?”
“Look around you.”
“Walls. Corridors. Rooms.”
“Yes. Not much room in here for stimulation.”
“So the words were written out of a desire to find some.”
“That’s what I would theorize.”
“The question is who were they written by?”
“I wonder how much that should matter.”
“Yes,” he said, glancing away, wanting his irritation to be observed. “If we discover who said them we could learn why they were said.”
“I suppose.”
He wasn’t sure why he was unwilling to share his current thinking; perhaps there was no reason beyond not wanting to be overruled, especially by someone he considered of less authority. It did matter who the words were written by, and he was confident he knew who that individual was. Could there be any more than one candidate, the very same person with whom he shared a certain history? It mattered not in the least why he had come to be in the asylum, or that he preferred a solitary life within its walls, but his belief that his stories were real and his glorification in them, made him the perfect, and indeed the only, candidate for this. Even with this, it was this last phrase, we again become familiar with the play of the mind, which gave him interest.
To express such a thought within the confines of these halls was impressive. This man wasn’t serving himself well, but he was protected from the world outside, enough justification for his being here. This man, this “patient,” was a gift to the asylum, a thing that was, in varying degrees, disturbing to him.

6: Oceans

I don’t know why I seem so tired lately. Perhaps it’s living in this place, time piling up, but this is a speculation that doesn’t satisfy me. My captors are troubled y my presence here, of this I am certain. They are not telling me the truth, and this I don’t understand. They say I have not done the things I know I’ve done. If this asylum is supposed to be a healing place, I would think speaking the truth is what they would want. I think they do want me here, and I want to be here; it’s a bit fascinating to me that I do when I can leave this place at any time. They tell me, maybe because it’s a comfort to them, that I can’t; it is they who don’t want to recognize the truth.
The sky is angry tonight, and I think is it angry with me? A preposterous thought, but this asylum, with its dark and lonely walls, is well ordered for preposterous thoughts. Skies, with their sometimes full and sometimes thin clouds, have become my friends, to join the night in offering me friendship. In so far as they listen to me and give me no reason to think ill of them, those who share this place with me also benefit from my friendship. It is difficult sometimes to distinguish the keepers from those they keep; a minor observation but, in this place, a truthful one. But here I sit, the sky angered and calling me to unknown pleasures, the best kind, and I am feeling happy. Happiness is a gift often given me, and in this antiseptic environment, this I am most appreciative of. My decision to leave the asylum, aided by the promises of cool night air and the sounds of creatures, was good for me. But I shall go back after a time because the asylum, its emptiness despite its population ensnaring me, is my home. And home is too much of a good thing to ever leave behind. Until then, the wind blows cool and the nighttime creatures call to each other and to me, and good feelings are with me. Why should I go back? No, no, I’ve been through this before. I know where I want to be, where my family is, and knowing beats the hell out of not knowing. I feel necessary inside the walls of the asylum. I suppose this is why I never wish to stray far from it. The bird and freshness of the outside, the confused and needy souls of the inside, the later is my prize, and my satisfaction. I choose between two worlds, I’m glad I can.
That’s it. I’m done.

Rachael's Birthday --by Fjm

Rachael’s Birthday



When the sky turns gray and the trees begin to die, when animals move from shelter to shelter to escape the changes of weather, when fires burn the forest and bring life-changes to an earth in need, when these things happen, bringing with them sources of wonder, this is when it begins.

This is the time of Rachael’s birth, a time of rejuvenation and of promise. But darkness grows and congeals, a wound that clots, and Rachael Free doubts. For her standing in life, she worries. For her friendship among her peers, she worries. Most of all, for love, she worries.

The skies show blackish-red in anger; not anger borne of hatred but of confusions and lesser displeasures. Understanding is denied Rachael Free, but to a soul slowly dying, the aching is great, but not so great as to encourage her to alleviate her suffering.

Why should she suffer? She is in position to; why is irrelevant to her present thinking. She is doubtful. And she is scared.

The skies, ruddy and dreary, speak to Rachael Free. What they say gives her cause and this cause itself adds to her confusions. They say, “Who are you?” She would answer, but she cannot find the words; because she thinks, maybe there aren’t any.

