Randy Thornhorn's Blog

You and I both know that after

all the things you truly believed

when you said them to me, in your heart

you will never ever again be able to trust

or believe anything you say, vow, or

promise to anybody else.

Never. Not ever again.

But there is a fix for that.

You and I both know that

after all the things you believed

when you said them to me,

you will never be able to truly trust

or believe anything you say, vow, or

promise to anybody else.

But there is a fix for that.

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~! FUGITIVE WALTZ ~ (Video)

(written and read by Randy Thornhorn)

Her heart was a Bonnie and Clyde

Forever being shot full of blood and bullets

Her body and soul riddled with fear

In an endless slow motion dance

Of deathly recoil

From all her imaginary scary places

Within the onward march of a

Real world with real uncharted

Roads and reckless cars

A real world of scars she seeks out

And needily needs

For her to pull the trigger

Again, again

Boom Boom Boom

Splat and splat

She pulls the trigger inside her head

To keep her dying and dying

A little more

A little more

Dying

In her slow-mo delay

With the blood and the bullets

Of despair

That tear her apart

In her trance

In her fugitive waltz

Her damnation’s dance

With each new lovely day.

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© 2016 Randy Thornton

(Mary)

Last night I was blessed with a private message from a younger new reader (thank you, April) who thanked me because she fold me she was heartened to have discovered what she described as some semblance of intelligence here on this page.

In the emotion of the moment I told her what I was dealing with at the time she sent the message, after I had abruptly left a luncheon with a brilliant new acquaintance, Jo-Ann. Tough, Irish, feminine, wise and pragmatic Jo-Ann was very understanding about the fact that I suddenly felt ill and needed to leave without understanding what was plaguing me physically. (Bless you, Jo-Ann.)

I was feeling better physically by the time I arrived home to a kind message from faraway April who had just discovered my page, so she — still a stranger to me — happened to be the first I informed of what I realized after coming through the door. Because intelligence has little to do with what I’m feeling now, at this moment, this sad morning.

I have to have a dog put down today.

A dog I love who I found (some might say “rescued”) as a puppy almost twelve years ago.

A dozen years ago I found him at the a county dump at five o’clock in the morning, in the darkness before dawn after a drunken row with my ex-wife. Somebody had dumped this tiny puppy there. He was shaky and starving, barely able to walk. And I soon discovered from a dump employee who arrived amidst this first encounter with this puppy, that some of the local workers at the dump had even been kicking him around for their idle amusement. This even gave the puppy a badly abscessed and infected canine tooth that had to be removed soon after.

But that dark morning, I managed to bring him home and this pup was perfectly named within five minutes by my beloved ex.

After he was fully fed and watered and sniffed from top to bottom by my two big white dogs and assorted felines, this new puppy suddenly cut loose with these loud proclamations: spontaneous and joyous yodeling, utterly unique hound-dog noises that seemed to be expressions of his sheer joy at being safe and surrounded by his new family, and most of all because he was simply happy to be alive.

He has been periodically erupting with these laughter-inducing yodels ever since, never taking this life to be treasured too seriously.

He’s a goofy hound dog, snaggle-toothed, the kind so many say only a mother could love. But I love him. Everybody who has ever met him has loved him. He’s even survived some rugged wounds, physical issues, and a life-saving, tough-and-go surgery (thank you. Dr Glenn Puckett and all you who’ve assisted and loved this hound at Moore’s Mill Animal Hospital. I’m afraid he’ll be visiting you for the last time today.)

I think he’s had a good life on this wooded hilltop with the other dogs. And now, he’s shaky again, riddled with tumors, breathing hard, rapid, keeping his eyes closed mostly. He wags his tail slightly when I say his name. I’ve always said he’s the happiest dog that ever lived. If he was awake his tale was wagging while knowing he would never be the alpha dog; and he could be sound asleep yet he would still wag his tail as he slept if you whispered his name.

Late yesterday afternoon he could barely get onto his feet (for the first time) when I went out to give him his prednisone (his medication to keep him comfortable). He’s been dying slowly for the last few weeks.

