VISIONARY…NEW

THE VISIONARY is the story about an average, all around pretty normal college student named Sherman Silverberry, who after being shot by some shady characters, develops the ability to tap into other’s thoughts. He also discovers an innate sense to have visions of the future and reads people’s body language and gestures like nobody else before him, making astute assumptions and true revelations about what he sees.

 

CHAPTER ONE

To the great creators of our time, of strong fiber and moxie, cerebrally conscious minds with untold intellect, who remain bold in their fight to rise above the mad, mad chaos …is to me the very definition of beauty.

To these bodies of electric and neon that sparkle and burn hot throughout the blinding night of our days

To these unabashed souls, who hustle Demi-gods of their spoils, whose voice cracks through the shield of the status quo and stings the heart with words like arrows…

It is these artists that nurture the dream for their generation and future generations to come, growing them in fields fertilized with ruby red platinum diamonds and heavenly visions upon our golden streets, hallucinating armies of angels before gleaming green emerald waterfalls…

To these men and women, perfect from the womb and made wild by the world, who grow strong from purity in the dredging dark damp cold light, like seraphs that take sudden flight…

To these great creators of our day, who illuminate our hearts and minds, the music of their immortality strumming soothing sonnets for our souls to hear …

To these fading ghosts of the great electric circus, who make clarity and vision mid the hubbub of static, who sacrifice sweat and sanity to rise above the din and chaos

To those demonized in their humanistic lust, teetering in their desire, the lessons we learn are now lessons we’d never known to exist.

To those who have sacrificed in the name of art, who have inspired and enchanted our lives, who have lost some of it to gain it all, to me that is the very definition of beauty…

Sometimes I write poetry to relax, especially when I’m on a job. This is my drug, well that, caffeine and nicotine. My co-workers, what you would call The Secret Service are running around cocked and loaded, as if World War III could break out at any moment. And maybe it can. For me though, it’s a lot of waiting, waiting for instructions, waiting for the right moment and well, just waiting for my name to be called. And I shouldn’t be here. No, I really shouldn’t if one were basing this job strictly on training and experience, of which I have none. So I write and wait for my name to be called upon, while real military trained personal secure sidewalks, fence lines, rooftops, driveways and run around like caffeinated ninjas in preparation for a brief meeting that will likely take all but thirty minutes. I am officially the kicker on a football team. I am officially the nerd in the class, who gets wedgies and spit balls against the side of his skull during projection slides. I never used to be that guy, but sometimes something can change the whims of the gods. So I sit and wait and write things like this trying to make sense of all the complex trajectories and demented painfully twisted schisms that bounced off my synaptic synergy in the last five years, five years that no one could have ever predicted nor do I still fully believe even though it had happened to me.

Now this isn’t a president, corrupt government story. This isn’t a CIA cover up, or Patriot Games type snooze fest. This isn’t a he said she said political scandal story and there isn’t a murder or a kidnapping or a serial killer or a super hero or a fantasy warrior warlock saving the kingdom in some dystopian society from an evil overlord. No, this is just my story and right now I have to look like one of my trained specialist co-workers yet I’m not here for protecting anybody, not any one person I mean, not unless you consider a whole country a person. I’m not trained and don’t know a thing about self defense. I don’t hold a black belt in karate nor am I a tactical genius. I can’t even take apart a weapon in general, let alone do it on four seconds. I’ve never been subjected to tear gas or been fired upon or ran ten miles a day with a huge bulky backpack on or have done more before 6:00 a.m. than most people do all day. I wish I would have now, this experience might have come in handy but to be honest I can’t even do more than forty pushups at one time. And I never, ever do sits up. So the eye rolls of my fellow Special Forces friends, because my service here is weird to say the least and if you told me five years ago, this was where it’d all take me, that my checks would have the Pentagon on them, well I would have had you committed.

So the agents are on the roof with sniper rifles…Behind curtains in the palace here…Outside on the perimeter, moving, always moving and scanning, always scanning and moving. I’m in a huge black van in a safe zone here waiting for my name to be called. I’ll spare you the details about operations and procedures. I’ll spare you their background and training, but it’s pretty sick and it’s also classified and quite boring. They’d take a bullet for the big guy, but that’s not in my job description and I’m not sure I would. I’m a listener now and a consultant. I advise. I hear what’s being said, how it’s said and who is saying it and convey what I learn or realize to the powers that be. The old military adage, don’t speak unless spoken to, well that works both ways. My name is called and I head over.

