"Tides of The Sleeping Oak"

“Tides of The Sleeping Oak”

Session Notes: March 15

Client seems weary, still, after numerous attempts to rectify the childhood emotional stresses he is having in his dreams, as of late. Client has reported the dreams, “visions”, as he explicitly ululates at me, are becoming ‘more real and more often’. Client is afraid to sleep. States he believes the man, in his “visions”, writes out my Client’s life, and it is becoming his reality. Recommended a vacation away from work and other stresses; increased his prescription to help alleviate the burden of this obvious psychosis. Will follow up with client weekly. The eloquent, client-specific, journal closes on the notes from the session with the most distant, arrogant, and prideful client this therapist has ever treated.

The orange dusk glow creeps around the antique oak tree, where the little boy picks acorns he boldly throws at the birds scattered in the field. Childhood is lonely being the sole son of a very accredited professor in a village where the requirements are prestige, to say the least. Meticulously drafting away in that journal, distantly nestled distraught in the same make-shift home office, Edmond Vocalski has dedicated his waking hours, in hopes of drowning out the marriage issues pecking away at his being. A wife that fancies an occasional leave is something that a small religious community frowns upon, especially when the Deacon cannot seem to shepherd his own personal flock. Alcohol is not an option of escape to this man, so he engulfs himself in the only thing certain, his work. Yet, in this envelope of depressed workload Edmond has stricken himself with, he is oblivious to the fact that his son needs him now, more than ever. Night after night, the consistency intensifies to a point where health is becoming an issue for this man by suffering through these emotional diseasements. Each day passes behind that magical oak tree that has witnessed the tragedy and drama like a play for the muses, when it comes to this silhouette of a childhood this unfortunate child is left performing alone, though loved.

“WE are the Music Makers, and WE are the Dreamers of Dreams…We are the Movers and Shakers of The World Forever, it seems.”, a mixed section from the poem “The Ode”, that hung above the archaic dual mahogany entries leading to a domain, where men have cried, and fortunes are coming to fruition. Architectural décor, breathtaking high-rise, windowed views, art, and liquors that bring your senses to a quality of standard, that an aristocratic businessman of this caliber could only partake. A middle-aged, impressive statured man, in the most elaborately detailed suits tailored to perfection, is sitting behind his equally impressive imported, hand-carved command center of a desk contemplating the daily regiment he is to drive home to his team of “Money-Trolls”, as the Mister Tommy Aconite likes referring of his employees. Most people get anxiety from having to deal with this colossus figure in business, let alone personally; yet, the majority, of those “most people”, have the privy to be on the fortunate side of wealth when dealing with this rhino-visioned figurehead of the industry, a titan beyond comparison.

Staring at the pages of his trusty journal, Edmond reaches to the heavens with the most refreshing of stretches, moseys to the yard to work the kinks out of his bones from hovering over his manuscript’s hour-after-hour. He enjoys the lunches with his son below that timeless oak tree more these days. It is funny to him to see life flow from his father, to him, and now to his son. These are the memories that Edmond uses to keep the ill thoughts of his wife at bay. The sun is setting on the massive oak, and the calling of those pages are drawing him closure to the end of his written adventure. The next morning came faster than expected for Mr. Vocalski, him and his son are late for school and work, and all Edmond can concern himself with today is the fact that his wife is never coming home. Just how is he to cope and raise their son, he ponders all day. The distraught on his face cannot be unseen by all, including the little eyes of his son, lonely and confused, yet determined to make a life that will be without this grief and heartbreak. As the seasons pass for them both, wisdom and time catch up to us all, eventually. We all need a vacation of the body and mind to ease the pains of the world, sometimes, and that is just the antidote the two of them need immensely.

