Move Along - All American Rejects

Go ahead as you waste your days with thinking
When you fall everyone stands <-days are wasted thinking this... either because it's false or because it's useless
Another day and you've had your fill of sinking
With the life held in your <-whose life? the speaker's, or someone else's?
Hands are shaking cold
These hands are meant to hold <-if only you could see...

Speak to me, when all you got to keep is strong
Move along, move along like I know you do
And even when your hope is gone <-especially when your hope is gone...
Move along, move along just to make it through <-can do, will do, must do
Move along
Move along

So a day when you've lost yourself completely
Could be a night when your life ends <-so be careful or you'll lose more than just yourself
Such a heart that will lead you to deceiving
All the pain held in your
Hands are shaking cold
Your hands are mine to hold <-are they?

Speak to me, when all you got to keep is strong
Move along, move along like I know you do
And even when your hope is gone
Move along, move along just to make it through
Move along
(Go on, go on, go on, go on)

When everything is wrong we move along <-if, then
(Go on, go on, go on, go on)
When everything is wrong, we move along
Along, along, along

When all you got to keep is strong
Move along, move along like I know you do
And even when your hope is gone
Move along, move along just to make it through [x3]

(Move along) (Go on, go on, go on, go on)
Right back what is wrong
We move along

Still, I Love You

As I lay in bed, the clock strikes noon.
Have I really been here all morning?
A dull ache throbs throughout my entire body.
My head spins - I feel like I'm going to throw up.

Maybe it was when you gave that blank stare.
when you said "that's nice,"
after I bared my soul and said "I still love you."
Maybe it was when you walked off with him.

You said you had to do this thing.
To find out if he was right.
You thought you might do better.
While I was only doing my best.

If I wrote about tears, they'd call me emotive.
A tag that unjustly drains credibility.
But what else is there to write about
When tears are all that I have to give?

I said that I still loved you.
And I meant every word.
If that's all I have to give, so be it.
I'll give until from weakness, I give out.

A Small Brown Package

I'm staring at a small brown package, maybe 12" x 9" x 1".

It's messily labeled, something that's always bothered me about packaging. Of course, you can't expect care to go into the arbitrary when there's money to be made. That, to me, is unfortunate. I'm not going to go into a tangent about the economy, but believe me when I say that I could.

The USPS label covers up a word, leaving only "amaz," a fragment of Amazon. A smaller yellow label bears a postage verification along with my zipcode. Altogether, there are four barcodes - three on labels, one on the actual packaging.

Red marker says "Christmas gift - don't open me" in my roommate's handwriting. But the package is not from my roommate. It's from somebody else.

The back of the package is much more pleasing to the eye. On it are simply the Amazon logo (which I just now realized is not an eyeless smile, but an arrow) and three small triangular arrows before "PULL TAB TO OPEN." I'd like to open it, but that's not in the spirit of the holiday.

Of course, part of me says "open it anyway. You create your own spirit." And I'm a hair's breadth from complying. It could be simple curiosity. It could be elation. It could be out of a misguided attempt to silence my own imagination.

It could be because this gift is from one of the most important people in my life.

I reeeeeeeally want to open it.

Whispers

I hear the whispers of a gentler soul. They come to me as indistinguishable noise, the rustling of leaves, the echoes of a wind long past. They are the breaths of an unspeakable name, yet a name that is familiar. I hear them in the rain as it ends its downward journey. I hear them in the lovingly empty spaces of music. I hear them through the eyes, and hands, and mouth. And though indistinguishable as far as language may be concerned, I know what it is that this gentler soul has to tell me, for the soul is mine, and the whispers too. They are longing for me, weeping for me, reaching for my hand in a barely lit blackness.

If I was a lesser man, maybe I would turn away. Maybe I would choose to follow vanity, or pleasure. Maybe. But I'm about to make the greatest comeback in the history of mankind. I can't afford not to. How can we turn aside from things that need doing, questions that need answering?

So the whispers of a gentler soul become the battle cry of a man named Me.

Check This Out

When all is said and done
and the lights go out
I sleep well
knowing that I'm happy
with the person that I am
that's pretty hard to beat

Don't Let Go

Resist and
be targeted and
find yourself and
move along and
make some friends and
change the world and
defend yourself and
don't let go.

Johnny

When Johnny first discovered his laser vision, he flattened the rear left tire on his dad’s car. He pretended like he had no idea what happened. His father found the tire half an hour later, and called Johnny out front, asking if he knew anything about it. “But you’re playing out front all day, you had to have seen something,” his father would say, but Johnny only said “Maybe it was aliens,” and his father would stand there puzzled, looking at the melted rubber that couldn’t have resulted from a sharp rock, nail, or screw.

Johnny was afraid that he would hurt somebody, so he researched laser vision one night when his parents were out for dinner. The babysitter sat in the living room watching movies and eating their microwaveable popcorn, like always. Johnny didn’t like microwave popcorn anyways. Plus, it gave him the chance to research laser vision.

Google yielded ads for laser vision correction, which Johnny didn’t need, and about 1000 pages about Cyclops, the field leader of the X-Men. Intrigued, Johnny clicked a promising link and read up on Cyclops. What he found was simple – Cyclops always had a visor, or some special glasses to keep the lasers in. Johnny found a link for laser safety goggles, and ordered a pair with his father’s credit card.

At school, Mrs. Hayes asked why he was wearing the safety goggles, and asked if he was afraid of getting his eyes hurt. “No Mrs. Hayes,” Johnny would say. “I just don’t want to hurt anyone else with my laser vision.” Mrs. Hayes chalked it up to typical childhood fantasy and went about her business, cutting construction paper for the days art project as the children bent over their math books and read pages 17-34.

Johnny’s laser goggles didn’t work, as he found out the hard way when they erupted from his face one day at recess, sending plastic shards in all directions and burning a two foot crater into the ground. He told the duty that it was a meteor, but other kids had seen what happened and they told on him. Mrs. Hayes, at an emergency meeting, confirmed that Johnny believed he had laser vision, and the vote unanimously called for reporting Johnny to a higher authority.

And so it was that Johnny’s family was forced to move to a rural part of Montana, where the collateral damage from their son’s talents would be of no harm to anybody. Johnny’s father was forced to give up his job and look for new work, but finding none, he returned to the agricultural roots of his father’s father.

And Johnny plowed the fields with laser vision.

How to Get Over a Breakup and Not Kill Anybody in the Process

You’ve waited all of your life to be living with the woman of your dreams. You wore the shining armor down to gunmetal gray. And yet, here you are banging your head against the kitchen counter one, two, seven times, all the while telling yourself how stupid you are. Make sure you do it when she’s not home. Nobody likes a downer. Alternately, you can simply imagine slamming your head into the kitchen counter. It has a similar effect.

This first part is important because it will jog loose whatever-the-fuck went wrong in your head – because even though you just moved in together, even though you’ve been talking about getting married, even though you’ve already started thinking about rings, you messed up by thinking that things would go easily for you. Tell yourself that nothing goes easy, and anything that does isn’t worth having. Your Dad always used to say something like that. You’re not sure if it applies in this case, but it feels good to think it anyway. Most things your Dad told you are like that. You wish you would have been better to him. Be glad that there’s still time.

