SOMETHING I WROTE WHEN I WAS 20 YEARS OLD

This is the earliest writing that I still have, written when I was about twenty.

 

Death scares me to death! When I was little, and laying in bed, on my stomach, my ears against the pillow, I would hear these footsteps coming after me. It sounded as if someone was walking in snow, each step had a slight crunchy sound, like when it had snowed at night and had gotten cold enough to leave a slight frost over the new snow. As I lay there, the footsteps would quicken, getting closer. Even then, I knew their meaning, impending dissolution, the march to infinity. I would ask my guardian angel to help; when he didn`t respond, I would pray to God. Most of the time, that would help. I would think about going to Heaven, and how good it would be. But sometimes I would think about life after death, living forever, and it would really scare me, as much as I still get scared about not living forever. {The steps in the night don`t scare me any more because I know it was only my heart beating, then racing. The symptoms are cured, but not the demons.}

V

C 19?? VTD

On Being A Poet

Judiciously,

I approach the thought.

Hunting a Chimera.

 

Will its serpent`s tail

fling me

out of its dimension?

Or will I mount the goat,

controlling the fire`s breath?

 

Revenants confuse and

haunt my mind.

Chimera`s specter

a Paradise for fools.

 

To be a Poet

is thirsty work.

Nourishment

a constant quest,

to fend the fears

of dissolution.

 

V

C 2005   Deabler, V.T.

HAPPY SECOND ANNIVERSARY AOL JOURNALS

 

Happy Second Anniversary to all intrepid travelers in AOL Journal Land! I have been blessed to have met so many wonderful people, to have visited so many remarkable journals. At my disposal are Photos, Art, Poetry, Fiction, Reminiscences; most importantly, the daily lives of ordinary people; their struggles, their joys and heartbreak, most of all, their inner courage to become! I salute all of you and humbly bow.

The following is my Anniversary Poem from our First Celebration. The Butterfly Graphic is Courtesy of Viviansullinwank. Merci, Viv.

 

 

"Metamorphosis"

The tiny worm hatches,
searches the net for sustenance.
She feasts on Pogo
gapes at Google
plays with Pics,
Windows Media offers refreshment,
but she`s still a worm.


How can she grow
find the cerebral food
to become a caterpillar?

Aloneness continues,
her only friends are Amazon and .coms
trying to sell her a soul.


She inches upward to Hometown
tastes a web page
and sees a friendly face
beckoning her to AOL journals.

Tentatively, she enters this strange world,
Butterflies are everywhere!
life is there to taste; prose, poetry, paintings,
the sharing of souls, of heartbreak and love.


She devours everything in sight, grows and grows
A fine caterpillar she is
having feasted on the butterflies` glorious wares.


Ah! It is time to rest
she spins a cocoon around herself
and sleeps in wonder.


Can I be a butterfly too?
can I be as pretty
as the wonderful Monarchs
of Journal-land?


She emerges from camouflage,
mothlike, she says hello,
and is welcomed by many others
Floating and flitting
touching her little nest.


She grows bolder, ponderously taking flight
and finds no judgement of her faltering attempts,
only encouragement, and love!


She becomes a butterfly,
offering what she can
to other, newer caterpillars
finding a butterfly`s true nature
the metamorphosis complete.


Vince Deabler

" Lauren " Parts 1 to 6

LAUREN

 

 Finally free! Well, at least for two hours. Her eldest of two children was at basketball practice and his best friend`s mother would drive him home afterwards. Lauren was pulling out of the parking lot of the ballet academy where she had just deposited her eight year old daughter Courtney. 

 

 She had not decided to meet Brent until she found herself turning left at the light, heading towards the city. Lauren had been married for ten years, had a happy life; her husband and two children, a beautiful home in a fashionable community, her passion for writing. And yet here she was driving to meet Brent; just a drink, nothing more.

 

 Lauren had met Brent at the annual Philadelphia Writer`s Guild conference. He was one of five invited guests, published writers all, with their own devoted followings. Brent O`Mara was the poet invitee and Lauren had had the pleasure of introducing him at one of the workshops. 

 

 After his reading and the last of his admirers had left for the cash bar, he came over to her as she was gathering the extra literature from the head table. Brent lightly brushed her shoulder with one finger, "Lauren, I really must thank you for your help with my workshop. Could I repay you in some small way for the pleasure of meeting you? At least a drink."

 

  As soon as Brent and Lauren entered the main ballroom, it was clear that any chance of their sharing a few moments together was futile.

