WHITE LIGHT THROUGH THE GRAY
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"What metamorphosis has taken place here; day after day, week after week, wound upon wound? How tragic for a beautiful, but dark and bruised creature such as myself to be trapped without truth, and condemned to a life of trite routine! Perhaps over the years my wounds have dried up, but I am hemorrhaging terribly from within. Indeed my soul is anemic. Look in the mirror and think about death. I can no longer manage it. What is there left of me that yet has the strength to die? If I cry out to the very absence of color on the walls for truth, all I receive is a gray response. Perhaps it is madness to hold on to the last facets of childish superstition and myth; but what other freedom has true bondage allowed me?" The ghost suddenly disappeared, and I did not know what it was trying to tell me, or where it came from. All I knew is that I was hurting, and that it was time for another drink. I mostly drank scotch and vodka in those days, and times were good so the eighty-proof river never ran dry. I had apartment buildings, courtesy of my deceased parents, and no permanent work that afforded a dangerous amount of free time. I had lived with my sister in the big deteriorating house in Los Angeles until she died of cancer in the eighties. She and I developed a weekly routine of attending the cinema and then sitting in the living room at home to critique what we saw. Afterward we drank and talked about the past too much and remembered more bad days than good. We also talked about the seeming moral decline and whether the heart of man had really changed at all since the beginning. We discussed our individual dating experiences, until she finally gave up dating and I carried on a five-year engagement to Kelly. We were very close for many years. She was a confidant who, at the merciless hands of carcinoma, was suddenly rotting away from the inside. And then all at once, although it actually took two years, she was gone and I was living alone in the big haunted house in Los Angeles. I remember one hot summer evening just before midnight in the big house. I had just ridden my motorcycle home from some film I had seen at a local theater. It was late, but I was not tired. Besides, I had to mourn for my sister in my own prescribed manner. I sat down in the living room in my recliner, pushed a tape into the VCR, and watched Hitchcock spin a tale of love and madness, while I drank scotch over ice. As I sat there, and watched Peck and Bergman, I remembered the concerned faces at my sister’s funeral. I had charge over the whole matter and had decided, after careful thought, to have the organist play "Whiter Shade of Pale" exclusively and continuously. It was pretentious, dramatic, and beautiful. She would have cherished the gesture. Friends and family were very slightly appalled and were certain that I was slipping into madness. It was a great dramatic send off. Our younger brother Nick did not attend the funeral, but he sent his condolences, of course. We had never been very close. He had become involved with the church in junior high, and left our dysfunctional family by the time he was eighteen. I know he loved us. I know he mourned her, but he was thousands of miles away in some mission camp in the jungles of South America at the time, blah...blah--blah-- I was the only true mourner there. Nobody else knew her as well. Everyone else made an appearance to support me in my time of need, or maybe it was just a sign of respect. I do not know. I do know that she would have loved the drama of it all. I know I did. I enjoyed it right up to the time where I found myself alone and weeping bitterly on her headstone.
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About the Book
"What metamorphosis has taken place here; day after day, week after week, wound upon wound? How tragic for a beautiful, but dark and bruised creature such as myself to be trapped without truth, and condemned to a life of trite routine! Perhaps over the years my wounds have dried up, but I am hemorrhaging terribly from within. Indeed my soul is anemic." David Crutchfield listens in horror to the insane ravings of a persistent ghost who is becoming more and more immune to David’s alcoholic attempts to stifle him. Disturbing visions and voices increase daily until finally David decides to run from his house in the middle of the night in search of his sister’s gravestone – in search of an answer. Ultimately, he embarks on a wild bipolar ride falling into depression and floating into fantasy while searching for himself. White Light is the story of one man’s struggle with the common human conditions of sickness, loss and loneliness, against the hopeful backdrop of healing revelation desperately buried years ago in the mind of a disturbed child.
About the Author
Wlliam R. Beauhuld was born in Los Angeles, California in 1964. He attended Hollywood High School and California State University at Northridge. He developed an interest in writing at nine years of age when he was granted entry into a state wide essay contest. He began work on a first novel at 25, but could not continue due to the tragic loss of his sister. He has worked continuously in the computer field as a systems engineer, network administrator, and computer operations manager for fourteen years. Urged by his wife of nine years, to forsake his technological background and pursue a literary life instead, he left his last prominent management position to pick up where he left off fourteen years ago.