Backing Ourselves Into Focus

Someone told me 2020 would be the year things became clearer, more defined.

Looking back now, it all seems like such a cosmic joke, doesn’t it? It couldn’t have been a more confusing year if it had grown wings and tried to fly.

Geez Louise, what a cluster of a year!

All that aside and ignoring the end of the world that’s just around the corner, I can’t help but try and take a more optimistic view of where we might be headed.

I woke up this morning with hope in my belly and dreams on the docket.

A new year is literally just around the corner.

So, strap your boots on (or whatever it is you need) and grab a quick cup of coffee for the ride for there is a great amount of work left to be done.

More work than before this year ever happened, as it turns out. We have the now, and the now will have to do… for now.

There are monsters to be slain and an incredibly large number of ships to be set right again.

Hard times are on the horizon, much harder than we’ve ever had to deal with before but it can be done.

It will be done.

I refuse to let the freaks and weirdo’s that run this planet simply run it all into the ground, taking us all down with them.

It’s time to get off our collective arses and do something good for a change.

Have a great day!

-I am Crandew

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A Poor Man’s Dog

I saw one once, did ya know?

A barbarian.

He stood off just a ways, abreast that distant hill yonder, his smallish dog in tow. I stood back against the barn, watching as the two companions lumbered on their path into town.

Having reached the main street, the roughish man was met then by town folk, they with their pitchforks and assortment of jabbers, each in turn.

The barbarian halted his gait, now standing his ground.

He asked for passage only, for him and his wee traveler. They were to reach the mountains to the east by sundown, if willing.

The town folk, now greatly relieved, allowed him as such but demanded one small boon in return, a token penance if you will.

He was to don a tired old cloth, observing proper spacing if passed.

What’s all this about?

The barbarian, he refused such frivolous requests.

Not today, he grunted back at them. He would pass regardless, taking not one’s leave if need be.. but he and the dog would be on their way.

The town folk, however, were the most adamant.

You must don the cloth, if passage desired. It is our way, they clucked. All must do as we say.

Having refused a second time, a great battle ensued.

One of nonsense and bloodshed. The barbarian did fight off a hundred men and women before reaching his treasured mountain, but reach it he did.

A notable casualty was that of the wee one, a beloved dog. Broken, torn to shreds during the melee, the poor beast survived not.

Days etch themselves deeper and begin longer growth, the solstice now having passed thusly.

‘The strangest of dreams, I had last night.

Of torture, of mayhem and wings.

Of dancers, of players, and puppy dog slayers.. all tortuously horrible things.’

Any freedom fighters that once were.. they are sorely exhausted, for more now than ever.

Winding down like aged, forgotten timepieces, burdened heavier on each swing, salty guile’s eventually fail, unraveling like the pulls and twists on the ends of a bow.

Oh where, oh where could they be?

-I am Crandew (a poor man’s dog)

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Train Wreck

One hundred things are happening, all at once, in slow motion.

This is the best way I know of to describe our modern day life, at least for the present.

Seems like it’s been that way now forever, doesn’t it?

Strange tides for sure, but I swear to Grandma Moses.. I can remember a time not so long ago when it wasn’t.

I have pictures.

There’s a reason why things are what they are now.

From my vantage point, sitting outside, relaxing my bum in the sun, dangling my feet too close to a cliff that overlooks the cool waters.. we’ve been pushed into a recognizable position (chess term) on purpose, and that scares me.

Well, scare isn’t exactly the correct word to use here, but it’ll do.

Pro tip. I’m a dude. I don’t get scared.

We are exactly where they want us to be.

Confused, angry, disoriented. So overworked and underpaid, willing to buy anything and do whatever just to keep going, make it through another day.

One hundred little pieces, all in a row. One got lost and banged its toe. The rest were left without a mate. Poor little pieces, left to wait.

Feels like this whenever I make a few connections, happen upon just the right combinations (another chess term).

I feel a warm sea breeze web itself across my face, and a few small tickles, as they softly trace themselves up my leg.

We are the train wreck.

-I am Crandew

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I See Four Lights, Not Five

The most valuable freedom of all is the freedom to tell the truth.

Without it, we lose our way.

Over time, lacking this ability.. we become slaves, blurry images of ourselves.

We all know it’s true, that it’s happening, but so few of us dare even mention it.

The freedom to tell the truth.

He paused for a few moments, as though to allow what he had been saying to sink in.

‘Do you remember,’ he went on, ‘writing in your diary, “Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four”?’

‘Yes,’ said Winston.

O’Brien held up his left hand, its back towards Winston, with the thumb hidden and the four fingers extended.

‘How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?’

‘Four.’

‘And if the party says that it is not four but five–then how many?’

‘Four.’

The word ended in a gasp of pain. The needle of the dial had shot up to fifty-five. The sweat had sprung out all over Winston’s body. The air tore into his lungs and issued again in deep groans which even by clenching his teeth he could not stop. O’Brien watched him, the four fingers still extended. He drew back the lever. This time the pain was only slightly eased.

