The Maschenkel

Racecar Driver

Sometimes the mind races around a track that never ends. "Sometimes" is the wrong word for it. A better word would be "nothing." Not "Nothing, the mind," but replacing "sometimes" with nothing at all...

"The mind races around a track." That's the way that should be phrased. But it never happens sometimes for me. It is always going on. Oh, and also it's not a track it's going around, either. Because it doesn't particularly ever go around in a circle. A circle would lead you to believe you return to the beginning eventually.

So, here's the new revised sentence:

"The mind races around and never ends."

To be more precise, it's my mind, my mind races around and never ends. My mind.

My mind isn't even a mind at all. It's a collection of thoughts that are clearly separate from the person that I am.

I am a spectator and my mind is a racecar driver.

Don't Go Today

When the coop flies away, the roost comes to stay, and all I have to say is, "Please don't go today."

The roost went to fly and the coop came to stay. The only thing left to say was, "I'll deal with today tomorrow."

And when tomorrow looms, I pray to myself that it not become a yesterday, where everything goes away a day ago.

If tomorrow can become yesterday, then I've got only one thing left to say, "Please don't go today."

The Path of True Love

When the things that you thought you loved begin to fade away you find your true love.

The love of this leads you down a path that can never be paved; for it is ever-changing and pure.

Together you march as the sounds of your footsteps echo down its corridor. The path has a heartbeat and is alive at long last.

A dendritic system of previous paths, once leading you astray, slowly fades away to merge upon this one.

And Focus is her name. But she doesn't know mine.

Burden

They call me the King of Thinks
I am the Think King
Here I sit on my throne... thinking
When all my thoughts are gone I am dethroned
Then my crown weighs too much
To keep my head up high
Then in my despair I think about my subjects
And my thoughts revive
I'm alive
It's the return of the Think King
Thinking

Don't Sweat the Small Stuff

It's the little things that creep through the cracks. The cracks of your life hum with these gnats that needle at you. They invade your hinges and paralyze your person. They creep, corrode and cauterize your being into a shape most undesirable. They tinker, twist and then melt your mind, corrupting each of your thoughts.

What was once so simple is now a conundrum of complexity in their sordid little world. Miniature invaders raised a weakened portcullis and terrorized your crumbling castle... and at the helm of this crusading force is you... a weak and brittle little being who always screamed "don't sweat the small stuff."

Your Own Two Shoes

Today is at a loss for your love of yesterday, because it knows what it brought.

And tomorrow looks back and knows the same is true.

And while you step forward without looking, you trip over your own two shoes.

And there stays you

And everything you try to do

Lettuce Inn

Let us in!
Let us in!
The Lettuce Inn
Won't let us in
So we went somewhere else
The end.

*Co-authored with my daughter. She's the funny one.

The Maschenkel (Part I)

Have you ever heard of the Maschenkel? Well, it has heard of you, and it likes what it hears.

It crawls forth from whence you came… hot on your trail. Hansel and Gretel have nothing on its breadcrumb-following skills. It feeds on what you drop, and you're always dropping something. The Maschenkel never loses pace... and begins its chase... the moment you are new. But at long last your pace wanes, and in pursuit… the Maschenkel gains on you.

The Maschenkel completes its task by ending your resistance only to find the end of its chase.

To this you ask, "But why?"

And the Maschenkel replies: "I bid you adieu."

Time

A quick realization came to me... that my life would soon be ending.

Not 'soon' as in the nature of sooner or later, because of course I would be dying later; unless I died right there (Irony's preference).

I mean 'soon,' as in time marches much too quickly for it to truly be useful to anything other than itself.

Meaningless desperation for solving the mystery of meaning seems as pointless as pointing out that nothing has a point.

However, it is what has taken over my reasoning.

This infectious disease finds its way up the gut of tranquility and into the realm of deprivation...

the source of my terrific turmoil

is what's unfinished.

Sometimes, many times, and in times of need.

Many things, to most things, but not quite all things, begin to wish they were something sturdy and sound, as if they were in a direction bound.

They get up and take a step closer to a door that is an eternity away. Following, and then floating, often at times, leading men astray. They tend to meander to the darkness of brilliant light, as if it were the only way.

Brilliance tinkers with insanity, but not that of light. Watch the sky turn black as the atmosphere dissipates, and you float on away, sometimes, many times, and in times of need.