Remember all of the compromises you made for her and the morals you sacrificed. Realize that it was all for nothing. It’ll hurt at first, but you’ll get over it. If the feeling persists for over a month, see a doctor. Nobody wants to see you get hurt. But chances are that it won’t last over a month because this is all part of the plan. You need to cauterize the wound.

Resist the urge for melodrama. Without regard to how cool it is in the movies, tearing up old movie stubs and photographs with dramatic effect is not a smart thing to do. There will come a day when you would regret not having those memories. If you must, put them in a box for later.

Pick up an old journal of yours. Read over all of the parts that say, in particular, “I love her so much.” Laugh – a bit – through the bitterness welling up in your eyes. This too will pass. Turn to a blank page. Grab a chewed up pencil. Note how the pencil, like you, has suffered; torn by the anxiety and whims of another. Your identification with inanimate objects is inevitable, and it will only continue to grow stronger, so you might as well enlist the pencil in your plight – the dejected tools, forging a new path in life. Together, pour out all of your sharpest emotions. You can dwell on self-pity if you’d like, but you’ll eventually produce some rendition concerning the sheer hopelessness of love. Continue writing. Nobody will ever see what you write, so just go at it. Jot down half thoughts, stupid thoughts, terrible thoughts. Write about what you really want, and how you would take it by force if you knew you wouldn’t get caught.

Stop. Read over what you just wrote. Stop again.

Scribble it out until you tear a hole in the page, all the way through the pages below it. When your frenzy subsides, note what remains of the notebook. Pick up the shreds from the floor and take them to the outside recycling bin. Jam them underneath the Raisin Bran boxes so that she won’t see them when she comes home. You’ll start laughing again, and realize that it’s been almost twenty hours since you woke up. You need sleep.

Call a friend instead. Tell him you need help. He’ll ask you what’s going on, but you probably won’t tell him because you don’t want to seem like a pussy. Just tell him you need to hang out. By the urgency in your voice, he should know that something serious is going on, and if he’s anybody worth spending time with he’ll be there in ten minutes.

Watch your favorite movies and bullshit about anything that comes to mind. Now is the time to bring it up. Tell him that you’re terrified about the prospect of being alone forever. He’ll tell you all the things you already knew, but it’s good to hear somebody else say them, as if they become more truthful when compressed into sound waves. They do.

Take the most obvious steps and try to get involved. At the very least, attempt originality. Try Ultimate. And when you come home from your first practice and she’s made you dinner, give her a hug. Tell her you’ll love her forever. She’ll understand. Begin preparations to study abroad. The rest will take care of itself.

The Rosebush

“Okay, so one bucket for you and one bucket for me,” Karen said, kneeling in the flowerbed. Elise flopped down beside her.

“I still don’t see why we have to do this,” Elise said. Karen noticed her lack of enthusiasm. It left the both of them as dry as the earth around the dying rosebush.

“Oh, come on it’ll be fun.” She said, trying to infuse the experience with some life. “Besides, is it too much to ask for you to spend one afternoon with your mother?”

“No, I mean I don’t understand why we have to do this. Weeding. They’re just going to come back anyway. You can’t stop them.”

“Yes, well, that’s just life.” Karen reached for her scratcher with an inward sigh and began to pull at the weeds surrounding the rosebush.

“How encouraging.” Elise responded as she set to work, leaving her scratcher unused.

“Nobody said life was encouraging, El,” Karen said.

“Nobody said we were talking about life.” Elise shot back. Karen went on with her work, forcing Elise into the next move. “Whatever. Isn’t this sorta like ethnic cleansing anyway? Choosing which specimens get to live, and which get to die?” Elise tore at the tops of weeds, leaving the roots buried underneath. Karen knew better than to bring it up.

“Maybe,” She said instead. “Think of it this way. At the center of the garden is the rosebush. Young, vibrant. It has its entire life before it, so long as it’s taken care of. So long as the weeds of the world don’t plant its seeds too close. A rose has got to be careful about-

“What’s this got to do with anything?” Elise cut in.

“I’ve put a lot of work into these flowers. And I’m not about to let any weeds crop up and destroy them.”

“What makes you think that the rosebush is any better than the weeds?” Elise asked provokingly.

“Because it’s mine and I know what’s best for it.”

Elise shot to her feet. “What makes you think that you know best? And just because you planted it doesn’t mean you own it. You don’t own anything!” Her scratcher flew out of her hand and struck the fence behind them. Within the space of three seconds she was in the house, door slammed shut behind her.

Karen buried her face in her hands, before being reduced to sobs that rocked her like a mother rocks a newborn baby.

This is Why I Kick Your Ass

I've written more than most can say,
I wrote a hundred page screenplay.
When I was young I swallowed grass,
and this is why I kick your ass.

With poetry my voice is grand
Things will happen as they're planned
I'll see you when I'm out of class,
and this is why I kick your ass.

I spoke for Martin Luther King
I talked about that identity thing
I see through people as if they're glass
and this is why I kick your ass.

I play guitar like David Grohl,
My enemies don't run - they crawl.
You might think this poem is crass
But still, it's why I kick your ass.

I BS papers like a pro
When I walk it's in slo-mo
Momentum's velocity times mass
And this is why I kick your ass.

I look so hot that I melt rocks
Knock knock, who's there? off go your socks.
I'm not a colonel, I've got no brass
But I know how to kick your ass.

Compared to me, your life is trash
Step back or I'll burn you to ash
My taste in art can't be surpassed
And this is why I kick your ass.

People are like Seasons

People are like seasons,
and sometimes they change.
Some have their reasons
as love turns into rage.

But often times it's different
It's just the way they're built.
They're going through the motions;
The ground beneath them tilts.

There's something catastropic
in the things you can't avoid.
Seek refuge in the tropics
Where seasons are destroyed.

Keeping Score

Bring it back to who you once were.

Take the time to remember how you were so sure.

Take it back further, take it back to grade four - you believed with great conviction that someone was keeping score.

It didn't bother you at first because you knew you were the man, knew that God was holding hands, gonna walk you through his plan.

But then BAM came the lightning and BAM there's life and now the thing that you've been searching for is fading out of sight.

I'd tell you not to get down when you realize the lies, but it's gonna happen anyway, why talk of paradise?

When you're trudging through the everyday pain, gray in the face, what you need's defibrilation, not a billion dollar goose chase.

They'll try and tempt you with a prize but you know you've gotta earn it, try to tempt you with a smile, but you know that smile is burnin.

Man, you see these things all day, I don't mean to be a bore, just remember, don't forget it, someone's always keeping score.

Can't Understand

There are some things in this world that I will simply never understand.

Because no matter how wide somebody's scope is, they can't occupy every point of view that there is.

I wish I could.

I wish I could understand, because quite frankly, it hurts not to. Until I can explain certain phenomena, it will continue to hurt.