And for the last several hours, he has slept fitfully beside me on my bad throughout a restless night.

But I can tell today is going to have to be the day.

His name is Chili. Chili Dog. Because I originally coaxed this frightened, trembling, hungry pup into my pickup with a can of Wolf Brand chili.

His repayment has been, day after day, to make this hilltop a happier place, spreading his goofy love to everyone he encountered.

And I’m going to miss him terribly.

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RT

~! FUGITIVE WALTZ ~ (Video)

(written and read by Randy Thornhorn)

Her heart was a Bonnie and Clyde

Forever being shot full of blood and bullets

Her body and soul riddled with fear

In an endless slow motion dance

Of deathly recoil

From all her imaginary scary places

Within the onward march of a

Real world with real uncharted

Roads and reckless cars

A real world of scars she seeks out

And needily needs

For her to pull the trigger

Again, again

Boom Boom Boom

Splat and splat

She pulls the trigger inside her head

To keep her dying and dying

A little more

A little more

Dying

In her slow-mo delay

With the blood and the bullets

Of despair

That tear her apart

In her trance

In her fugitive waltz

Her damnation’s dance

With each new lovely day.

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.

…

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© 2016 Randy Thornton

(Mary)

~ LOVE ORDAINED ~

Human beings, as a species, are many things. But one of the things they provably are, as a breed, is fundamentally foolish.

They are more foolish than a five-and-dime full of orangutans. And they too often are convinced they are “wise” and “right” when they haven’t got a clue what they are really doing. The greatest proof of this is the mere existence of “the bomb”; a nuclear weapon capable of destroying themselves, their entire species, along with most other living things on the planet in one fell swoop.

Yep, humans as a breed are consistently the biggest fools of all living species.

Humans will also finally find the truest, deepest, and most intimate love they’ve ever known – after a lifetime of searching for it – then, given enough slack (and time) they will dump it and dismiss it – if they can — as if such love they once recognized for what it is can be readily replaced by someone new waiting in line.

And they’ll throw away this rare and valuable love because it isn’t new anymore, or because the road they are on has gotten too tough and rough for a while, or because the one with whom they’ve shared this unprecedented love now has a wrinkle or two or some quirk that starts to get on their nerves. Or they’ll throw it away because they get scared, too scared to face the future together with someone so intimate, who has touched them so deeply.

Given enough time and slack, people too often can get to where they can’t see the forest for the trees, and they start taking for granted and treating as routine this rare gift they’ve been given.

But, sometimes, it ain’t that easy.

Sometimes a love is ordained.

Sometimes a rare and powerful love simply is, from the very beginning, ordained to be.

Two people, two spirits, meet in such a rare, easy-flowing and organic way, with such symbiosis betwixt the two at that moment they first conceive, that they almost immediately give birth to a love and a relationship with its own primal power, that is forever bigger than either person, bigger than either spirit is individually. Yes, it is bigger than they, and it will forever be beyond their individual control.

And that can be scary if you believe in security when all wise folk know there is no such thing as security. Yes, if you lack the wisdom of insecurity, such a love can be terribly scary.

Because such a love and spiritual connection has a life of its own.

Either person, as they travel farther along what they cutely call “their path”, may find themselves on rocky roads, and either one may one day try to end what was created in such a holy way when they first met and joined in communion. But neither person, no matter what they say or try to do, can every really end an ordained love.

Because that love and connection these two birthed together, simply is and will be. And even if their circumstances go sour, their love and spiritual connection will still be there, in one way or another, and will be an everpresent fixture in their lives until they are both dead and gone.

Over time, over the years, this love remains such an undeniable force, yet may come to manifest itself in a wide range of incarnations, some good, some not so good, some completely unhealthy. Either of the two people to whom it was born, may try to ignore it or dismiss it or pretend it no longer exists, in futile efforts to make this love go away, this love that is bigger than they.

