FATHER LEE
On my first day at work, my immediate boss stated flatly:
"I see you”ve had no management training or experience. Although that disqualifies you for our entry level positions, it means you’re qualified for upper management”  then burst into laughter.
I even laughed too.
On his door on the way in was a sign which said:
‘The beatings will continue until morale improves."
I think I”m gonna like it here I told Kathy on my first day home.
Dead wrong!
At work you meet all of life’s rejects. Sounds totally opposite of what you’ve always believed? Then listen more. Here were the failures in life – content to have a roof over their heads, fight, and jostle for favours. They usually go home somewhat debased for their ass-kissing workdays – but feel somehow this was justified on view of the attached wages.
Thus while it is OK for the boss to look down on them, they will tolerate no such nonsense from other members of society – least of all wives or children.
Society is thus made dangerous by the existence of these rejects who daily may be seen commuting to work in all too flashy business suits. But you shouldn’t blame them too much – they are the working class. Every one not born in a palace or sired by a king, should be a member of the working class at least once – in their lifetimes.
They should subsequently become employers of labour – not an easy proposition, but better than spending the rest of your days kissing ass.

Thus fortified with knowledge uncommon, I entered the employment of Scott3. I will never forget the wonders of working for wages – but wonder why my wonderment is not widespread.
There was Laurence O’Shirker who carried on his old shoulders the burden of his name - living proof thar names could be self fulfilling prophecy. He shirked every single task given to him but wondered all the same why he was always overlooked during promotion exercises. I had the temerity to explain that he was unproductive and deserved no promotion. He got working immediately. Shot up my car slashed my tires and slapped me with a defamation suit. Even the judge must have been afraid of him. I was sentenced to 14 days community service and demoted to an office assistant - under Old Shirker.
I tried to resign, but was advised to remain on the job. O’Shirker would find me and kill me I was told whisperingly and confidentially.
I was reprieved when for no fault of anybody’s,  O’Shirker in the presence of a video camera cremated himself.
He was the Anti-christ I was told by relieved members of staff. Born wicked.
His leftover ash was vacuumed and emptied into the nearby stream.
No single tear was shed for him.
The next day, a bonfire was made of his desk and all its contents, desktop, chair, white board, keyboard, mouse, and mouse pad. Someone remembered his raincoat & hat still hanging in the cloakroom. These were quickly brought by yours truly at the end of a lavatory brush.
With O’Shirker gone the way of his ancestors, you would have thought the office environment was safe.
Think again.

There was Frank DeBlymie who blamed everyone on every occasion for every glitch.
There was Van Guttern a bastard per excellence who loved to play mind games (read racist games) with me.
There was Saditsu a sadist who logged into my desktop and changed figures and statistics and caused me notable embarassment as my presentation on that occasion was filled with high drama.
He was about five feet high (not my fault) and I could tell he hated me and suffered from hating me. He spat at me one day as I walked into the gents – pretending he had missed the spittoon. To put it mildly, I pissed in his mouth (I missed the urinal too). The matter remained between us. Spitter to Pisser.
There were idiots from the east, idiots from the west I just happened to be their heartthrob.
One morning by pure coincidence I did not appear at work. That was the day Scott3 was smashed up by a passing hurricane.
All the idiots from the east and those from the west were never seen again.
That by the way is my version of that peculiar one-sided story.

Once again the sound of the mournful foghorn drifted across. Yonder on that ship were men. most of them young. With hopes and dreams. With sweethearts left on some faraway shores in their quest for life abundant. Were they mad to want more out of life?

My thoughts returned to that silly book and I could well imagine its authors observing me and the changes in my circumstances and remaining sceptical - waiting for the steel to snap. I imagine then they would be satisfied and say sadly to their remaining audience - we told you. Yes sadly because they really would be sorry for me!
Father Lee had told me "That's not the way of Christ"

Father Lee pulled a sheet of paper from his breast pocket.
“Let me read something written by one of our patients long ago. At the end of your stay here” he said eyes twinkling, “You should understand every phrase and sentiment expressed therein. And express such yourself”
The Wind Of the angry Mages

The times were lyrical
and I sang shrilly
toasting the hills and yawning spaces
which before me spread

... and when the choirs song trapped me in solitude,
I glimpsed majesty
in my wretchedy

Love came my way
Twas sparkling and bright
Yea I basked in the warm sands
fully stretched out
I basked in Cupids hissing foams
not diligent not slothful

The wind of the angry mages
gathered through the ages
paid compliments to a son of the times
‘Twas time for tide
Time for market
Time for they
who for none bide:

Torn apart and rent in pieces,
I doffed in terror at my sudden sorrows
(They stabbed my flesh one after the other
with knives of steel which never stained....)

But the tail of the wind
did fan to flame
flickerings of divinity
smouldering in my carnality....

And I rose by grace
to build a house
of strength and sparkling white...
...and sang anew
to the life I found
in the niche that was his secret place.

Son of God, I love you