But it sill not stop hurting because there is no explanation and instead of getting better, I'm just going to have to live through the pain.

Reasons to be Happy

I love my job. I don't get paid all that much, but I love it all the same.

I love my family. Sometimes you forget about the temporality of the world until it all turns upside down on you... except for your family.

I love writing.

I live in a country where I'm allowed to love most anything I want (so long as it's legal).

I am succeeding.

I love my friends. I don't see them much now that I'm up in Seattle, but that's the best way to know who your real friends are.

I can almost play Cold Day in the Sun without error. Soon I will be able to sing along while playing.

I have all but one Rush album.

I have all Muse studio albums.

I have all Foo Fighters studio albums.

The Fountain of Lamneth just started playing on my computer. (That's a Rush epic, for those of you not blessed with an intricate understanding of the (second) greatest band in the world.)

Garth started Finder's Keepers.

I voted.

I have no enemies.

My creations are immortal, and always by my side.

One of my friends (making that two - I didn't want to confuse you by saying two and having you think four) is getting married next summer.

My brother is getting married next summer.

I love riding my bike around. It is simultaneously pedestrian and automotive.

No doors have been closed to me as of yet.

I've been granted a well-rounded education.

I have inspired at least one person in this world. And when he goes on to make a difference in this world... I can take all the credit for it. :)

We live and learn and live some more.

I am a power player.

I know how to play tennis, and baseball.

I was the #3 salesman in my store in our last contest period. I'm not doing so well this time, but that #3 can never be taken from me.

The Fountain of Lamneth is still playing.

I found an RP guild in Guild Wars.

I have all the essential Firefly/Serenity items, minus the Christmas tree ship ornaments, Mal's pistol replica (which I could probably make for less money than you could buy it for) some trading cards, the individual issues for the first comic arc, and a life sized Serenity house. But that last one is on its way, you mark my words.

I've seen the Foo Fighters live.

I have almost all Jack McDevitt novels.

I managed to set up my printer underneath my desk. It's really very cool. It's sitting on a box, and inside that box is my guitar amp and a cigar box of my late grandfather's, which contains all my guitar accessories.

Words.

In a short minute, Bacchus Plateau (the best movement of The Fountain of Lamneth will start).

Bacchus Plateau just started. I can play this part by the way.

And I'll end with one of the best reasons for me to be happy: you read this blog.

This is Illusion

The thing about life is, quite simply, that you can't go back. You cannot redo. Cannot choose again the choice you should have chosen the first time.

YOU. CANNOT. GO. BACK.

Learn this. Know this. It has been learned firsthand by far too many. And none of us, not your worst enemies, would wish that on you.

Live life like it is the last time. The last chance. The last time you'll ever live that moment. This is critical.

Because we come to resemble the choices we make. It is not the case that we make choices from who we are - who we are is a false construction. A false conception of the nature of human, of the nature of that which is natural. Who we are is an illusion.

And in that illusion, the best way to "know" someone, and thus the best way to "know" yourself, is to perceive consistency in action. It is this consistency that appears as personality. As character. As who we are. Obscuring, gently, the truth - that we are an ever shifting myriad of choices.

Choose well, for you are choosing the life you will be forced to live from that point on.

Because you cannot go back.

Meritous

We have choice in life.

The choice to act

Or the denial of that same.

Is there merit in both?

We look at the conqueror and praise him for his fortitude. We admire his conviction, and his refusal to settle. When he pushes onwards we cheer him on - when he stumbles, we gasp. He teaches us to create the life we want to live and to never look back.

We look at the monk and praise him for his peacefulness. We admire his contention, and his refusal of want. When he rejects the world we cheer him on - when he stumbles, we gasp. He teaches us to life the life that has been given us, and to never be caught up in desire.

Merit is a fool's game.

One Mouse Fell Away

Gary rose early, slipped out of bed quietly, and got dressed for the cold dawn. He made sure not to wake Clara and quietly made his way downstairs. Without knowing where his feet were taking him, he found himself exiting the house and crossing to his father’s old barn.

In the faint light of the coming dawn, Gary could see the paint peeling away at the edges of every board with finality, red giving way to dull grey. It was not as it appeared in his memories. In entering, he found that instead of the comfort it usually gave him, the barn left him feeling empty and lonely, feelings which matched the barns physical characteristics. When he was younger, and his father had been in charge of the farm, the barn had been a source of life. Horses lined the stalls and bales of straw could come in from the elevator in the back. Gary enjoyed countless memories of summers long past; countless days of hard work and countless afternoons of cool lemonade with his mother and father.

His hand, outstretched, traced the etchings of names in the walls of the horse stalls, now empty and desolate. As his fingers felt out one particular name, they recoiled in sorrow. Gary turned away and set his jaw against tears which welled up from within. The name was as dead as the barn itself. What had once been a living and breathing center of his life was now gone, an empty shell now given over moreso to mice and grass snakes than to livestock and vitality.

Cobwebs now dominated the majority of the barn, and had done so ever since the farm was shut down. Gary walked to the end, as rotting straw fell away at his boots. In the back, he took the ladder up to the loft, where he had often gone to think about things as a boy. Settling himself, he took notice of miniature life scampering about the floor. Mice.

Gary watched them for a time, zigzagging their way across the ground like an army battalion. He could imagine them shouting out “no man left behind, forward ranks, c’mon boys, it’s just over this next rise,” and then the trump tromp of their mousy boots, more like a tip tap.

But One Mouse was left behind. It lingered behind as a barn owl suddenly swept low, and clutched up the mouse with a throaty hoot. No mouse rushed to his comrade’s defense. No mouse lifted arms to liberate the One Mouse. And that mouse’s last vision would forever be his friends running away as he was taken out of life, leaving him behind to die alone at the hands of his attacker. It didn’t even have the chance to shriek.

And Gary broke down in tears.

C: Dominyms, Death of the Dominym, The Dominym

Dominyms

I think I've already shown you how to create The Dominym... and I've already revealed that William Wordsworth used the form long before I even imagined that I had created it (Death of the Dominym)... So I'll just say some things that I hadn't said yet.

Anyway, the problem with a lot of rhymy-dimey stuff is that it comes off as childish more often than not. This posting is a perfect example. Now, I didn't write all of these at the same time - one day I just decided to compile them all and post them. But that first one, the one about Hell, was the first one I ever did. I think. And aside from "The Ultimate Dominym," (which apparently I've never posted?) I think it's my favorite.

The thing I like about Dominyms is the flexibility they offer concerning tone. They can be short and silly, long and gloomy, or anything in between. They can have the aspects of a haiku or a limerick, or they can have the aspects of an epic poem. And I will of course touch on this again when I write the commentary for Multinyms, which, if you haven't figured it out by now, are just multiple Dominyms strung together.

C: No More

No More

I'm pretty sure I wrote this in AP Calculus... and finished it in AP English. Emphasis for this poem was drawn from a Pink Floyd song called On the Turning Away, a song that everyone must listen to at least once. If it's not your cup of tea, no big deal. And if you've heard some Floyd and think "Oh, I know I won't like it," give it a try. I don't think many would say that this song represents their sound as a band, so it's probably not exactly what you expect.