Pain has visited Rachael Free, and has now come to live with her. The pain embraces her and threatens to clothe her in doubt; the doubt she thinks should be hers, because she leaves herself open to it.

Today is Rachael’s birthday. A party will be given in her honor. She will be the only one in attendance.

The sun screams at her and with her, and she tries to listen, the absurdity of a screaming sun to confuse and terrify her. The sounds she hears in the streets, the people she sees, all more beautiful and happier than she, add to the absurdity of this day, this day of her twenty-first birthday. Her eyes search the sky, noting its color, and she wonders what will be her future.

a story be Frank J. Mueller III (Fjm)

They Were Only Words . . .



They were only words, but her difficulty comprehending them, and then the sadness, with which they left him, caused his soul to ache. He didn’t know words could do that. But here they were, these words that were so painful to read.

“What do we have here?" the attendant had said.

He was so tired of that phrase, but he had heard it so often it now seemed part of the lexicon of this place.

This time, though, his understanding of the question was wrenchingly obvious. Miranda was one of his lost souls, true enough, and as such his concern for her should be no more or no less than for any of his patients. But “patient” was a eupheumism, and sometimes an inexplicable one. He often wondered at the injustice that led her to be here with him. Sadness, he thought, begat sadness, and he didn’t like that.

He again looked at the words she had written, his pain no less severe on this second occasion,

Alone,
And all around me are clouds,
And a faint
Glimmer
Of light.

More than just the words, it was their structure that gave him his ache. Each a single line, a single thought. Simplicity in contrast to the life going on behind these walls. Days, and nights to a lesser degree, were segmented here. Everything had its proper time and every person his proper place.

Miranda was refreshing, and this was why these words were so troubling. She had exhibited none of the physical or mental problems that some of his family had – his family because here he really did feel part of one. But, evidently, Miranda had disguised herself well. Up to this time, anyway.

Time standing still was a cliché that had lost all of its meaning in this place, but its sense of endlessness was made more tolerable because of Miranda. If anything served to console between these walls, it was that the suffering here was universal; patient and doctor alike sometimes vying for the privilege of untroubled days. This place had its own spirit, and it was the spirit of decay.

Into all this had come Miranda. Bringer of joyful life and renewed hope. And expert at the building of facades. The shattering of illusion had not come quickly, if it had he might have weathered it. But he had let Miranda’s youth and attractiveness work on him for too many days and too many nights. Now, these words, and he wished those days had been shortened. But he, like everyone in this place, loved her. He thought his “patients” were better for having Miranda with them. He thought of what she had given him – hell, what she was giving him even now. She was part of his family, a very beautiful part that made his life easier. He actually looked forward to some of his days now and that certainly had its merits. But, these words … Alone, Clouds, Faint glimmer of light. Maybe just words. Maybe something more. This was certainly not the Miranda he wanted to know.

The effect of these words would somehow be less troubling to him if his mind were full of questions; but, there was really just one. That answer, the why of these words, he hoped, would not prove too elusive. Seldom had reason or curiosity given him recourse to reacquaint himself with the records of a member of his “family,” but he did so now.

The most significant portion of Miranda’s file was written in her hand, a hand very sure of itself. Something he could find relief in. No haphazard writing for her.
He read. No disturbances for him now. This was time to be spent with Miranda. And perhaps a reason for the words she had written.

My name is Miranda. I’ve come to you hoping you might be able to help me. To tell me who I am. Because I don’t think I know anymore.

The same could be said for any number of his patients. His family. He did believe in what he thought as the very real power of hope. It was the one constant of his days here. For some, hope was just something to be prayed for. He hadn’t thought Miranda would be among them.

There were paragraphs that followed, that provided useful pieces of information, but not enough to command special notice. He read with great interest and concern those that were.