 

 Lauren looked on wistfully as Brent was surrounded by women of all ages; touching him, trying to get his attention. Brent shrugged his shoulders and winked at her, mouthing the words "Don`t go!" as programs and pens enveloped him.

 

 Lauren smiled, walked to the bar and ordered a glass of chardonnay. She sat at a table and gazed at the crowd around Brent. Had these women read his poetry or were they just drawn by his celebrity?

 

  She found herself feeling warm, somewhat flustered. To be honest with herself, it felt like jealousy. She smiled at herself, sipped at her wine and went to the coatroom to retrieve her coat. As she left the room for her car, the last glimpse she saw of Brent was of his eyes, staring at her.

 

 Lauren waited four days, checking her EMail. There was nothing from Brent. She felt a little foolish, like a schoolgirl. I met this man, he touched my shoulder and lightly flirted with me; and here I am looking for EMails from a stranger? She smiled at her folly but couldn`t resist going to Brent`s website. It was there that she saw the poem.  

                        To      L                        

                 Oh, if I be that goblet    

                 brought to your lips,  

                 releasing my fluid        

                 into you.  

 

 Lauren was moved by the poem yet was unsure if it was written for her. After all, she had just spoken a few words with Brent. She shuddered as she remembered the feeling of his finger lightly caressing her shoulder.

 

 And what if it was for her? She was a married woman with two children and a wonderful husband. The last thing she needed was a romantic complication in her life!

 

 And yet, how beautiful the poem, how sensuous! Lauren imagined leaving a comment at Brent`s website, and how foolish she would feel if the poem was not written for her. She was just about to exit the website when she noticed Brent`s EMail address.

 

 She thought, "What harm could it do to send him an EMail complimenting his poetry. Maybe just leave my cell phone number!" She felt a warmth in her body, an excitement that she had long since forgotten! Before her better sense could argue with her, Lauren typed the EMail and hit send.  

 

  The next morning, while loading the dishwasher, Lauren heard the Coldplay song announcing someone was calling on her cellphone. She rushed to the phone, then waited 10 seconds before clicking it on.

 

 "Hello"; a 10 second pause; then "Good morning, Lauren. Thank you for visiting my web site. Did you see your poem?"

 

 "The poem was beautiful, Brent, but I wasn`t sure it was for me!"

 

 "Lauren, I was so sorry to see you leave the meeting, I went to your table and tasted from your wine glass. The poem just erupted as I tasted the chardonnay through your lipstick on the rim."

 

 Lauren felt that warmth again; 'How can that happen over the phone?' She didn`t know what to say, how to respond.

 

 Brent saved her by speaking, "Can you find some time tonight to meet me? I still owe you that drink."

 

 Lauren thought about the kid`s schedules, then replied, "If you really want to, I have some time between 7.00 and 8.30 tonight."

 

 "Do you know the Mill Race? On the way to the city?"

 

 "Yes, Brent, though I`ve never been there."

 

 "I`ll see you there at 7.30 then?"

 

 "Yes, Brent, I`ll be there. Bye." Lauren turned off the phone and wondered if she was doing the right thing.

 

 Lauren arrived at the Mill Race at 7.15, about fifteen minutes early. She continued driving past the tavern for about ten minutes, then turned her SUV around and started back. She remembered that Brent had said 7.30 and she didn`t want to sit in a bar alone.

 

 When she arrived at the tavern she found a parking space close to the entrance and, after checking her makeup, she entered the front door.

 

 The tavern was dimly lit, but she could see the bar area was to her right. Lauren walked to the bar entrance, then hesitated. There were only five customers there, two couples and an older man. Lauren, crestfallen, checked her watch; 7.45! Feeling a bit foolish, she turned and started walking back to the front entrance.

 

 As she approached the door, she felt a light touch on her shoulder. "Lauren, Hi. I`m so sorry. I`ve been sitting at a table in the dining room and I must have missed you. Come, it`s much more private there at this hour."

 

 Brent took her elbow and led her to a nook near the back of the dining room, where they sat. "I`m so happy you`ve come. I was worried I`d been stood up!"

 

 Lauren smiled nervously as Brent poured her a glass of white wine from a decanter on the table. "Chardonnay, wasn`t it?" Lauren nodded and Brent raised his glass to hers, speaking, "Here`s to our adventure."

 

V

C 2005 Deabler, V.T.

DEABLER "Painting # 5"

An early painting.