Anyway, it's a weird poem. The tempo is so variable, yet, the last two lines stick in my mind enough to erase all the memory of the lines coming before them... haha. Really, the last two lines are the only good part of this poem... blah. Luckily, I wasn't trying to get the feel of On the Turning Away down to a T, so at least I didn't commit the heinous crime of ruining it.

You can tell that I wrote this in Calculus too, because of the last line. "A function of..." Yeah, that was a deliberate math analogy. It doesn't come through, but it's just an interesting tidbit of what was going through my mind at the time.

C: Windswept

Windswept

I have to say, as you might already know, that I have a strange fascination with ships. Like, almost any kind of ships. But mostly 18/19th century ships (and spaceships).

You'll see the line "We are the most who we fear others to know," which is one that I think I've used in multiple places... I don't know. I like it. I'm not sure how much truth rings in it, but since when have writers cared whether what they say is true or not?

This poem suffers, I think, from the change in direction from stanza one to stanzas two and three. What was a poem with beautifully striking imagery (this is indisputable) became a narrative, a storyline. I don't think it comes off well. But there's something to be salvaged there.

As far as the captain's speech, if it's not working for you, just imagine it read by Sean Bean, because that's how I wrote it. By the way, he was by far one of the best actors in the entire LotR trilogy, and I want to see more of him. But he's always stuck in minor parts where he dies before the halfway point. :P

I suppose I also drew much of my influence from Master and Commander... which is both an amazing movie and book. Experience both, I command you.

C: Eight

Eight

Remember when I told you that I used to fragment portions of my personality into individual characters? It was fun and it was a good way to come up with character situation. Not necessarily characters, since they all ended up acting kinda the same...

Anyway, I know I'd said that I'd post up character bios when I got to this point. The poem itself is non-canonical, in the sense that none of them really ever died in stories and so forth, but I suppose in a way they did pass on. Not unlike the storyline of *SPOILERSIdentitySPOILERS*, leaving only "myself." Interestingly, the cast of the eight changed and fluctuated as I invented new characters, the ones I hardly liked replaced by ones in cooler storylines. At one time, I myself was one of them. I'm not entirely sure which of the final eight were original or not, but I know that I'm not in it anymore. Anyway, to the psychocave! Some of this I had prewritten. It goes by the name, the aspect of my personality/mentality that they represent, other characters that share similar personalities/roles, and their character/storyline.

Adrian Hardt
-Emotion

Story: Adrian is a teen who has frequent dreams in a train station. Eventually, he is approached by a man in this dream world and given an earpiece. Upon waking, he finds the earpiece in his hand. When he places it in his ear tentatively, it disappears, though he can hear voices through it. One voice teaches him how to see the spirit realm, and through seeing it, it can see him. His story is one of conflict with demon-like spirit things that can only affect the world if Adrian is in the process of engaging them, or vice versa. The story never left the drawing board and bore, as a working title, Train.

Dominic Peters 
-Logic/Realism

Character: Dominic a functioning member of society in every possible way, but has no problem forgoing rules and regs when it comes to a logical point of view. His view of “If it makes sense, do it” makes him a unique character, but one who finds himself in a leadership role often enough.. He supports the Seven as a family unit as opposed to what it truly is. Though he is close with Will, he often clashes with Harper and Jonothan for quite obvious reasons. Where he came from none really know, but it is suspected that he has a lengthy criminal past, however unevident it may seem to those who don’t know him well. As an eternal realist, he neither scorns love nor hunts for it – he understands that at times it is appropriate and at others, not.

Story: Usually involved in some criminal guild that turns out in the end to be not such a criminal guild. He's been written into so many stories that it would be folly to try and tell them all here. Mainly in Dimension. You'll recognize him from the phrase LGD, Let go Dommy. Dominic Peters is me. He's also the greatest person in the world. :P

William Braxford 
-Analytical

In the greatest sense of the word, Will is a child. In his simple vision of facts, numbers, patterns, and other queries of a pure analytical nature, he misses out on other aspects of life. He is friends with Emmit and Jonothan for the simple reason that they intrigue him. In the early years of his life, he met Dominic (and found nothing criminal about him). The two of them journeyed together for a time and they found that their ideologies matched well with each other. In essence, the knowledge of Will merged itself with Dominic’s logic to make it more powerful. Nobody really dislikes Will, but everyone can admit that there are times when his misperception of other’s level of caring becomes annoying. In short, sometimes nobody gives a damn.

Story: It's hard to nail this down because it's all so a-canonical to any of the actual stories. Usually a stowaway child into Dominic's criminal guild... not so unlike River Tam. ***DISCLAIMER*** all of this was thought up before I even saw Serenity or Firefly. Don't think I totally ripped these ideas off. >_> Anyway, the Dominic he meets up with isn't the Dominic from Dimension, but a Dominic from another discarded upstart... maybe Phantom?

Marcus Reilly 
-Conviction

When Marcus decides to do something, he does it. When Dominic tells him why to do something logically, he jumps on board in an instant. He just plain likes to beat the shit out of people – not in the way you’d expect however. He doesn’t go out searching for fights, in fact he doesn’t like fighting at all. But when he has to he accepts it as an unchanging reality. Though in his highest moments he symbolizes intense devotion to the cause, he is not beyond persuasion from the other members of his team. In fact, the only member of the team who has little bearing on Marcus’s behavior is Will. Whether or not this is because of his age or if the facts don’t matter to Marcus as much as the reasons do is unknown.

Story: Marcus Reilly is the only character that saw his way into a finished work. Dragon Storm/Indemnity's Resurrection/Sons of Liberty was a postapocalypic story where the people sought refuge from a poisoned atmosphere in bunkers. Come to find out, the governement had been keeping them down so that they could profit. Revolution, etc. It's a good screenplay, for two Juniors in High School.

Jones Bailey 
-Social

Not in any story. At all. Not even planned for anything. Unique in that way, he exists primarily for the sake of existing... in fact, the only character to get a blog post of his own?

Emmit Long 
-Philisophical

Another character of DS/IR/SoL, Emmit was a revolutionary that met up with Marcus. He was a literary type, found reading Moby Dick at one point. One of two characters out of a cast of 10+ that lives at the end of the story.

Jonothan Klein 
-Theoretical

Had the ability to manipulate reality... Existed mainly as a concept character, and little else.

Fabian Harper 
-Duty

Usually thrust into the role of "bad guy general" who isn't really bad, but just stuck in a "bad guy government." Usually would end up joining in with the hero when he realized that everything he had supported and worked for was corrupt.

C: Where Does it End?

Where Does it End?

Ooooh I love this poem. Even though it's pretty crappy in the second half, that first stanza will always be golden. And the last stanza.

I wouldn't be surprised if I just filled in the second and third because I felt like I needed something there. Well, it does need something there, but what I put down sucks.

Speaking of stanza three, you'll find ideas similar to the ones here in much of my poetry. The whole "I wish I was X, but I'm not" as well as the concept of embracing darkness and rejecting light.