I might as well be consigned to the earth as though I were dead, for that is how I feel. A person of no use, a thing really, noticed as an object of no consequence.
I’m used to this. I have to convince myself that I am. It’s not so hard to do. With all this, I do have a question, an echo from my family’s confusions: Why? Like them, I wonder if an answer will ever be forthcoming. My parents have grown more apologetic toward those who deprived of us so much. Now, after having lived through years that have been so unkind to them, they should know something more than the continuance of this thing that has been so much like death to them. I worry about them. I wonder about the memories they have; the memories I hope they have, about times that were more joyous, when appreciation was given to them by people of good will, their goodness after a time shown to be false.

He read these words with greater significance than he had initially, perhaps because they were only words then, certainly not what they now appeared to be. Which was what? A pleading? A cry of pain? That was so trite it almost seemed laughable. But what, beyond what was written in her file, did he really know about Miranda? And, though that was a little unsettling, what did he want to know.
He read on,

Does it make sense to further my confusions by dwelling on them? I don’t think so. But then I think of the senselessness of this whole thing, and ask and wait for an answer that doesn’t exist. Not an agreeable one, anyway, because people just don’t forget about people, do they?

Sometimes, I don’t want to think about anything. At all. But then the old day fades and a new one begins, and I realize there are other things to occupy myself with. What happened happened. That’s it.
What I hope to find here is another matter altogether. There are souls who really need help here. I suppose I am to be considered one of them, though the thought brings me no comfort. What it does bring me is acceptance. This, after all, is something.

The significant portion of what he wanted to read ended here. As enlightening as this was, his concern for Miranda was greater now after having read it. He couldn’t imagine someone being “forgotten” in this day. How something like that would feel.
It was shameful that Miranda had to indure such a thing. Through her strength, she had come to be accepting of it, and because of it she had his admiration.
Now, because of a few words, even her strength was coming into question. He didn’t want to alter what he knew of Miranda, now he was afraid this choice was being taken from him.

When he was away from these halls, from what some days were very hard for him, he would spend time picturing Miranda as a young woman whose happiness had been taken from her by uncaring people, people who were undeserving of any of their own. He could imagine his anger welling against the thought of this injustice to Miranda. And he wondered why he should feel such anger for people he didn’t know, because anger for these people apparently was something Miranda didn’t possess, or had come to distrust.

What, then, of trust, the portion he was supposed to have in himself? He had never felt good about asking himself questions, it was like losing faith in part of himself, but seldom had he been in a situation where doing so seemed to be exactly the thing to do. And he had put himself in it. He could have regarded the words Miranda had written without concern. He could have, while looking at those words, seen Miranda as just another patient. He could have remained unemotional.

Could have and maybe should have. What it was within him that caused him to overlook his “professionalism” he could only guess at, and it was this guess that gave his self-questioning its very much unwanted status. Because the truth of the matter was that he liked her, and she was suffering, what else was he to understand from her words? At a time when his objectivity should be paramount, he was letting his compassion show through.

This then, was it.

2

She was alone, the clouds around her friendly to her, not expecting anything from her. She had been all right with this for a long time now.
She would sleep, knowing that her words were discovered and thought over, for this was precisely why she had written them. And she would dream her usual dream of salvation, the dream she stayed alive for.

Eyes closed. Light of clarity breaking through clouds, her self imposed vale of protection. Dreaming begins anew.

She sees trees swaying to the gentle rhythms of evening song, in harmony with a spirit freeing itself from past indifferences. See sees the blossoming of life. She hears the songs of evening skies, and in them a certain peace.

In the midst of all this, something was waiting for her, maybe calling her to something, though she could not be certain of this. Before her stood the woman she thought she recognized, but it had been so long; how could she be sure, anyway? Could she be sure of anything? She could of a few things. Her name was Miranda. She, and her family, had been made to feel dead, and no reason for this had been offered; any reason now consigned to the immaterial. She was living here, was a member of a new family. Who loved her, yes, but because of being here, she could not blame herself for feeling that some of that love was a little forced.

The woman was clearly holding a rope of some thickness in her hand.

“For you,” she said, and Miranda knew without understanding she did not have to be afraid.

“Your gift for me.” And, she loved the repetition of that, the confirmation. The promise.