But as long as even one of these two people is left alive, this love of such fundament and power will continue to haunt them if they do not try to make it right and fulfill its promise.

The one thing they can never accomplish is to rid themselves of that love and connection by trying to just let go (the infamous “let go and move on”), or hide it away in a box (that age-old survival mechanism for the weak: compartimentalization), or by one demonizing the other into someone they are not and never were, or by lying to themselves — trying to sweep it away, under the rug, like it was only the fleeting passion of just another passing love affair.

That’s because, it was clear and evident on that day and ever since that day these two spirits first met, that day they said, “Welcome home.”

Why, you’d think any fool could see it.

These two were fated to be father and mother and gifted lovers, gifted with magic if they could only embrace it and not run scared.

They were gifted with a love ordained.

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RT

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~ LOVE ORDAINED ~

Human beings, as a species, are many things. But one of the things they provably are, as a breed, is fundamentally foolish.

They are more foolish than a five-and-dime full of orangutans. And they too often are convinced they are “wise” and “right” when they haven’t got a clue what they are really doing. The greatest proof of this is the mere existence of “the bomb”; a nuclear weapon capable of destroying themselves, their entire species, along with most other living things on the planet in one fell swoop.

Yep, humans as a breed are consistently the biggest fools of all living species.

Humans will also finally find the truest, deepest, and most intimate love they’ve ever known – after a lifetime of searching for it – then, given enough slack (and time) they will dump it and dismiss it – if they can — as if such love they once recognized for what it is can be readily replaced by someone new waiting in line.

And they’ll throw away this rare and valuable love because it isn’t new anymore, or because the road they are on has gotten too tough and rough for a while, or because the one with whom they’ve shared this unprecedented love now has a wrinkle or two or some quirk that starts to get on their nerves. Or they’ll throw it away because they get scared, too scared to face the future together with someone so intimate, who has touched them so deeply.

Given enough time and slack, people too often can get to where they can’t see the forest for the trees, and they start taking for granted and treating as routine this rare gift they’ve been given.

But, sometimes, it ain’t that easy.

Sometimes a love is ordained.

Sometimes a rare and powerful love simply is, from the very beginning, ordained to be.

Two people, two spirits, meet in such a rare, easy-flowing and organic way, with such symbiosis betwixt the two at that moment they first conceive, that they almost immediately give birth to a love and a relationship with its own primal power, that it is forever bigger than either person, bigger than either spirit is individually. Yes, it is bigger than they, and it will forever be beyond their individual control.

And that can be scary if you believe in security when all wise folk know there is no such thing as security. Yes, if you lack the wisdom of insecurity, such a love can be terribly scary.

Because such a love and spiritual connection has a life of its own.

Either person, as they travel farther in their path, may find themselves on rocky roads, and either one may one day try to end what was created in such a holy way when they first met and joined in communion. But neither person, no matter what they say or try to do, can every really end an ordained love. Because that love and connection these two birthed together, simply is and will be. And even if their circumstances go sour, their love and spiritual connection will still be there, in one way or another, and will be an everpresent fixture in their lives until they are both dead and gone.

Over time, over the years, this love remains such an undeniable force, yet may come to manifest itself in a wide range of of incarnations, some good, some not so good, some completely unhealthy. Either of the two people to whom it was born, may try to ignore it or dismiss it or pretend it no longer exists, in futile efforts to make this love go away, this love that is bigger than they.

But as long as even one of these two people is left alive, this love of such fundament and power will continue to haunt them if they do not try to make it right and fulfill its promise.

The one thing they can never accomplish is to rid themselves of that love and connection by trying to just let go (the infamous “let go and move on”), or hide it away in a box (that age-old survival mechanism for the weak: compartimentalization), or by one demonizing the other into someone they are not and never were, or by lying to themselves — trying to sweep it away, under the rug, like it was only the fleeting passion of just another passing love affair.

That’s because, it was clear and evident on that day and ever since that day these two spirits first met, that day they said, “Welcome home.”

Why, you’d think any fool could see it.