I think it's quite salvageable if I could redo the 2nd and 3rd stanzas. What do you think?

Marvellous Thing Will Happen

People don't sit around and wait for magnificent things to happen because they've got nothing better to to. They don't wait because they have faith in good things coming. They don't wait because they're happy with what they have.

They wait because they're afraid.

Afraid of the responsibility they would bear for changing the world.

A Small Consolation

"The trouble with standards..." he began, "is that you and I will probably be alone for a very, very long time."

"I suppose we're better off for it. At least we have our heads on straight."

"Well, Rick, you and I both know that that's a very small consolation to the beauty of a woman."

The two friends joined in laughter and ordered another round.

Dead End Rock Island

Maria looked all over town, starting at the sound end and working her way north. Then, she'd move over a block and head the other way. She felt like a fool, peering into shop windows, restaurant windows, back alleys - like a girl who'd lost her keys. Except these keys were too big to lose. These keys were a full grown man. And she had no idea where to start looking.

She was on the verge of giving up and heading home when she received a call from Karen. She'd seen David in the courtyard by the docks, staring off into space.

How long ago? Less than a minute?

Maria hung up before Karen could utter another word. She tried to call again, but Maria let her phone buzz away in her jeans.

She sprinted to the courtyard and found things just as Karen had described. David sat hunched over on a stone bench, facing the grassy yard. His hands were shoved in his pockets agains teh cold, and his hood was drawn up like the shell of a turtle.

Maria apporached slowly, delicately. She sat down on the bench next to him.

"We've been worried about you," she said after a moment's silence.

"Mm," he grunted.

Maria let another moment pass. "Dave, what are you doing out here?"

Dave drew in a large breath. "Thinking about stuff."

"What kind of stuff?" Maria asked, prodding for more.

Dave paused again, considering, and then sprung to life. His right hand flew out of his pocket and he began to gesture as he spoke. "You see how the concrete jutts out into the grass, how it interlocks with the grass? How it's all perfect 90 degree angles?"

"Yes," Maria said slowly. Her eyes narrowed as she peered at the grass, and then shifted back to David.

"I was just thinking, do you think they were trying to say something, when they built it like that. You know, something beyond what it is."

"Like what?"

"Like..." His hands drew grand pictures in the air. "Like maybe nature and man are locked together with each other. Clasped together like a jigsaw puzzle, like the grass and the concrete here. They've got separate identities and separate composition, but you can't really define one without the other." He stopped.

Maria cocked her head to the side. She didn't see where David's observations were headed.

"Do you think death is like that?" he continued. "The grass runs up to some point and just stops. And some strips stop before the others. And what about those slabs there?" he asked, pointing to isolated islands of concrete in the middle of the lawn. "Even where it doesn't belong, it seems like death is there. It doesn't wait at the end, it just appears how and when it wants. It doesn't care how fair it is. It's just a dead end rock island in a sea of dying grass."

Maria resisted the urge to agree with him. As right as it might be, she didn't want to put her acceptance of his apocrypha on him as well. He had enough on his plate already.

"I'm only 23, Maria," he said. He looked left, met her eyes, and looked back to the concrete patterns, casting about for something, anything to accept his wandering attentions.

"Lets go home, Dave," she said. "It's cold out here and we don't want to get sick before finals."

She kept her eyes on him as he nodded with all the determination of dripping honey. Then the two of them stood up, arm in arm, and made their way across the grass, step by step. Walking though a sea of grassy life.

Blackwave

In a dream I saw a black wave
rise against a blacker night
It swelled upon the shore
threatening to devour all life - to devour me
Then the hand of the Lord reached out
and around me formed a shield
And though the wave tore at the earth around me
I did not falter - I stood strong
And now I admire the beauty of Gods creation
from 600 feet below the surface

We Exist in our Dreams

All of the things we wished we could do, but didn't prepare for in life,
All of the places we wished we could be,
All of the superpowers we always wanted,
All of these exist in our dreams.

I've always thought dream journals were an interesting idea, but never really got into the habit of keeping one. But now that I realize the me in my dreams is the same me as in life, I think I just might start one. I mean, I would love to act in another High School play, and last night I did. And I had a pretty big part, too. And looking back on the actions I took behind stage and the conversations I had with other members of the play - I was there. I did that play. It is a part of my continued character outside of the dream.

I don't know, it's kind of exciting.

Obsession

Can a writer become so singularly possessed by an idea or event that he can think of nothing else, write nothing else, or ever do anything else? Obviously. If only he could do this with his plots instead of with his greatest and most recent misfortunes... I suppose he can always turn those into his plots... But how to write when you're wearied by the mere weight of the situation? He must detach himself in some way; what better way than the writing itself?

But alas, I near a paradox.

Sacrifice

To sacrifice is to love. If it arouses guilt in the one being sacrificed for, then they are missing the point. Sacrifice that espouses guilt is not true sacrifice.

Only one being has ever sacrificed completely, selflessly. If you believe in Jesus, that is.

Which leaves us with what? Incomplete sacrifices made from one person to another.

Personally, I'd be wary of somebody who sacrificed anything and everything for me. Changing entire lifestyles for me.

I'd much rather them approach my way of thinking, my way of living, through the use of reason. And I'll just as soon approach theirs in the same manner. That way, when they or I do make a sacrifice, there are no illusions about it. It's pure love.

The Producer

What is it that makes me happy in life?

Probably a good many things.

But I'll tell you what really makes me shine.

The act of producing works. Everyone produces something. Farmers produce produce. Artists produce images. Writers produce literature.

Why not just say "creating things" and leave it at that? Simply because we do not so much create as we do assimilate and assemble what is already there into something recognizable by our fellow men.

Case in point - does a photographer create his images? Or does he look at them in an interesting and emotional way?

We are disillusioning ourselves if we claim to create. Whether you're religious or you believe that we were born on the backs of crystals, you did not create the components of your "creation," you merely rearranged them into something intellectually or emotionally pleasing.

We are all of us spectators in a world full of wonder.

And my greatest desire is to bring that wonder a little bit closer. To you. To me. To the world.

Whether it's acting as the Centipede in James and the Giant Peach, giving speeches on Martin Luther King Jr. Day, teaching Sunday School, filming, speaking, or writing, I will be content to share the works of the world with you.

For I am the Teller, and this is my Tale.

The Darkness

Scream into the darkness.

It will not scream back.

Why?

Because your life is insignificant.

Your problems? Insignificant.

Your passions? Insignificant.

You must either learn to accept this...

Or you must learn to change it.

Empty words, considering I've no idea on the how.

But what the hell.

At least I'm breathing.

Somebody Somewhere is Ruining my Life

And he doesn't seem to care.

What can men do against such reckless abandon?

I want to appeal to human sympathy. I want him to stop, for my sake. I know he's never met me in person - I know he has no reason to care for me. But I had hoped that I could appeal to something I thought we all shared. As people.

But I can't.

And that somebody somewhere is ruining my life. He's taking the knife that somebody else thrust, and twisting it for his own personal gain. Not that he stands to gain from my suffering - merely that my suffering is an unavoidable result of his actions.