Being a celebrity of the business world, so to speak, has been an emotional roller-coaster for the dashing Mr. Tommy Aconite, in these later years of his life. Entertaining the array of guests and lovers throughout the years has taken its toll on Tommy’s health, mentally and physically, and success has been at a price of loneliness sprinkled with distrust of those close around him. In the recent years, his father passed away, which was not an official diagnosis, but some claim it was over a broken heart from his wife’s death. Both parents so close to one another, yet Tommy had his work and had his fortune to shield him from the grief of the sun setting on his legacy like his parents. Now that the business vacation overseas was over, and the yacht was docked, Tommy felt the “Money-Trolls” needed a good penance for the treat so graciously bestowed on them by Mr. Aconite, in a vacation repayment back at the office Monday.

Session Notes: January 6

Still the “visions” continue to influence the daily mindset of my Client. States the boy is gone from the dreams, and the “father” is now a different faced person yet remains in the same house and office. The man in his dreams writes stories about my Client’s life, he claims, and the dreams are a direct reflection of his life currently. Claims that he is shown these stories written in his “visions” and it comes to pass in my Client’s regular life. I validated these claims. Client expressed regrets and shame this meeting. Weekly meetings still enforced, with suggestions of a new way of life and thinking as part of his continuous diet planning.

Many sunsets have fallen on that majestic oak tree, and countless acorns have been touched and thrown by that little boy. The Spring sun is warm against the skin in an endless competition with that sweet smelling cool breeze rustling the pages of a classic, black leather, diary collecting the imagination of a story destined to be awakened. The caressingly acoustic flow of the branches and leaves add to the symphony of voices the various birds homesteading through the light-dappled shadows stretched vastly above, by complimenting the lunches those two enjoy together occasionally. This sunset today was one that changed the course of future visits for them both.

In the bleak midwinter, a soul of a great man has passed from this life, our adventurer. The passing of time and memories to another is a scared act of legacy and contentment. No more sunsets are shared or enjoyed between the two of those wandering spirits, just the faint remembrance of a time where dreams were born, and wings took flight. Edmond Vocalski’s pages of thoughts have fluttered on the minds of so many impressionable beings throughout his career. Oh, the ideas that have sprung from the writings of the imaginative concepts of vision. The journal is all that remains of his legacy, awaiting to be reborn like the leaves of the enchanting oak tree with each passing year.

Monday morning has come with its energetic hustle-and-bustle, and after a long refreshing weekend with the team, the workflow must continue. This morning is an odd one for Mr. Aconite’s team. The commander-in-chief has been stricken from the pages of his story in his elaborate domicile of loneliness and class. The acting chairman have taken control of the dynasty, while the focus of the discussion today is one of the classical, leather journal found in the safe of the late Tommy Aconite.

Journal Entry of the Mr. Tommy Aconite: June 20

I have found myself to be amongst the grievers of men. I dreamt while lying under that glorious solitude of shade my old friend comforted me with. The dreams of being a writer have died with me, as did my childhood fantasies of a loving and connected family. Therapy has been a kind face for me to smile on throughout the years of sadness and loss. Nights I lie there with the thoughts lingering emotionally stricken with the passing of my parents, especially my father, a kind but distant man he was. I spend many hours at his grave under that shield of protection that emanated from that oak tree. I received only twenty-thousand from my father’s passing from which I created this legacy I so cherish today. The dreams have haunted me since childhood, and I have found that I am lost without love and family of my own. I still see my father perched in that chair, and all I want to do is be more important to him than that blasted journal. Although, that journal was his legacy, as this business mine. I have continued adding to the adventure my father started; similarly, I have condemned myself to loneliness and guilt of my own accord. My therapist has addressed the issues, but I feel the solitude of success hovering about me like a storm on the horizon. So, as I was left this leather journal with its midori pages and start-up funds, I am, likewise, leaving my adventure to be continued by another. May these pages find you on an expedition of love and wonder. May this gift of $20,000 find its home inside the house of blessings and hope. If you have gotten to this page in my beloved journal, then you have concluded that I am now resting, loved and alive, under my peaceful oak tree next to the man that started an adventure I truly wished I had interpreted correctly.

For I was a dreamer of dreams, yet my music was left unheard…T.A.