Right now, it’s a lot of agendas, posturing, photo ops and a big to-do if I can be honest. I step up and try to look important. I don’t mean to be flip here, but all these fake smiles and false promises, these slippery personas meeting here today, who talk business yet act like the best of buddies with their worst enemies, well these people run entire countries. I don’t claim to know much about all this political foreplay, but your future history books are being written and carved out by some self-serving bullshit artists who don’t really care about the average American. I mean they do, but that’s not why they do what they do. And why should they? Why should they care about some guy in Arizona or Iowa, sitting on his futon playing single shooter games? Why should they care about the legalized and non-legalized drug addicts, degenerate alcoholics, bigoted and ignorant voices, who voice their opinions, only because they have the right to say whatever and run amok all over God’s creation? Well, despite all her warts America is the greatest country on Earth. Hands down. I know this now, if I didn’t know it before, having been to twenty other countries in the last year with this job. As a country we bicker about things and argue and debate and try to improve and even though at times we are a nation divided and things seemingly couldn’t possibly be any worse, no matter which side you’re on, America is where you want to be. Our problems pale in comparison with the rest of the world. Trust me it could be a whole hell of a lot worse. I’ve been to Europe, China, South Korea, Germany, India and here now in parts of the Middle East as of late, where children in need of baths scour the streets selling junk, where families, whole families of six or seven people are confined to a small hut or room or stone hobble that no American would be caught dead in. I’ve been to countries where food is so scarce, the people there are so frail and disease ridden the future seems so bleak. I’ve been to countries with a horrid water supply and no health care or even medicine to take care of the sick. Yes, despite its imperfections and ugliness at times, America is the golden palace atop the great mountain that the rest of the world is either jealous of or wants to live in. I’ve seen it all with this job and let me tell you, if only people in America realized how well they have it…If only people in America were grateful to be where they are, maybe then there’d be less hatred and unrest. Until we get better as a people, as a whole I mean, things won’t get better. I guess this is the question for every leader and one so difficult it never really gets answered or solved. Only the people of her grace know the answer and only the action of the people as a whole can pull America out of her slump.

We are in an Arabic palace, somewhere outside Afghanistan. Our guy and their guy are supposedly here for peace talks, but it’s likely going to be oil talks, photo ops, money grubbing and more bullshit. Nothing will get done, but my opinions are not why I am here. I’m an assistant to the chief director of the secret service for the president, or at least that is what they will tell Sir Abib of Afghanistan or whatever his name is. So I stand and listen and observe, as if I am Secret Service, but my job description is quite different to say the least. It was rumored that last week, the ruler of the country I am standing in now beat up his second wife for looking at another man while walking down a street. She was buying a couple pares and she got off lucky. This is not the happiest place on Earth. Disney World has every possible thing on this arid terrain. Unicorn smiles and rainbows are not on the map.

So I’m standing there and our President and Sir Abib whatever walk in and sit. This is a closed meeting, but there are forty seven people here, a handful representing both sides. Right away, I can sense uneasiness in Sir Abib… sorry I have failed to learn his name for many reasons. I can sense that this man of an enemy country hates every fiber of our being. I can sense this. Don’t ask me how, even doctors have tried, established world renowned doctors have no clue on how I know these things, but still…this foreign leader smiles, a good actor for sure, but inside he is burning like fire. He doesn’t like our president or what he stands for to say the least. He thinks of our country as befuddled idiots too happy for our own good. It’s this happiness and freedom that seems to piss him off. Further reasons for why I never cared to learn his name.

They talk, but nothing much gets said by way of conversation. The real conversation is in between the words, in the body movements, in the inflections, in the pauses and in the overall psychology of the meeting itself. If you pay close attention you can see a whole other conversation going on and our big guy doesn’t like this Sir Abib much either. You wouldn’t know it, not by the looks of it on the surface, but they both are not budging and the conversation is strategic in flexing muscle and power. Pictures are taken. Smiles and handshakes and the average Joe might think things are turning around in this part of The Middle East. But they are not. What I’m getting from Sir Abib is evil malice and attempted bribery. He wants many things in the name of peace, but he won’t get them and he knows it. Still he tries. He wants arms to protect against the rebels who fight in unrest over his power. He wants more money for oil and the list is as long as it is tedious. Without the gold plated coffee tables and marble floors, he’s just another street guy trying to bamboozle somebody and in this case, that somebody is America and The President.

The fake talk isn’t long and there was really no reason for it, other than the president wanted my input on what is really going down. So when it’s over I tell him that everything I know and he nods and says to put it in the report. On the plane back to America, I am writing my report, number 21, which is close to a year’s worth and yet this is where my talents have taken me. Still, I can’t believe it. I’m a government official and a secret weapon of sorts and if my name or face ever got out there, I’d be hunted down like a dog. So far though, nobody outside a few miles – few blocks radius around a Hollywood hospital really knows about me. Some doctors maybe, and some close friends for sure, but what others have heard has been chalked up to urban legend. What I can do isn’t reality. What I can do, does not compute with any man or woman, but it is the thing of legend and tall tales, so it has been dismissed as a hoax. I wouldn’t believe it either if it didn’t happen to me, but I’m no hoax.

If I were to pinpoint when it all began, it’d be my last year in college, a cluster fuck of a time. I really wanted to entertain, to write or make films or do something creatively awesome, at least this was where I was mentally at the time. In my mind I was a Jack Kerouac in the making, before he went off the rails. I was a young Ernest Hemingway or wannabe Martin Scorsese, I wasn’t really sure which. 

That said, I was the first Silverberry to attend college. I had moved to the Hollywood area for college and got a shit can studio apartment for way too much money, but financial aid helped in that regard. I’d just be paying it back until I took Geritol and washed it down with prune juice. I was beyond broke to say the least, living on my own which was a whole other education onto itself, while struggling like a tap dancer to get my diploma. This was five years ago now…