The woman smiled, and the hint of recognition was a little stronger, though still far away. The feeling was also with her now that if she would stay with this woman, she would reach this place.

The woman took her hand and led her, and maybe it was a trust, or a love, that was telling her that knowledge of where she was being taken she did not need to know. Walking with this woman, sharing this intimacy, memories returned to her, memories far removed from regret, but remembered now with the passion of a childhood that was confusing, but hers to try to understand. She thought she understood much more of this than she did. Now, she was not so certain.

The dream shifted, the rope fashioning itself into a noose, her means of deliverance.

The woman’s voice was music. “Where?”

“There.” She said, the ethereal quality of her voice a soothing strangeness. The sweep of her chosen tree’s branches, and the thickness of its trunk, were good, she thought. She thought of stability, once threatened and then lost. She thought of memories unsolicited, as the woman put the noose around her head, as the woman spread her hair and tightened its knot.

Another shifting, and she was hanging from the tree, feeling things that had hurt her begin to leave.

The pains her parents were forced to suffer . . . leaving.

Their questions that no one would answer . . . leaving.

Her own inability to understand, and when that understanding came, to comprehend . . . leaving.

She felt herself dying, and throughout it all, a new confusion, because she should be happy, because she wanted this so much, because the choking she felt as her neck began to break brought with it a pain she only wanted to go away. Hadn’t she suffered enough? Hadn’t her parents suffered enough? Was this, then, a final answer, a hurt she was not meant to escape from?

Her breath escaping. Her legs beginning their twitch. Muscles relaxing, and she looked at the woman, feeling the things that were so much a part of her life, the things she had to suffer, making their escape, too.

And then, everything stopped.

3

When everything started again, when morning offered its welcome, the world hadn't changed. The place where she was, its walls providing her a home that was friendly and protective, hadn’t changed. The memories of displacement and ensuing questions hadn’t changed. But the dream, the smiling woman at its center, the woman who had reminded her so strangely of herself, had taught her something. Reinforced really. She had once thought that what had been done to her and her family, being ignored without explanation, had been beyond her forgiveness. Now, she thought of the words she had written. There was no loneliness. There were no clouds. And light, that wonderful facilitator of hope, was much more than a glimmer.





-- Frank J. Mueller III

a story by Frank Mueller (Fjm)

Elliptical Shores


One


Opening


The paths that led to its graves, narrow and winding, gave, for him, the cemetery its charm. As did the graves themselves – with their spare stone markers, some of which were decorated with ivy.
As he walked down one of those paths, the grave his eyes focused on brought happiness to his soul. The stone said simply,

Rebekah. She had her forever dream.

He knew someone named Rebekah once. Or thought he had.


She alighted from the carriage, and was greeted by an immediate sense of isolation. Rarified air, deep rooted and leafy trees, high but neat grass; this was why she had come here.

“It’s so beautiful here.”

“Yes,” the driver said. “Well, get back in, and I will take you the rest of the way.”

“Good,” she said, mounting the carriage. “How far?”

“Not very.”

It was more than a passing reflection; she did feel very good here. Within her sight was all that she wanted. It felt good to escape the limits of her village, so much more than she thought it would. Good to escape the often conveyed indifferences and the pettiness of its inhabitants. She felt uncomfortable with life in a community where privacy was little more than a word. The contradiction was that she did feel safe and cared for among so many who knew her.

Still, here was a place at once refreshing. Its naturalness assailed her, though she had not yet reached her destination. It was under such a spell that she again asked the driver, “How far?” and was exhilarated by his rewarding answer, “We will be upon it in moments.”

When she saw it, the shadow of the great asylum, predominant against the afternoon sky, she felt, beyond anything she thought she might have felt, her purpose, and so her soul, was shown her.

“I am,” the driver said, “as are we all, at your service.”

“Good,” she said, trying to sound as though she were not taken aback.

“Yes, it is. We’ll be served well.”

“We’ll see,” she said, forsaking further conversation for the present beauty that was hers to enjoy. Hyperbole threatened to visit her, even as the façade of the asylum, with the continued pace of the carriage, broke through the shadows. She could see its stature; such an asylum, she thought, should be imposing. For a curative atmosphere, and certainly cures were hoped for. While continuing to be impressed by the asylum’s austerity, she looked forward to be the one to offer such hope.