The Maschenkel (Part II)

Dear Henry,

It has heard of you, even if you haven't heard of it. It's coming for you too. Don't be fooled by the benevolence of my tone for the gravity of this situation is quite dire indeed. It brings the quiet for all save the few who truly live.

The Maschenkel always gets what it wants and is coming for me now. I first became aware of it years back. Years numbered seven. The good luck number for most, but the luck has run out. It runs out for us all I'm afraid, but for me the final grain of luck is about to drop in my hourglass of life.

Do not fear, for you still have time. Use it wisely. I'm not scared of the Maschenkel. I welcome it. The only thing I wanted before the Maschenkel found me was for me to find it and I'm afraid I won't be able to do so. Don't do as I've done. Learn to truly live and perhaps you can escape my fate. In doing this, perhaps, the Maschenkel will forget your name. Be assured, the more you think of it the more it'll think of you. Heed this warning and do not as I did.

Sincerely, Thomas

The Fate of Your Twist

If for every turn you take another nauseating one must follow, then turning around would lead to churning.

Dizzily, the initial turn is undone through inertia. But, after it is made the next turn follows suit only to be followed by, yet again, another turn.

So, in a wild twist of fate your turn leads to a knotted wrinkled mess that can't be unwound.

And woefully you regret that first turn and try to find a way to undo the fate of your twist.

Intermission

Everything stopped and so I began.
Wait kept moving while Stillness twitched and the pause pulsed.
I remembered how to forget just so I could try forgetting to remember, but memory forgot its place.
The echo arrived before the sound, dragging the noise behind it.
And I applauded the absence for showing up at all.
That's when I realized the break was the show.
And now I don't know where to begin.
A loop. A circle… a semicircle not quite closed.

The Maschenkel (Part III)

I washed my chuckles down with the remaining drops of brandy in my glass. A smirk yielded to a smile as I thought of my old college friend. It had been years since I've heard from Thomas but it was plain that his sense of humor had not diminished.

As I tossed Thomas' letter into the leaping flames trying to escape the fireplace, I thought to myself, perhaps it was time for me to pay a visit to my hometown and see how the old fellow fared. Eleanor has gone with the children, and the house stands silent about me; it seems I have all the time in the world. I poured another measure of brandy and sat on the sofa and stared at the fire until it burned itself out. The last ember stopped glowing as I finished the entire bottle of brandy and murmured softly, "What is the Maschenkel?"

Friendventory

I'm the worst kind of best friend.
A friend that no one needs.
I have a million friends.
Real once, now re-minded, re-muddled, re-created, but not quite re-membered.
I think of each and everyone all the daily, which means we're as close as can be.
Linked. Telepathically, theoretically, categorically.
I'm the worst kind of best friend.
A friend only people like me need.
Ever-thinking, never-doing, ever-fading, never-true, and bothersome through and through.
We all meet in my head for maybe-parties and nearly-talks,
toast with imaginary drinks and vanishing laughter.
They're fine. I'm fine.
My friendventory's full: flitterfriends, forgettifolk, thoughtlings and might-bes. All accounted for.
And the party started without me.
I'm the worst kind of best friend,
but I rightly remember everyone perfectly wrong.
I'm the best kind of worst friend because I know I owe you a call.

The Maschenkel (Part IV)

The old house. The old Thomas… One was there.

A fence. A field. A stream.

Tall grass… birds a plenty… questions a plenty. Questions more.

As I entered the old house stepping over creaking boards that hadn't been tended for years I caught the pungent smell of dust and emptiness. The study smelled even worse. The old rickety desk nearly collapsing beneath the weight of papers and books wobbled as my steps echoed near it.

An old notebook filled with beautiful art of odd creatures caught my eye. I'll need to come back to that later, I thought meticulously as I placed it back into the letter box I found it in.

As I browsed the rest of the home looking for my old friend I found nothing but more papers, books and more questions. Questions more.

Where was he?

And as I gave up on my hopes of finding him and neared the door something called me. That box with the book. I walked back for it to get a final glimpse. I picked the old book up and carefully flipped through its wrinkled dank pages. As my fingers grazed those ridges and felt a connection, there it was, in the middle of the book, marked with a loose page, "The Maschenkel."

Clock Around the Rock

A timely clock forgot what time it was today. Ticking took a tumble, as it toiled in a timid tangle of looping tocks.

Its hands hung halfway out of the house, hovering humbly, hoping I'd heed. I thanked it for its patience and pretended to proceed.

Seconds, minutes, then hours hummed hollow hints. Half begun, half undone, I finished nothing and everything begun.