These two were fated to be father and mother and gifted lovers, gifted with magic if they could only embrace it and not run scared.

They were gifted with a love ordained.

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RT

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RT

~ MY MONTESSORI OF LOVE ~ (Now on Video)

written and read by Randy Thornhorn

We first made love by firelight, by my fire in my home of wood.

It was warm, it was nurture, with animals and animal love. She was a teacher. And I had never known such a knowing teacher’s touch. She was a strong woman, she said. And she knew in her heart and head and her teacher’s hands that she had found her a good strong man. She said at last she had been welcomed, warmly, into her true home, her one true home, she said.

For she knew we would marry, marry, she said, our vows would wed us together. I’m going to marry this guy, she said of me to others, again and again. I’m going to marry this guy, she said. But until then I was invited to come and stay the night with her, with her in her same old bed.

I gave her my ancient mountain ring, and I wore hers, and we were matched with our patchwork quilt for marriage on our magic mountain day. All before I came to stay, that first special night when I came to stay, with her and her very special children, her boys who were the ages of men.

She was separated but divorcing, she said. But I soon learned she and a husband had been separated six long years, six years but still no divorce. Oh, it would happen any day now, she said, it would happen soon, soon, but she knew not when.

Then I first came into her bedroom and all his stuff was still on his dresser, his cuff links and the odd husband thing of his or the other, the kind of stuff guys have atop their dresser tops. His clothes still hung in the closet, the closet I was told to use.

It wasn’t until I gently mentioned this that it ever occurred to her, that something was amiss. And only then did she hide his things away. Yes, I was fortunate enough to be there and watch her hide her ex-but-not-really-ex husband’s things away, and out of sight, I watched her do this most all the very next day, after I had spent my first night.

I wondered how she would have felt if I had another woman’s clothes and jewelry openly laid out in my home of wood, when we first made love by the firelight. But I did not go there too strongly, for I loved her and did not want to hurt her heart or her head. So most of this went unsaid.

Her boys, the ages of men, well there were four. And each was addicted to at least one chemical or more or some other mind-numbing electric drug. Each was drifting or failing, three in the home — and one on the street, the one hooked on the hard stuff and doing dumb crimes. She was afraid of that one and was glad I was there to protect her from him.

She said she wanted to come stay with me to put some distance betwixt her and the scary son, the one who stole from them and scared her to feed his scary habit. She felt safer with me there, she said, in her house of things kept safely locked in boxes.

A week or so later, the one on the street was arrested for snatching a lady’s bag and for several other dumb little crimes, crimes to refill his needle. But now, now that he was in lockdown inside that county jail, well, she would have to stay near him, be near him, to weep for him and feel his pain for him just as she felt the pain of the other three addicted ones still locked inside her home, who gave her no respect but loved her just the same.

Oh, and she would not hear a bad word said against any one of her addicted ones, these poor benighted sons born to her and a drunkard husband who she knew she did not love the day she married him, who she knew was what he is and was when he passed out, unconsummated on their wedding night, the drunkard she had never saved her babies from, a drunkard who she gave herself to and waited on, despite his disrespect, feeling his weakling’s anger, who she allowed to school her children in The Ways of Weakness and Addiction 101 from semester to semester, as one school year led to another. Who she allowed to leave his cuff links on his dresser and his clothes in the closet, long after he was gone but not gone, though they were still in the course of soon divorcing, yes, we’re divorcing, after six long separated years.

But she was a strong woman, she said. She was a strong woman, she said.

She told me of people, others in her outer ring of mountain folk, who had questioned or disapproved of her schooling and parenting and how she would now have little to do with them or such critique when they questioned her methods of mothering. I finally had to ask myself, what parenting, what mothering? I saw only a smothering malaise. But she loved her children, you know, yes, and they loved her, you know, because they said so, they said so, and they said so, they said.

And when these sons of the teacher screwed up, grew angry, or did murder, she did lots of talking with each one, lots of talking and talking, and when all else failed there was always more of their sad, soft talking. It was bound to work one day, wasn’t it, wasn’t it? If we talk sad and soft long enough, now wouldn’t, wouldn’t it though?

