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This is nothing more than the contents below.
The Title of the Torrent has its own meaning to me but
I am sorry it is not directly related to THIS post.
This is from my Blog which contains my short stories about what happened in my life
And what happened to Eddie and I.
I have received many writing award locally.
I am a good writer when writing fiction and not Comments.
And I have worked for years to get to the point where I could reach out to let people know what happened to us. This is not something that should ever be forgotten, or covered up.


An excerpt from

The Oceans Edge




I remember traveling across the country with my father in 1969, in Jane Mansfields old Lincoln, shutting down his labs.

In dust and dark corners I found my treasures a large magnet and a piece of metal. I imagined the old speaker magnet could broadcast across the universe if held just right. We had been told to leave everything alone. With stealth I placed it in the Lincoln when I was sure no one was watching tucked away for years beside the spare tire.

They were clean labs. With Spectrographs, Magnaflux, and Monarch adding machines that screamed that you were touching things over and over again in chunks of spinning digits. But now things were silent.

I was a child of Vim and Vigor. I was my parents dream. If I could remember anything that wasnt bits and pieces of what people say, I could fill these pages with words which but instead I play callous against callus. I wish I could write in Cummings endless prose or Dylans deep imagery. Or Sandburgs oaths between...I wish.

As my father sat in the darkness in the office, I placed my stolen treasure into the Lincoln. What God wants. God gets.

We laid the labs to rest one night as we drove across country to our new home. I would sit with him as I always did, wedged between the front seats. I was seven years old. It was right after Apollo One in December, Martin Luther Kings Assassination in April,.and Bobbys on June 3rd, and Grant Park in August.

I read a book of my sisters that summer. It was a story about Wart as a child growing into Arthur Pendragon. It was called The once and Future King. I lived with Wart for six hundred pages that summer. It told the story of a boy who braved the forest to find a man who had been born in the future and was growing old into the past. Merlin could remember the future and he taught Arthur to see a world that was filled with dreams and the goodness of men.

Not even the greatest writer can hide the presence of the final page. And as I read I realized I was saying goodbye to a friend. Before his last battle Arthur brought his page to his tent and asked him to return home and tell the world of a boy who once believed in dreams.

********

I remember years ago, in Amsterdam. I never went to Rembrandts museum but I immediately went to Van Goghs. While walking past these paintings of fields of wheat and crows to the back of the museum to have my breath taken away from me. It was a floor to ceiling painting of a tree at Arles at the Asylum. In a second I could feel the intense beauty that Vincent saw in that instant a hundred years ago. And the intensity of how desperately he wanted to share how he felt in huge beautiful brushstrokes that captured the museum light.

It took me twenty years to learn how to write. For me sentences dont fit in sentences. There are such complex associations I want to show. What I learned is that its not the subject. I learned to talk between the sentences. Its the brushstroke that takes your breath away.

******

I was a child of Vim and Vigor. My parents taught me to believe in my dreams. But I taught myself to believe in myself. Because sometimes your dreams can be stolen from you.

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