“We’re glad you’re with us, Miss Jenkins,” the driver said.

She smiled, but her focus on the asylum permitted no further conversation.


Standing before the asylum’s expanse, memories come easily. She was a child, and stories of lunacy were told, were believed, and were ignored. She was a girl of teenage years; her perceptions were framed and shaped by those around her. Stories of lunacy were no longer ignored but were woven into community gossip at times hurtful and cruel. She was a young woman of imagination and changing passion, stories of lunacy so much more now than the entertainments they had been. Now she was here, standing before the asylum, her freedom from perceptions formed by ignorance about to be realized. Here, she would no longer have to feel herself part of a citizenry whose care for “our unfortunates” was little more than a façade. Here, she could rejoice in letting such memories fade into the nothingness they deserved.

She regarded this as a good place, a place that ―

“Miss Jenkins.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, embarrassed because of her inattentiveness.

“It is impressive, isn’t it? I’ve only achieved part of my purpose.”

She smiled, a beautiful smile. What this place needs, he thought.

“I am to introduce you to our family,” he said. “I know you will be well received.”


Guided down the well lighted halls of the asylum, the colors of the walls pleasing, she felt the informality of our family most appropriate, and was happy to tell him so. All this was somewhat surprising. She read of asylums that were stark at best and not much more than warehouses for the ill at worst. This place was refreshing; she did not want to work in one of history’s relics.

“The souls who come to stay with us,” he said, “are all here because they want to be here. We have no problems.”

“No major problems, I believe you mean?”

“Yes, I suppose you might say that.”

Do I hear annoyance? She wondered. Good, it shows I’m talking with an honest man.

“We do have our little antagonisms, but it’s like I said. We’re family here.”

“Yes. The normal annoyances of family.” God, there was that beautiful smile.


The warmth of such a fine day was but one thing that invigorated her soul. Her resoluteness in coming to this place, her desire to better herself in a place where she could find purpose, was another, and one of far greater importance. The existence of such a place she found difficult to imagine, even now while she was looking at it. It was expansive, and austere, and what she thought she needed. She had a personable man to show her the asylum. She truly felt her life was on the up-turn.

She was most interested in seeing the asylum’s family, the reason why she was here, and the one member of that family who was to be her specific charge. She looked upon the challenge of such a singular thing with just enough apprehension to elicit questions. Why should she be given such a responsibility? Was she prepared for this? And, all apprehension aside, the answers were clear; her preparedness was not in question, it was the asylum’s faith in her that was worth everything.

She was meant to be here. Nothing else was to be said. Or thought of.


Proud to be accompanying such a lovely woman down these halls of her future employment, he felt a sense of the worth he was aware he possessed but lacking on so many past occasions. The reason for this, he had no doubt, was Miss Jenkins. Her enthusiasm was indeed needed in this place, but it was the decisiveness he had seen in her countenance, that he had heard in her voice, that made her presence here indispensable.

Her employment at the asylum would be challenging. The patient she was to be charged with was, he would have to say, enigmatic. A good word, perhaps the only one that did him justice.

“You provide a good tour,” she said.

“But not a complete one. That will wait for another time.”

“Really?” He couldn’t miss the sardonic quality of the pronouncement, a bit of charm he found highly agreeable.

“Until you familiarize yourself with some of our family.”

“With one in particular?”

“Yes. With the reading of his history. The history that we know of.”

“Or that he is willing to provide?”

“Yes, we think that’s probably right.”

Was this “family member” a manipulator? It seemed to her he was being described as such, and this struck her as especially attractive. That thought, attractive; a most interesting thought. One that bothered her. Just a little.

“My name’s Rebekah,” she said. “Miss Jenkins sounds so formal.”

“And formality doesn’t become you?”

“Not right now.”

“Does that extend to our family here?”

“I’d like it to. That might take some time.”

“Time. Yes, you’ll have all you want. I trust it won’t be too much.”