‘How many fingers, Winston?’

‘Four.’

The needle went up to sixty.

‘How many fingers, Winston?’

‘Four! Four! What else can I say? Four!’

– 1984, George Orwell

The most basic, most valuable freedom.. handed down from previous generations, and we simply threw it away.

Have a great day, enjoy what you have right now.

-I am Crandew

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Surface Dweller

Fear has become the only game in town.

It has a way of fostering contempt and ill feeling, all the while serving as jailer.

Nothing controls a population of surface dwellers better than fear.

Like a harsh winter that just won’t die properly, fear marches on and continues to permeate all around us, steadily creeping into the woodwork.

Fear is what keeps us from talking with each other.

[The Mirror of Truth]

As a surface breaks apart, the markers themselves become clearer.

How do we judge our current state of life? Should we count our pennies, those with the most win?

I don’t think so.

It’s not the years, honey, it’s the mileage.

Music, art and literature are mirrors into the souls of the surface dwellers, and they have all degraded.

They’ve become less intelligent, less intriguing and quite frankly, garbage.

What’s that old saying, garbage in.. garbage out?

The arts are pitiful now, as broken as everything else.

Shiny mirrors, ones that accurately reflect the degradation of our culture.

[The Reality of Truth]

The lines between reality and fantasy are so damned fragile.

Sneeze too hard and you just might shatter them. Try to hold one in place, even for a moment, and it just won’t work.

What’s real has become something we can no longer put our grubby little fingers on.

Reality shifts itself daily, wrapping itself into knots while moving in place.

Fantasy isn’t all that different.

Like reality, it will appear for just a few moments before vanishing, only to reappear somewhere else entirely, slightly changed.

Shifting realities are now fully mixed within hard fantasies. What a strange turn of events we now find ourselves in.

Feels like some sick, little game is being played on us.

Doesn’t it?

-I am Crandew

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The Lost Children Of Christmas

Holidays are a great time in which to relax, completely immersing oneself in the reflections of what once was while furtively dreaming about what might be again.

This was the year our world got violently knocked off the table.

Pieces of it lay shattered and broken, thoughtlessly scattered as crumbs across a dusty floor, like forgotten scraps of food.

Reflections on how things used to be, perhaps.

All at once, what might be seems very far away. Therein awaits the push and pull of it all, a veritable rip tide of frayed emotions.

Reminds me of a cave, tucked away deep in the mountains, one that’s chock full of events that haven’t even happened yet.

Foreshadowing for what’s yet to come?

Mayhaps.

This coming year could be a joyous time.

One mostly centered around restoring those rights so wrongly taken from us.

An undoing of tyranny, and removal of the iron shackles that are wrapped so tightly around our necks. A gentle, but decidedly firm, replacing of our world back onto the table kind-of-year.

But I don’t seriously think any of that will be allowed to happen.

No way.

Freedom, once stolen, has never been openly or freely returned. No, not without a price that must be paid, and that usually in blood.

We are the lost and found, the decimated ones, the children of Christmas.

I fear that we’ve brought this atrocity down on ourselves. The stark remains of the day weigh heavily now on all our shoulders.

This march into Communism has been long and tedious.

Even now, I can see the city lights as they stab wildly across the horizon. In no way will our masters ever let this go, let us go.

Freedom will be a long journey back, for a truly, hard fought series of battles alight our path.

To once again regain those freedoms lost.. well sir, that would indeed be something of a.. well, of a Christmas miracle.

Indeed.

-I am Crandew

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Paradoxical Enchantment

All that glitters is in fact gold.

Yet truly I can find no use for such things, no use at all.

For neither the glitter that finds itself sparkling in the candle light, nor those gold nuggets firmly at rest, placed high atop the mantle, can ever really bring forth any real truth or beauty into this world.

This bubble world.

This snow-globe filled with so many shiny objects. They serve only to press the eyes, bringing about distortion to our frail, hard-fought reality.

Thank you, my fortunate one.. but no thanks.

I can hold no patience for such as these.

Now, go forth into the world, and bring me back some gold.

-I am Crandew

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Tiny Monsters

I begin my day, as I’ve often done, with an audible thump.

I’ve found it helps to ease the tension and loosen up the joints. Besides, the dames seem to love it.

Blogging can be such an awkward thing.

Such power, so many choices. Reminds me of all those times I’ve taken to the stage in my underwear, and those rare times without.

Memories.

Each new day, one more blessed thump.

Tiny monsters, sometimes growling, sometimes hissing, always hungry for more.

We bend the world to our own wants and needs.

Pushing and pulling, molding just the right parts. Funny how things never seem to come out perfect, yet we still try.

Tiny monsters, each decision lending itself to the next. Kind of like the domino effect, pretty much ending the same way.

I’m going to approach this new day pretty much as I’ve tackled all the previous ones, with an audible thump.

Did I say this already?

I’ve found it helps to ease the tension and loosen up the joints.

Besides, the dames seem to love it.

-I am Crandew

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