Only, it's not so unavoidable. All it takes is, as I've said, human sympathy.

I am a dying dog in a dying street. Any time, somebody could walk by and save me.

But if they never come...

If they never come, then the responsibility for my death will pass to that somebody somewhere. Don't you see? I am in pain! Don't you care? I am in pain!

Lord, make me a stone.

The End of a World, Muse - Showbiz

Controlling my feelings for too long

I've always been an emotional person... I'll be moved by a movie or book, and my eyes will moisten. But I'll never let a tear fall.

Controlling my feelings for too long

Sometimes I just need to vent, to reach out and touch the world. To know that I am a force and that force is me, and I can do amazing things.

Controlling my feelings for too long

Sometimes I erupt, and destruction follows in my wake. I look back and smile a half smile. Do you not see? I have just proven my existence.

Controlling my feelings for too long

My actions will create consequences; this is unavoidable. But those consequences create conflict in the now, and in releasing them I free myself.

Forcing our darkest souls to unfold

I must learn to know myself. My whole self. The good and the bad. The right and the wrong.

And forcing our darkest souls to unfold

I must learn to define myself. To rediscover the person I was, and choose the person I will be. But I must have the entire picture. I must know from where I come and to where I am going.

Pushing us into self destruction

In a way, I am creating myself as a monstrosity, only to pick out the best parts and destroy the rest.

Pushing us into self destruction

In a way, I am defragmenting myself, forcing out bad clusters and packing my useful data together. I am creating new spaces within which I can move forward and assimilate new clusters.

And they make me
Make me dream your dreams
And they make me
Make me scream your screams

Insanity mounting, I will endure. To resist is to be targeted - to be targeted is to be in the right. To claim the right is insanity. I will endure.

Trying to please you for too long
Trying to please you for too long
Visions of greed you wallow
Visions of greed you wallow
Visions of greed you wallow
Visions of greed you wallow

I must do something amazing. I must. It is who I am, what I am. It is the air I breathe. It is I who must push onwards, it is I who must face the reality of life, it is I who must forge the hammer to break through the walls of this existence and forge a path into the beginning of the end.

And they make me
Make me dream your dreams
And they make me
Make me scream your screams

I must become a master of the mind. Of my mind, of all minds. I must choose how best to achieve this.

Controlling my feelings for too long
Controlling my feelings for too long
And forcing our darkest souls to unfold
And forcing our darkest souls to unfold
And pushing us into self destruction
And pushing us into self destruction

Faster and faster the memories curl at the edges as they blacken and burn away. But the words will never cease to exist, first found in the rocks of the mountains, they were written with finality, forever destined along their path to this point, whereupon they separate into ash and scatter with the wind. And in the face of the winds, I will scream anew - I will scream freedom.

And they make me
Make me dream your dreams
And they make me
Make me scream your screams

And in finding myself, I will find you. And the drumbeats of our hearts will forever beat into the end of the days. They may beat together - they may not. But the both of them will beat and they will decide us. This is the unalterable truth. This is the mission. This is the passion. This is the end of a world and the building of another. This is me.

Overwhelmed but Moving On

I live in Seattle now. Lots of things have changed. And, in short, I'm overwhelmed by the possibilities that my life holds.

I can do anything I want to.

Or I can fail to do anything at all.

Things I must overcome:

Laziness:

I tell everybody how much I love to write, and then I sit at home and watch movies or play videogames. Because it's easy. And who wants a challenge when you can do something easy? (Answer: Me, at the conscious level. Overcoming the subconscious desire to vegetate is the issue).

Apathy

At times when things cease to go one way or another, it's hard to keep yourself in the game. Again, it's simply easier to just relax, power down, and go with the flow. Apathy is not an aspect of character. APATHY DESTROYS CHARACTER.

Fear of Failure

I fear to write because I fear that I will not be satisfied with what it is that I am writing. I know that this is a paradox broken only by the act itself, yet here I sit paralyzed. Lame!

Fear of Loneliness

This one, though legitimate, is merely a hindrance to my own personal progress. I must (re)learn to be Matt Lund. MMFL. ML10. Dominic Peters and all that jazz. Asa Thibadaux once said "How can I expect anybody to think that I'm a hot commodity if I don't think I'm a hot commodity?" I like that. That's how I used to think. Maybe I'll try it again.

Send me a Rope

A responsible hiker prepares himself for all kinds of contingency.

A responsible hiker saves his equipment for when he needs it.

How do you know when you need it?

I'd love to reach out, but this could be the wrong time.

This could be the wrong time to use the rope.

Could somebody send me down theirs?

Re: Wishes

Quote: Raeder on Wishes

Then tell me, Matt Lund, what the point of prayer is.

To be quite honest, I haven't really nailed down the point of prayer. I mean, I know that it's our way of communicating directly with God (even though we don't have to pray to communicate with him, since we live in him etc...), but aside from that... I don't think we can know.

However, to focus on the moment at hand, I would like to differentiate between wishes and prayer. And I say this not because it was part of my plan during the composition of Wishes, but because Raeder brings a very good point to my attention.

But I would say that prayer is different than a wish. Prayer is a wish and much more; it is a wish directed to God. Even then, I haven't captured it. It is, as I said above, communication with God. The concept that people pray to God for things is a flawed misinterpretation of its actuality. Now, obviously that's the most recognizable way it is used - it's the way we see it used in movies and books and the media.

Here is a good theological essay on prayer, if you have the time. I don't want to do a copypasta, but look especially at numbers 5, 8, and 9. Note, however, that this is an LCMS Lutheran theological site, and therefore a LCMS Lutheran theological essay. In case that matters at all to you.

I can say from my Christian education that there are three main types of prayer - petitions, praise, and thanksgiving. Petitions are when you invoke the name of the Lord for whatever-it-is you need to invoke his name for (without violating the second commandment). Praise is for... well, they say that the more credit you give your readers, the more respect they will give you in turn, so I'll just say that praise is for exactly what you think it's for. Aaaand the same goes for thanksgiving.

So, altogether more than a wish, though wishes can fit under the category of petitions. As long as you a) address it to the Lord, and b) invoke the name of the Lord (i.e. call on his will, that it may or may not be done as he sees right).

In Good We Trust

Beliefs are the thread which stitch together
the frayed fabrics which compose our everyday
life
Never knowing what might happen next,
we must content ourselves to trust in
probability
And that is why you might think that
this stanza will end with a one word
line

Wishes

I wonder, if you took a poll of the number one wish of a large number of people, if you'd see some sort of pattern.

Some will surely wish that they had neverending wealth. Maybe others for neverending life.

I guarantee some will wish to fly, or have some other sort of power.

Some will wish to see God. Some will seek to destroy him.

But you know what would be cool? If life had a soundtrack for every action you took. Silence when applicable.

Somebody might say that's a waste of a wish...













but aren't they all?

Holy ****

I wrote this a while ago, and for some reason saved it as a draft and never posted it.

Have you ever had those moments where you feel like your whole life is passing you by?