“It’s time I will appreciate.”

“Good. There’s much to know.”

She wanted nothing less than to immerse herself into the life of the asylum. To appreciate the trials of those living here. To prove to herself the worth she was certain she possessed. And, of equal importance to these two, to free herself from the sameness of the community she wanted little part of.

Those around her could never she her in a role such as this. Neither could she. Things have a way of changing, and so do fortunes; this was a reflection that she both desired and needed. She smiled, and she hoped her guide saw it.

“I think, Rebekah, we should see the director now.”

“That’s not you?”

“No, and I’m sorry.”

“So am I. I was feeling rather comfortable.”

“He wants to see you."

“Why? Doesn’t he know who he’s hired?"

“He wants to see who he’s hired.”

“He will tell me what I need to know?”

“Perhaps more,” he said, taking her hand, to their mutual pleasure.



The Director, Rebekah thought upon her first introduction, was an amiable man. The importance of this, she could not dismiss. It meant she could work with him, not apart from him. His smile was warming, as warming as her guide, and she wondered is everyone in this asylum so friendly?

“Can I call you Rebekah?”

“Please.”

“Sit down. There are things I would like to tell you before you start with us.”

“Which will be?”

“As soon as we finish here.”

“No time to catch a breath?”

“I don’t believe you’ll want any."


Two


Opening


Yes, he thought he knew a Rebekah once. But was that years ago, or minutes ago? One thing he did know, here time did nothing but go by. Not fast, not slow, it just went by, with nothing to show that it was inherently meaningful, or anything out of the ordinary. But, She had her forever dream. The phrase haunted, and in this haunting he could take solace.



The art of listening is not lost among any of the fine people living here. Indeed, to listen is to live in this place. Ah, but what, and in some cases who, do they listen to? For me, it is the night that speaks, and it is the night that awaits my answers. I try to give it justice, what it and I deserve. You see, it’s part of the game I play, the game that I’ve learned to play so well.

What amuses me is there are those who think I belong here. I am, of course, quite willing to let them believe that. I take my victories when I can, and I’ll tell you it is a pleasure to fool my captors. It is a consequence of my musings that I feel at home in this place – and quite interesting, really.


High Tides and Low Seas


It is now your turn to listen, for I do not wish to waste these words on those who would trivialize my intent, which is only to offer evidence of my frailties. In telling this, I hope to give you justification for your mission, and to give myself a few smiles. The irrelevancy of what you may think of me no doubt is upsetting to you, because you see your mission as a great one, but you see I don’t want you to suffer from any delusions. I get so tried of you wanting to understand me, to figure me out. Why do you persist so? If you will allow me, I might help you to find an answer. But you have to listen, and listen with care. That’s all that’s left for you.


And what’s left for me? I ask myself that sometimes, when I care to entertain a thought so insignificant. It isn’t often. I live. That’s all. That’s enough.

I have my friends. They ask nothing of me, but offer me much. Happiness, that is their gift to me, and no one here, not anyone, can give me what they can. I talk to them. I share my pleasures with them, and my pleasures are simple things really. You see, I don’t need complications, and I have none here. Ah, happiness.

The night stars call to me, and it is my privilege to answer. Oh, I’ll tell you, it feels so good to do something I don’t have to do. They think I’m crazy here. I wonder just who are the crazy ones. I don’t answer the stars indiscriminately because they don’t always deserve answers, being the faceless bodies that they are. They can be so cold, so barren, but this is something, that over time, I’ve gotten used to. I play my games with them too. To listen to these, my night friends, and then to turn away from them, though they may or may not deserve my playfulness, this is just one more thing that gives me happiness.

The truth is that for a long time I didn’t feel any desire, and certainly no need, to talk about this. This is no longer the case. Still, I wonder if you will be able to appreciate what I have to say.