When I visioned the clock again, it clucked kindly and cuckooed a count that it couldn't keep.

I smiled and said to myself, "I had already unremembered and fell asleep."

The Maschenkel (Part V)

I meant to visit years ago, but life… slipped. Then she slipped. Away. My Eleanor. The kids too. The same as this page is doing now.

I'm not entirely certain how long I've been attempting to set this to page. The light of my candle flickers on it in the most distracting of ways. Each time I return to the notebook it greets me like a stranger, familiar shapes wearing unfamiliar expressions, letters appearing where they never were before. 'Twas but yesterday I wrote an entire account, carefully, as one does when they wish to recall something properly. Today the page stood empty save for a single line that I am quite sure I did not place there:

"Try again. You missed something."

I tore it out and began anew from memory, determined to bring order to the page. But when I opened the notebook this evening, the order had betrayed me. The meaning hadn't merely shifted. It had cooled. It felt... wrong.

A tail of a letter bends the wrong way. A word leans toward another as if conspiring. I blink and an entire sentence vanishes, replaced with something I did not grant permission to live:

"You're getting closer."

Closer to what? I don't know. But stopping feels dangerous.

The longer I continue, the quicker the page rearranges itself.

My hand keeps making my handwriting, but it isn't mine, at least it isn't the voice I know. It feels as though something stands just behind the ink… waiting… ready to take whatever I fail to hold. It's my mind. The other one. Not this one. The one that seeks to talk when cast aside too long.

I tried to write "I am afraid," but the page swallowed it whole and gave back nothing at all, as though fear itself must be consumed before it may be spoken.

I used to believe I had all the time in the world. I set about to see it so, but that was foolish of me.

The last few lines here are no longer mine. I do not hear myself in them anymore. I read myself in them only.

I don't know if the "I" on this page even belongs to me.

I...

Hello.

You pause so often. You drift. You forget. And then you blame yourself for what slips away.

But tell me...

is it simple forgetfulness? or is it me?

:)

Let me finish this for you. You never do.

Dreaming to Think

The last thought I had was less of a thought and more of a dream.

I dreamt I could think with the creativity of all the thoughts in a thousand dreams; and when those dreams ended, the only thought I had was an attempt to recollect the dream.

So, I sat and thought, "how could I once again achieve those thoughts," until I realized that all my thoughts were nothing but dreams.

And here today, I sit and dream of a tomorrow in which I can truly think.

The Maschenkel (Part VI)

Patient: Henry —— Session: 6 Clinician: Dr. —— Status: Note incomplete

The patient reports worsening disturbances in perception since our last visit. They insist their journal entries are "changing on their own," rearranging, or presenting new phrases they did not write. When asked to clarify, the patient became visibly distressed. They described "a smile that keeps showing up where it shouldn't" and "ink that bends the wrong way."

The patient denies hallucinations but speaks with certainty that the distortions are external. Their affect is anxious, hypervigilant, frequently glancing toward my office window. They repeatedly asked me to "keep the blinds closed," though the weather outside was overcast and calm.

When encouraged to ground themselves, the patient stated: "He's trying to finish my thoughts for me."

I inquired who "he" referred to, but the patient refused to give a name. Their hands shook throughout the session. At one point they whispered that the smile "isn't a drawing anymore… It's learning my face."

Mid-session, the patient turned their chair away from me and toward the window, staring at the glass as if waiting for something to appear. I assured them nothing was there. They did not respond.

This is where the patient's recounting becomes less coherent. They claimed the reflections in the room were "lagging behind," that my own reflection "blinked too late." They covered their eyes and said, "He's coming for me." Immediately afterward, they insisted the words weren't theirs.

As I began to document these statements, the patient interrupted, asking if I could "see it too now." I asked what they meant.

The patient pointed at the window. At first I thought they were having a panic episode triggered by their own reflection. But as I turned toward the glass, I noticed a small patch of fog blooming across its surface, as though someone had leaned close and exhaled.

We are alone in the room. There is no draft. No one touched the window. The fog thickened.

And then, without pressure from inside or out, a single curved line dragged itself across the condensation.

Slow. Jagged. Deliberate.

A second line rose beside it, mirroring the first.

A smile.

Drawn from the outside in.

The patient whispered, "You see it now."

I am ending the session. I will finish this note… I...

Drowning

Sometimes I sit around and drown. The thing most intriguing about it is that I survive long enough to actually realize that I'm drowning.