And you feel all sorts of helpless? Lost? Worthless?

You're like a kid playing with your favorite toy, and somebody else walks by with something nicer. Shinier. Cooler. More fun.

And you were perfectly happy with your toy before they came along.

Why did you have to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?

What do you do when you see people moving on, and you realize that you're moving nowhere?



What am I even talking about?

Disunity (edited)

If in High School you found yourself,
and, when in College, changed,
what happened to the people
who gladly stayed the same?
Did they neglect important steps
of self discovery?
Or did their parents teach them well
enough that they might see
the way to live before times came
to bring disunity?
What's happiness? When friendships fall?
You must be kidding me.
So what's gone wrong to make me think
that I can be happy?

Eyes Wide Open

I saw him from across the bar, staring into his drink, and tapping out the rhythm to a song I didn't recognize.

Mark was usually very cheery - even though the word didn't quite apply. It was strange for me to see him,;first of all, in a bar, and second of all, so entirely melancholy that it seemed all who approached him would freeze along with time itself.

Of course, I knew better than to know somebody from work. The workplace is the last place I'd expect somebody to feel most themselves. But still, the image before me - Mark now drawing pictures with the moisture from the bottom of his glass - conflicted so with who I thought he was, that I was forced to do a double take.

Whatever had been ailing him, he looked in no way hostile, so I figured I would pull up a stool next to him and see what was up.

He saw me coming out of the corner of his eye, and pulled the stool out from under the bar.

"Fancy seeing you here," I said jokingly, in a futile attempt to lighten the mood.

"Fancy that," he agreed. "You want a beer?" he asked.

"Sure. But I can pay-

"Nonsense. Tender," Mark called to the bartender. "Two more." He finished his drink with a smack of his lips. Turning the glass in the air, he examined it like a child would with a captured firefly in a jar.

"Looking to forget a bad day?" He asked me to the side. I took a deep settling breath.

"Looking to balance one out." He cocked an eyebrow as he met my eyes. Our beers arrived. "Not all of us can relax on just the one day every five years." I took a pull on my drink as Mark let out an almost imperceptible laugh.

"A bar is not a place to relax," he said. "It's a place to either get drunk, meet women, or hang out with friends. And you came in here alone."

"So did you," I commented.

"And I've got my reasons. What're yours?" His diction was sharp and to the point, and I began to worry that I was bothering Mark with my presence. That maybe I should never have come over, or that I should just find an empty table.

I sat for a while in silence and thought about it. What reason did I have for ending up in a bar every other night? Sure, I'd love to meet a girl, but I'd also like to meet one outside of a bar. And most of my friends had been married off, some with children to tend to at night. What reason did I have for coming alone? What kept me coming back?

"I never had an answer either." Mark said softly. "Sometimes you just get so caught up in living life that you forget to better yourself."

He slapped a crisp hundred down on the table and rose from his seat. Emptying his beer in one last gulp, he slammed it down on the bar. He then pressed something into my hand, and only had time to tell me that he wouldn't be at work the next day before making his way to the door.

"Wait!" I yelled. I got the bartender's attention, showed him the hundred, and took off after Mark. But by the time I got outside, he was already gone, his car collecting snow in the parking lot. I don't know what it was, or what kept me to it, but something told me that I had just witnessed the turning point of a man caught up for too long in the whirlwind of life. Then, remembering the piece of paper in my fist, I unclenched it and read: "Tell Christine that I haven't left. 6612 38th Ave S" I looked for him a solid ten minutes, calling his name until my voice started to crack and my body could take the cold no longer, but it was no use. He had disappeared into the night.

---

Just like Mark said, he wasn't at work the next day. I decided to pay a visit to Christine after my shift was over. She answered the door in pajama pants and a sweatshirt, and was obviously tired.

"Can I help you?" she asked guardedly.

"Um, hello." I stumbled over my words. "My name is Charlie. I'm a friend of your husband's at work-" I saw her reaction, saw a pained look in her eyes that I could no longer meet. I pushed on. "He, uh... I met up with him last night and he didn't seem... well, he told me that he wouldn't be at work today, without explanation, and he wasn't, so... he gave me this." I fumbled in my pocket for the greasy slip of paper. I held it before Christine, who took it cautiously and read it slowly. Her hand reached to her mouth and her eyes closed, holding back tears. When they opened again she was composed.

"And he gave this to you last night?" She asked. I answered affirmatively. "Was he in a bar?" I struggled to come up with a suitable answer - a suitable lie - but she cut right through my speechlessness. "It's okay," she said. "I just need to know."

"It was in a bar," I told her. Her eyes closed again.

"That's okay," she whispered. "That's okay."

A small girl ran into the living room behind her with a whoop. "Alice," she called, and the little girl came to her. "Can you play in your room for a few minutes so mommy can talk?" The little girl nodded and waved at me. I smiled and waved back before she sprinted back from where she came.

"Thank you," Christine said. "For the note, of course, but... thank you. For being there with him."

"I was just in the right place in the right time." I said.

"It means a lot to me. To us," she added, looking back at the girl who was no longer there.

"It's nothing," I said. I honestly felt like I had done what anybody else would have in my situation.

"Do you want to come in? I can bake you something in return for your trouble."

"I appreciate the offer," I began, "but I really should be getting home."

"I understand," she said. I turned to leave, but she called out. "Charlie?"

"Yes?" I responded evenly.

"Did he... did he say anything else? Anything I should know?" Her arms crossed herself in an attempt to ward off the cold through the front door.

I stopped for a moment and remembered his words to an exact accuracy. It wasn't hard, for they resonated within me as if I had spoken them myself.

"He said that 'Sometimes you get so caught up in living life that you forget to better yourself."

We shared a smile before I drove back home. On the way I saw Mark's car in the lot of a neighborhood church. I didn't know what had happened between him and Christine, or what had caused him to turn his life around, but I knew that he was looking at his life with new eyes - with eyes wide open.

And I resolved to do the same.

Who Are We Really?

Are we defined by our actions? Or are we the struggling person inside? Do we live within the heightened ideals that we hold, shaping us into who we should be? Or do we accept what we have, content never to move?

Well, which one do you like better?

Ideals will always be more... ideal than reality seems to allow. Always. But the mistake is not to fail; it is to accept that failure.

You can be the one with potential, the one to make the difficult decisions. And you may not be the one to reach your ideals, but you can always be that one who reached for them.

And that's not so bad.

Old Adam Flee

In baptism, the new Adam is born in Christ and the old Adam is put to death.

If only we could really kill the ****er.

Universal Energy

Windmills turn and windmills turn
as if by motors.
But we know that windmills
are not run by motors.
It is the other way around.

Minds think and minds think
without thinking things through.
Though we know that little
actually seems as it is.
It is the other way around.

So windmills pushed by wind
pushed by pressure zones
pushed by temperature
made by vibrating atoms
struck by photons
radiated from the sun
initiated by chemical reactions
do not run on any energy that we here possess,
but on the energy of the universe.

What does that mean to you?

Two Verses, and the Storms they Unleash

(For) I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us. Romans 8:18, NIV.