I am a man not without privilege. Does this make me seem arrogant – foolish, maybe? I am, after all, held captive in this asylum. My captors are nice enough to me. I am free to walk the halls and the grounds without threat. I am free to listen to, appreciate, the stories of others in this place, some here because of disease, either of the mind or of the heart, some here because their families give them no choice. There are times when I’m willing to share in the games of this place, when I imagine myself losing to the frustrations here, but I quickly comfort myself with the realization they’re not my frustrations. I feel sorry for those who lack understanding of why they’re here, I really do, but I feel ignorance the best way to avoid dealing with things I don’t want to; this, and the fact that I chose to be here. I’ve forgotten exactly why I did, but I feel comfortable that I can also choose to leave.


Confusion, to some degree, lives with everyone in this place. Sometimes I amuse myself by thinking that those whose confusion was the reason for their being sent here are the fortunate ones, but usually I don’t waste my time with such thoughts. Why should I? When I look at those around me, I wonder why anyone should.


She has dark hair, long to the waist. My attraction to her is genuine. I feel funny about this, perhaps strange, that she is somehow my misfortune. The truth is I want what she gives me, and I struggle with this. I really do.

I don’t like to struggle with things, it does my confidence no good, but that confidence has never been so tested. And yet, I may love her. If you knew me better than you say you do, you would understand what this, what she, is doing to me.

And so I will now tell you a story. It could be our story, mine and hers, or the story of everyone in this place. I don’t know if it matters. I certainly don’t care whether it does.
___________

Pleased with the rewards of her day, and in anticipation of learning to come, and now alone, this was a good time, Rebekah thought, for refection. Her guide having left for other areas of the asylum, the director now busy with other duties, she felt her time of refection would be best served by spending additional time walking the asylum grounds.
“Yes” she said, an affirmation,” this is exactly what I’ll do,” and so she began her walk of reflection, while within the asylum’s recesses, a story was being told.


Three


Opening


She had her forever dream. Simple words that were playing games with his mind, and playing them well, for they were beginning to suffocate him, or something he couldn’t even guess at.

A forever dream, what was that anyway?


Still, and always, it rains


I suppose the phrase it began with a woman might be something of a cliché, but in my case it’s true. Yes, the same woman with hair down to her waist, at once affecting emotions I thought I had successfully held in check.

She scares me. And this I find remarkable.

Under the light of the stars, I listen to her words, the gentleness of her voice a gift to me, “I want to make you happy. It’s what you need.”

“I’m happy.”

“Not very, I think.”

“Why do you say that?”

I want there to be humor in the question. But being with her I can’t find any.

“Walk with me, and you will know.”

When I think of her, I think of troubled fascination. When I am with her, I feel at odds with myself, a feeling of control slipping away from me.

I tell her this, and she doesn’t seem to care. She says I shouldn’t either. I, of course, tell her I don’t, that it’s simply a curiosity I wish she could share.

She wants to know about my friends, and I tell her of the night and the stars that populate it, and she tells me she can understand this.

“How can you?”

She smiles and says nothing, the most disconcerting thing I have ever felt.

I dream of her sometimes. Awake or asleep, it makes no difference, but it is difficult for me to sleep in this place listening to the noises and complaints that seem to echo through the halls. I do acknowledge there are souls confined here who actually are sick.

Dreaming of her can be satisfying to me; it is less troubling to me than confrontation that can be challenging. But, she is a challenge, and although troubled by this, I do feel happiness with her, and this seems enough for me. Still, this is not easy for me to understand. Should it be? I don’t know.

She looks into my eyes, more than just a look, a focusing really, and I feel I am under her intense examination. I don’t like it. But I do like her, being with her, her hair long and like silk, trapping silk, even though I feel a subject under study.

“I make you uncomfortable,” she says, a statement rather than a question.

“Yes,” I say, surprised with the immediacy of my reply.

“I want to know who you are.”

Fair enough I thought. “Let me tell you.”

”There’s no need.”

I feel a need, but I wonder if this need is greater than it should be. Is such a thing possible? I solve the riddle, or attempt to, by telling myself that I don’t care, though I feel there is something of a lie in there somewhere. I have said that she scares me. The rest of the truth is sometimes I scare myself.

So my story continues, because it must.

“You have friends,” she tells me.

“Yes, the stars and the night.”