V

Scalzi`s Assignment #68 Viva La France!

Weekend Assignment #68: Take a moment to appreciate something French. Tell us about that French thing you most appreciate. It could be anything, from a particular French wine to your favorite French filmmaker to the fact they like Jerry Lewis more than we.

 

The following is Chapter 3 from my Book  " CARRIE ",  Book 2 of " VAMPIRE ". I hope you`ll enjoy it!

 

 

" CARRIE "

CHAPTER 3

 

 It was evening in Paris. On the third floor of the Sevinne townhouse, the present occupant was standing at a bedroom window, a silver goblet in her right hand. In the background, she could hear Wagner`s “Siegfried” playing softly. She had many recordings of the Ring Cycle, but to hear the wonderful Spanish tenor Placido Domingo sing Siegfried was a special pleasure. 

 

 Mondrian Bluczek, now known as the Countess Czermintek, sipped her drink as she looked out the window at Place Voltaire. It was so wonderful to be here in Paris; the past year had been the most relaxing of her life. It was now over five years since her narrow escape from certain death at the hands of the vampire Alucard.

 

She could still remember that fateful final evening in Scotland. She had been sitting in her bedroom in her home on the Isle of Lewis when she felt Alucard`s presence at her window. Mondrian had led him to herself by commenting in his on-line journal, using the thinly disguised pseudonym of Monblu. She knew that he would track her down to kill her but she had grown weary of waiting for this confrontation. 

 

 Although vampire, Mondrian realized that without foreknowledge of his approach it would be impossible for her to defeat the one who had transformed her. Mondrian could see the lust in Alucard`s eyes as he sat next to her and when he kissed her she made herself wolf in order to destroy him. As wolf, she attacked, only to feel Alucard`s silver dagger at her throat.

 

Knowing certain death, with a last act of her will she transformed her essence to mist as Alucard decapitated her wolfen body. She had prepared for the possibility that she could not defeat Alucard and had remembered how he had escaped from death at the hands of the first Dr. Abraham van Helsing. Mondrian had spent countless hours working on the wolf-mist transformation and Alucard`s subsequent actions in leaving her wolfen body on the moor, then tracking her vampire servant to the United States, made her quite confident that he believed that she was destroyed. 

 

 Mondrian reflected on the four years it had taken for her to reach Paris. She had never had any doubt of where she wanted to live, but she thought it prudent to take her time in arriving at “The City of Lights”. It had taken her two and a half years to work her way through Scotland and England before she arrived in London. Money was not a question; Mondrian continued to have access to her numbered accounts in Switzerland. 

 

  However, she must, at all costs, conceal her living vampireness from Alucard and the present Dr. van Helsing. These two beings would go to any lengths to destroy her if they deduced that the wolfen body found on the Scottish moor was not her essence. Mondrian wisely spent another year in London and six months in Le Havre before settling in Paris.   

 

 Throughout these five years, she had lived with one further prohibition; she had not shared her blood with any of her victims and therefore had made no new vampires. The two times she had made vampire in the past showedher the folly of attempting to control the rash, risk-taking behavior of a newly created vampire. Mondrian simply didn`t have the patience or inclination to spend the hundreds of years that Alucard had invested in her unworldly education.   

 

 Therefore, in London, Mondrian had interviewed several young men for the position of her private secretary and house manager. She hired Brian Woodson, a young M.B.A. freshly minted from the University of London, after she found him particularly conducive to hypnotic manipulation. She now had a servant under her control who could interact with the world during those daylight hours when she must be undisturbed. Woodson had arranged through a “dummy” company to obtain a continuing supply of fresh blood plasma for her and she would in the future hunt for human prey only when she was overwhemed by the need for the kill.   

 

 Mondrian finished her goblet of plasma and sat, attuning herself to Placido Domingo`s singing. Ah, life was good!  

 

V

C 2005  Deabler, V.T.

NIETZSCHE: An Old Essay

 Nietzsche looks at man through murky waters. He defends his renunciation of God by pointing out to us the evil in organized Western religions, in effect condemning God because of man`s shortcomings. He scoffs at all philosophers who came before him because all made the same fatal mistake, accepting the supposition that what is moral and ethical is known to man.

 

 Nietzsche condemns all "a prioris"; nothing is given. It is just that man before him has not had the courage to go this far. Man has sacrificed his courage and freedom to such "a prioris". The question of the chicken and the egg, resolved by many, beginning with Aristotle, in favor of the chicken, is a universal not to be solved but to be scoffed at.