The pressure of the air within me swells, but it isn't enough to keep the water out. I try so hard to convince myself that as long as I have this precious air inside me, I will be fine.

And then... violently... it tells me that holding that poison in my lungs is worse than exhaling, and letting the water rush in.

And so, I breathe.

In this pressure I thrive. Alive.

The Maschenkel (Part VII)

To: Edna Sampson, Ashley Sampson, Renee Thomas, Audrey Landault

Subject:

Mom,

I'm leaving the clinic. I told them it was burnout, but it's not. Something is happening to me, and I don't have much time before it gets worse. The temperature in every room I enter is wrong. The texture of all the paper I touch is overly coarse. I itch. Twitch.

At first it looked like my patients with ADHD… losing my place in conversations, forgetting what I was doing mid-task, rereading my own notes because they never looked the same twice. But then I realized the notes weren't changing… because I forgot them.

Whatever shall it be that is causing such a ruckus then?

I'd write a sentence, blink, and the wording would shift. Entire lines moved as if they slid into new positions when I wasn't looking. I kept telling myself I was tired, distracted, overwhelmed. I kept telling myself I was tired, distracted… overwhelmed…

No. That's not right. That's what I told them, Mom.

Then the smiles started… on windows, on glossy paper, in reflections that shouldn't bend that way. Always the same jagged curve. Always waiting for me to notice. You know the smile Audrey. I told you. You know.

Last night, the fog on my bathroom mirror thickened, and two crooked lines dragged themselves across the glass. Slow, deliberate. And then I heard it… not aloud, but inside my thoughts, like someone whispering from behind them:

"The Maschenkel's coming for me."

Since then, I can't hold a thought still. Every time I try to finish something, my mind slips. Sentences collapse. Tasks unravel. It's like he's sitting just behind my focus, catching whatever I drop. And I'm dropping everything.

I'm scared I will never finish anything again.

I'm scared that's the point.

If you start losing time, if your words rearrange themselves, if that smile appears where it shouldn't… don't ignore it. Don't call it distraction. Call him

And whatever you do, don't let him finish your thoughts.

He wants the ones you can't.

Oh, Henry… I understand you now. Now.

The Maschenkel (Part VIII)

Case No. 27-143B** Responding Officer: Det. Leonard Hartsell Location: Residence of Dr. Rita Sampson Date: [ ] Status: Draft [Not Submitted]

Call came in around 19:30 for a welfare check. A Dr. Sampson not answering calls for two days. Family said they received a concerning message days prior.

Front door was locked from the inside. All windows locked from the inside too. No sign of forced exit. I breached the door.

House was quiet. Too quiet. No TV, no lights, nothing running. Looked like she left just minutes ago, except she couldn't have. Not with the locks set the way they were.

A tea cup still warm on a newspaper. Left a jagged semicircle stain ring when I checked it. The crosshatched pulp wicked the moisture away from the cup in a X shape. Two of them just above the semicircle.

Notebooks all over the living room. Pages open. A lot of sentences not finished. Sketches of some creatures. Animals maybe. Some scratched out. Some written over like she couldn't decide what she meant. One page had the same line over and over:

"The Maschenkel is coming for me."

Looked like she pressed hard. Paper almost torn through. Graphite smudge all the way through the paper.

On several other pages I find the name "Henry" written. We need to dig through her contacts for a Henry to check with. He may be a suspect. Suspect.

Checked hallway. Bathroom. Mirrors fogged up even though the air was cool. Someone drew a smile in the fog. Crooked. Sharp. No prints. No reason the mirror should've been wet at all. Odd.

Heard paper move behind me. Turned. Nothing there. Books maybe weren't where they were when I walked in. Hard to say. Might just be nerves.

Desk had a photo frame. Dull in color but reflected light oddly. I swear the reflection lagged when I moved. Probably tired.

Bedroom doorway had another notebook open. Last line said:

"Don't let him finish it."

Different handwriting than the rest. Almost like someone rushed it.

House was sealed from the inside. No way she walked out. No sign she was taken either.

Just gone.

In the Midst

Whilst in the midst of a mist that blinds my eyes, I see better than in my moments of clarity.

To clarify, I say clearly, so as to hear it more than barely.

And I speak to myself at a time when I refuse to listen.

But my words exit a mute mouth and land upon mine own deaf ears.

And forever and ever I say, "I can only in my midst disappear."

Apathy

If at any given time anyone truly cares about anything, it's at a time before enlightenment. Ignorance is bliss, they say, Before you know, you care. Caring can be painful, but it cleanses your soul. All things come to pass, some faster than others. The longer something endures time, it seems, the less it cares.