I finally had to admit, there were no teachings or parentings here to question. There was only a house of soft and addicted and floating children.

But she was a strong woman, she said. They all would drown if she did not save them.

And soon I made her feel weak, she said, because I was too strong and too forceful, too angry with her method. I should not question her methods, she said, nor should I even display a method, any method. So I simply had to go.

Yes, she was ashamed, for all her credit cards and accounts were still in the drunkard’s name. Everything was left up to the drunkard, who was gone but not gone, else the drunkard might get angry, so she waited and she waited for everything from the drunkard, she waited while nothing changed.

But I was too harsh if I noticed these things. And in time she would tell me so.

Oh, I was good for heavy lifting, I suppose. And for moving loads of heavy stuff and driving hundred of miles, leaving my home of wood and my blessed beasts behind. To journey far in heat of day and dark of night, weathering all weathers so I could be there to sing hymns of her to her or join our bodies in sweet communion or just to hold her and listen kindly when she wanted to weep over her fears and failures.

But only she could say their names, anybody else was just being cruel. She was so gruelingly sensitive, you know? So sensitive and so afraid. So all the while I kept singing her sacred hymns, hymns of reassurance, hymns for our salvation. But some refuse to be saved.

I am glad I was good for something, for a while, for her. For her I gave my everything. But this was a family thing, she said. Can’t you see? She was all that could save them.

And I, well, I was too harsh if I suggested something might be wrong here. So I simply had to go.

Because she was so strong. You know.

And it was I who made her feel weak, I who made her feel wrong and not strong.

So I’m gone now, as you might guess. Oh yes. I’ve been dismissed. I simply had to go.

Still I love her more deeply with every dying day, with each passing season and semester, I feel so deeply her pain and the pain of her, long after I’ve gone away What is left of me loves her dearly with all my tattered soul. But me with no mother, or lover, or teacher to talk to, to talk to soft and low. Oh, did I mention I gave her my ancient mountain ring? And everything, everything, everything?

So these are my lessons of love. This is what little I’ve learned.

I’ve learned, sometimes, this is how love has to go.

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© 2016 Randy Thornhorn

(Mary)

There are others,

All around us,

Everywhere, every day,

Who battle their way

Through more terrifying ghosts

Than the killers who wrought them,

Brought them,

Then left them here inside us

Ticking

Will ever know.

Perhaps more than

Your killer will ever care

Or will ever be aware

Enough

To notice

All the mortal devastation

Left here

In their wake.

A war zone

Revisited again and again

Inside one still-loving human heart.

And worst of all

Is the way they

Haphazardly crash in for

Another killing spree

Passing through still closed doors

Exploding inside your spirit

Exploding

When least expected.

One moment

You’re fine and making it,

The next moment

Your train

Derailed for hours or a day,

By ghosts of love

Whose quiet terrors

Refuse to die and stay dead,

Damn them

To hell and back

Why won’t they just go,

Go far away with their

Faithless phantoms

Of friend and lover

Go far away

And stay?

There’s no bayonet

To keep them at bay

And there’s no point in

Attention to such a

Guarded question really.

Nobody answers in memorium

Or gives a flying duck and cover

In the decorated graveyard.

But the killer

And the killer’s ghosts

They troop

Around and around

Inside skull and heart

While often they flay

Everything you were and are

Apart

Until it takes every muscle

In the remains of your

Mind and body

To just put one foot

In front of the other,

To just keep moving,

Marching dead but onward

Silently screaming

Medic! Medic!

Waiting for a little more

All-too-brief relief

Just crying to stay alive

As your killer’s agony

Grows bolder and bolder

And that, my comrade,

Is why you had to be a soldier

A soldier to survive.

Yes, you are a soldier.

Until your dying day is done.

I know a soldier

I know a soldier

I know a soldier

When I see one.

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RT

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(for Louis)

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© Randy Thornhorn

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