 

 Man`s destiny is resolved by man, not by final cause. At best causality is unanswerable and man should no longer waste his time on unanswerable questions. At worst, the question is stagnation and directly attributable to man`s fear of being responsible for his existence.

 

 For Nietzsche, the basis for human existence is will to power and the means for self-fulfillment is personal courage. The over-man, the future man who will accept his destiny [and Nietzsche believed he was a precursor,"A Stranger In A Strange Land "], will show concern for his fellow man but from a position of power and self confidence. It is Nietzsche`s belief that the "love for fellow man" so universally accepted as a basic pattern necessity of life is merely a projection of man`s fear of being hurt. He postulates a distinct difference between such morbid self-protection and that concern shown by the "over-man".

 

 Although he goes to great lengths to contradict this feeling, it seems to the writer that, except for the honest respect given to others who live life according to his principles, Nietzsche translates his concern to all others as pity. [Since Nietzsche believes that pity is an emotion not worthy of the lowest animal, we may get an inkling of his view towards those of the human species who do not share his view of life.]

 

 Such a position, of course, is also strikingly similar to the "we are right" communality expressed by members of Western organized religions, one of the cores which he so mercilessly attacked.   

 

V  

 

C 2003 Deabler, V.T.

A POEM

I live in shallow waters

with the jelly fish and crabs

safely hidden from the risks

pursuant to happiness.

 

Floating, numb to my bones

the waves a mere rippling

at the depths I allow

myself.

 

And yet, there was a time

in my life and yours

when we revelled in the depths

splashing, diving o`er the breakers.

 

Hand-in-hand, we scuba dived,

exploring depths and wonders

we`d never see alone.

Do you see this, feel this,

feel me?

 

Then you were gone

and come again.

I keep you at a distance,

from my shallow waters.

V

C 2005 Deabler, V.T.

 

 

AOL JOURNALS 2nd ANNIVERSARY!!!!

The heck with my FTP space! Here is the Original Slacalicious AOL Journals Anniversary Torch! I`d appreciate it if you upload to your FTP space, but, in any case, I hope everyone lights a torch in their Journal. Here`s a few sites to visit!!                           

 Let me know if you have a Journal or post that you would like added here!

http://journals.aol.com/slacbacmac/SlackBackMackthelog/

http://journals.aol.com/coy1234787/Dancingintherain/entries/1344

http://journals.aol.com/viviansullinwank/NwanyiomasJournal/

http://journals.aol.com/aynetal3/AOLFirstYearHallofFame/

http://journals.aol.com/deabvt/DeablerVT/entries/389

http://journals.aol.com/his1desire/AOLJournalDirectory

Please light a torch in your journal in your own Honor! You`ve earned it!

V

Paul Cezanne "The Chateau Noir Paintings "

The château in those paintings derives its name from rumors about its owner, rather than from its appearance. It was built in the 18th century by an industrialist from Marseilles, who manufactured lampblack paint (derived from soot). He also used it to decorate the interior walls and furniture of the château. As a result, he was associated with black magic among the local people, who believed that the château was also home to the devil.

Cistern in the Park at Château Noir
c. 1900 (270 Kb); Oil on canvas, 74.3 x 61 cm (29 1/4 x 24 in); Estate of Henry Pearlman, New York; Venturi 780

Château Noir
1902-05 (210 Kb); Oil on canvas, 70 x 82 cm (27 1/2 x 32 1/4 in); Collection Jacques Koerfer, Bern; Venturi 797

Château Noir
1900-04 (210 Kb); Oil on canvas, 73.7 x 96.6 cm (29 x 38 in); National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C; Venturi 796

Château Noir
1904-06 (210 Kb); Oil on canvas, 73.6 x 93.2 cm (29 x 36 3/4 in); The Museum of Modern Art, New York; Venturi 794

Château Noir
1904-06 (240 Kb); Oil on canvas, 73 x 92 cm (28 3/4 x 36 1/4 in); Musee du Louvre, Paris; Venturi 795

Click on any Painting to enlarge.

V

A POEM

Lovingly,

I touch your lips,

Caressing

so soft

I`m afraid of bruising.

 

Your hair,

Blonde as wheat,

my fingers

glean.

 

Eyes smiling

Sparkling--

dazzle

my heart.

 

A perfect

photograph.

 

V

c 2005   Deabler,  V.T.