She smiles. I’ve grown to love her smile. “I think of myself as your friend. Why do you want to hurt yourself?”

“I don’t.”

“Can I believe you?”

I don’t like her questioning me, but I do concede her feelings in doing so. I acknowledge, also, my part in this, having told her of my blade, because she makes it easy for me to tell her things I should keep hidden. I’ll tell you, though, the things I’ve told you, and will tell you, comes close to being a matter for my consumption only, my blade being a very private thing. But I’m confused now, and things have changed. I can only hope good things will be the result.

Is there enjoyment derived from introducing my blade to young women, putting it deep in their flesh, hearing their gasps of surprise, watching their pain heighten as their bodies succumb to the beauty of steel? Maybe. There is a level of happiness, to be sure, but I think it has more to do with the desire for control. You know, that’s really very funny.

“You’re not sure of me,” she says, “of how you see me. I find that very interesting.”

“So do I.”

“We should think of that. I do like you”

“I do want that.”

The truth in her eyes speaks volumes to me. As do her words, “Let me bring you happiness.”

“You have,” I say without thought, for how could my response be otherwise?

“I know you have your blade. Show it to me.”

Is it any wonder, I think to myself, as I smile my assent, that she captivates me?

“It’s beautiful,” she says. And she wraps her hands around its hilt, with so much care, I think. I watch her place its point to her waist. “I want to give you pleasure.” And she says, her smile an irristable thing, “Push it in for me. For you.”

“Yes,” I say, control promising to again show itself to me, and I put my blade in her, and I hear her sigh, an unexpected response. Appropriate because I don’t think of her as overly demonstrative. She rests against me and I feel the joy of her words, “I love you,” and I know what she says is true. I feel what she wants me to feel, her body reacting to the blade, the increasing shallowness of her breathing, her body’s movements as death is reaching for her, and I say, ”I know you do.” I listen to her as she directs me to “hold on to your blade. Know that it, and I, are joined.” So much beauty, my soul smiles for her, for both of us, and I feel her life leaving her. I allow myself the pleasure of a brushing of her hair, its silkiness leading me to the love I will always feel for her.” Hold me,” she says.
“I will,” I say, and in these words I make my everlasting promise to her.


Rebekah knew she had some thinking to do. One of the perks of the position I hold, she thought, or, more precisely, the position I am asked to fill. But, oh, what a gift she had been given. She prayed she would use it well.

This place is going to be good for me; she thought and knew at the same time. I’ve needed something like this for a long time.

She felt comfortable here, and it would be her pleasure to bring some of that comfort to the asylum. She didn’t know, at this early time, if anyone in this place would benefit from her doing so. This would come later, she supposed.

She looked forward to the opportunities this place would continue to offer her. Here, she could, she prayed, find her significance. Which is, what? Good question, she considered, but do I have the answer?

Questions of this magnitude aside, the charge she had been given was of great concern to her. What she had learned of him thus far only whetted her appetite for more. This, too, would come. For now, she was happy to be here, away from the influences she had left behind.

“Yes, Rebekah,” she said, herself the only beneficiary of her words, “this time you have decided well.”


Four


Opening


He stood before the stone marking Rebekah’s grave. Here, in the pristine environment, where solitude was much appreciated, he could let his thoughts wander. Rebekah was one of the joys of the asylum. Now, she was here, where he could visit her, where her soul could unite with his. And where he could say, with all the sincerity he had to give, “Rebekah, I love you.”


The seas beckon, the confused soul answers


She lies before me, silken and capturing hair framing a face so angelic as to cause the formation of tears, her smile beautiful and inexplicable, my blade buried in her waist. She lies, as if resting, the earth her bed, and the stars, now her friends as they are mine, her canopy. She lies before me, and I hear her say–do I?–“thank you.”

I nod my answer, and it is more than this, it is my almost overwhelming appreciation of her. I think of my friends the night and the stars, and I think the strangest thing about all that has happened is that none of this is very strange a all.




For as the sea rushes to the shore and we are buffeted by its
waves, we again become familiar with the play of the mind.



Frank J. Mueller III