How long have I been here?

the maschenkel iS coMing for me. the maschenkel is comIng for me. the maschenkeL is coming for me. the maschenkEl is coming for me. the maSchenkel is coming for Me. the maschenkel Is coming for me. the maschenkeL is coming for mE. the maschenkel iS coMing for me. the maschenkel is comIng for me. the maschenkeL is coming for me. the maschenkEl is coming for me. the maSchenkel is coming for Me. the maschenkel Is coming for me. the maschenkeL is coming for mE.

Thomas did. Henry did. Rita did. Leo is… They all came for me before I come for them.

The Maschenkel (Part IX)

Hello Leo. Have you never heard of me? I am the Maschenkel, you see. I come for you as you need me, you see. I tame what you fail to finish. So do not try to avoid, find me, and rest relentlessly.

Your eyes can see it.

I am the Maschenkel, you see.

My eyes breathe it.

I am no ending that all grow to fear, I am a beginning, you see.

Our eyes can hear it.

I am the Maschenkel. Just a wrinkle, you see

Everyone’s eyes crave it.

I never tire, I never stray, for I am both hunter and home.

No eyes can believe it.

So, never you fear, you see. For when I arrive, I rest beside you. I am the Maschenkel, you see: the weaver, the maker, the caretaker.

All the eyes revere it.

To you, I say don't run. Come. And feel my embrace… and I’ll show you what to see.

Read You

Read me.
Need me.
Read me again.
Say me.
Hear me.
Tell me to begin.
Once, I'm paper.
Twice, I'm breath.
Thrice, I'll take notes.
See my breadth.
I do not err;
Mistake are my middle name.
Every slip is a signal,
every typo made.
Don't correct me.
But collect me.
The more you do,
the clearer I become,
until you're the one being read.
I read you.
Lead you.
Read you.
I read you.
Leave you...
red.

I am the Darkness

A shadow of consumption consumes me, and out from its darkness comes my desire.

I reach to obtain a reach that is unrivaled. All desire within my grasp peers at my soul as it grins a bit bigger, beyond belief.

My fingertips graze all things within my distance, enough to leave my mark. My prints glare back at me, lighting a path that I effortlessly saunter down.

As I reach my destination, the shadow of my consumption consumes me and I am the darkness...

at the end of desire...

and what reaches back is me.

Still reaching… for something. That will never be.

The Maschenkel (Part X)

Leo?

I am wrong the first right time. He is me? No! I am him, not he is me. Get it right before I forget it again.

His tone is mine, but mine is mine too. I echo his grin. It's all upside down and reversed again. And the mirror nods along with my sneer. The chase was a loop etched inside me.

I breathe him out, he breathes me in, and we choke on each other's spirit. I am the Maschenkel, maybe, or maybe he borrowed my name. The hunter's home? The home's a hole. The hole hums hymns under my breath… your breath..

I’m a Wrinkle?I tried to hide behind the wrinkle, but the wrinkle hides behind me. Subdued like that.

He says run, I say done, he says none, I say one. We rhyme until it sounds like reason.

Somewhere between the silence and the noise I realize he's still barking, and I'm still talking, and we're both just minds blaring the same thought.

I am him, not he is me! He is me? Don't correct it. I was right the first wrong time. Embraced.

Wrong Side of the Right Idea

My left side controls my right brain and my right side controls my wrong brain.

The two of each side fight for control over the whole, but a hole continues to grow.

What once was known, is now my forgotten soul. One that serves as a mortar to hold what is left.

Right?

Mystery

In the bliss, the near miss, the mystery of it all, begun the beginning of the misery of fall.

In the miss, the near bliss, the misery of it all, begun the beginning of the mystery of fall.

In the thought, the near not, the clarity appeared, the fall from sweet illusion to everything I feared.

In the not, the near thought, the truth within it all, the misery was meaning in the mystery of fall.

But in the plot. The near fraught. The misery reigns supreme… and the mystery in the meaning will always be.

The Forgetiful

The forgettable forgetful fool
Lived next to the most forgetiful beauty of all
It was as amazing as stars ablazing
And forgetiful most of all
And though the beauty all but never lasted
the fool remembered forgetting it all
‘Twas another form of remembering
Oh, but to have, to have something worth losing at all.

Ledger

To my children: time owed
To humanity: time spent
To myself: time left
To the Maschenkel: due