This is the verse that I chose for my confirmation. Back then, the 7th graders would begin a two year course that met on Wednesday nights during the school year. The key study was Luther's Small Catechism. At the end of 8th grade (or beginning of 9th) those students would demonstrate their knowledge of Lutheran practices (in our case, by passing a test with 80% accuracy) and be presented before the church on Confirmation Sunday. Each student would select a verse that they found meaningful and recite it before the congregation. Romans 8:18 has stuck with me ever since.

Aside from being uplifting, it serves as a confirmation of faith. You can't derive any meaning from this verse without actually believing in what's behind it. If you don't believe in "the glory that will be revealed in us" then the verse is quite meaningless. Additionally, it is a reminder of sin. It brings to mind the "present sufferings," which, when paired with times we might otherwise consider ourselves not suffering, leads only to the conclusion that living in a world of sin is enough to account for a degree of suffering. It's a good thing to remember. Otherwise we risk forgetting about our place in this world.

But some might say that, like religion, this verse is merely wishful thinking. That it sounds good, but is hopelessly false. I have no reprise for these people. Some will go so far as to call me weak for using "crutches" such as religion or verses from a "false text."

Now I'm getting a little more upset. Something inside me can't abide being judged as a person for things that I believe, not things that I've done. Why only a little upset? Well, because the claims are not entirely unfounded. Of course, if you believe what I do, you believe that everyone is weak. That everyone needs "crutches" like Christ. But even aside from that, I am weak. I don't see this as a moment of humility. I see this as a moment of truthfulness. I am weak. I've never contemplated suicide, but if you could disprove God and any sort of afterlife, solid reason starts to lead that way.

I spoke briefly of judgment - of being judged on my beliefs rather than my actions. But I don't mean to imply that we should judge others on their actions. Here we encounter my second favorite verse:

There is only one Lawgiver and Judge, the one who is able to save and destroy - but you, who are you to judge your neighbor? James 4:12, NIV.

And this verse leads me to one other thing I cannot bear. I'm sure you've heard it in one form or another.

"Such and such people are going to Hell."

How dare anyone make this claim?

I had a friend once come to me with a personal matter. Last. I mean to say that I was one of the last people to hear it from their mouth directly. I believe that they were afraid to come to me because they knew I was a stoutly religious person. What's that got to do with anything?

Because we have a reputation for being judgmental. And because of that, my friend will always be hesitant to embrace any sort of religion. How can we shut people out like that? How can we maintain a clear conscience?

You know what else we have a reputation for? Hypocrisy. And you know what else? Our faith is based on it. We teach a message of salvation, one that is not attainable by any human means (unless you believe in works-righteousness), and expect people to live up to it? Perhaps not entirely. But where do you draw the line?

It's an error in delivery. People don't like to hear when they're doing something wrong. Worse, they don't like to hear that what they're doing will land them a one way ticket to Hell. Telling them isn't the error though - it's the lack of follow through. It's the lack of James 4:12. We say all are damned, but treat some as if they are damned more than others. Okay, so we've been saved through Christ's sacrifice. Then again...

The wages of sin is death. Romans 6:23, NIV.

For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. Romans 3:23, NIV.

So what are we really saying? That we have a limited amount of tries to change our ways? Honestly? I understand excommunication - if someone is causing trouble they cannot stay. But that's not what I'm concerned about. I'm talking about the people that we excommunicate daily by our very nature, our very self-denial. The people that we excommunicate as they read about us on the news. As they hear about us from their friends. As they hear that we've condemned them to Hell, a power that we don't even possess.

For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith - and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God - not by works, so that no one can boast. Ephesians 2:8-9, NIV.

We say that one must only accept Christ as their Savior. How can we say "Unless you mend your ways, you will certainly die" if our ways have nothing to do with it? One might say that satisfactory actions are a result of true faith. Well then, shouldn't all churchgoing people be perfect? No? Then we must not have true faith either.

And that's not contradictory. Nowhere in the bible does it say that we can come to God through any means we possess. Here again then we have to draw a line. "You must have 63% faith to enter this church" like a roller coaster admittance regulation at the door. Come on.

We need to let the world know that if we are hypocritical, we are so because it is inevitable. That if we are judgmental, then it is by a fault of our own. That if we say "no," there is always one above us with the true power to decide. So really it's his will you ought to worry about thwarting.

I don't know. The next time someone says "Such and such people are going to Hell," I might just punch them in the face.

And then I'll probably pray and apologize about it.

A Shakespearean Sonnet

You seem to think you cannot die, only
there are truths which I am obliged to tell.
It's better to lie in the earth, lonely,
than suffer an eternity of hell.
I'd rather not say that things are so bad,
but forever is an awfully long time
to worry and fret and lose what you've had;
as friends pass away, you endlessly rhyme.
To what end? To seek immortality
in the land where all else away must fade?
Though your choice, I urge you to listen to me:
immortal Time will yet dull the knife's blade.
-----True wisdom I think is in letting go.
-----Nevertheless, what the hell do I know?

Another Day, Another Bus Ride

From where I am sitting, I can see three laptops (counting mine). My girlfriend is doing her homework and so is the girl in front of her. Every other person has some sort of something playing in their ears, be it an iPod, PSP, or iAudio G3 (buy iAudio products). Still others are reading, and over all, only a select few are sitting quietly, thinking to themselves.

What are those ones thinking about?

The last time I wrote about the bus, I talked about the desire for communication in the form of something as simple as a person sitting down next to me. This time, I’m talking about a desire for communication of another sort.

This is the 586 from Tacoma to the U-District, and inside of it is the occasional professor or day job worker. Most of all, it is packed with anxious college students, both dreading and anticipating the upcoming finals week. We might not have any of the same classes. We might never see each other on campus. But one thing we have in common above all is that we all live off campus. We all share in an outcast sensibility which I guarantee governs our lives to some degree.

What are we thinking about?

I wish I could say. Instead, I’m here on my laptop, and Mr. X is on his, while Ms. P nods off to her medical textbook and little J looks anxiously across the isle at his mothers face, afraid of the stranger sitting next to him. What for?

I’m a kind of social romantic, meaning to say that in my head, life plays out like the movies do. Strangers meet in coffee shops, new friends lend a ten dollar bill at the bookstore, and most of all, most of all, conversations of a very deep nature take place on public transit.

We live in a world of opportunity, constantly passed up by our social rigors. They tell us where to sit and how, they tell us who to talk to and who not to talk to, who to fear and who to admire.

“Hey there.”
“Hi.”
“What’s your name?”
“I can’t say.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I talk to you, my mom might worry that you’re a pedophile. Because we’ve moved beyond the world of innocent conversations and faithful intent.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”

Yet we’re all of us a little bit lonely, if not for the sole reason that one conversation, two, five have just passed us by.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. I won’t talk to you later.”
"Cool. Make sure that you don’t let me know about that promotion you’re up for or about your kid’s concert this week.”
“You won’t hear a thing.”
“Great.”

Existing is fun

It's nice to be, you know? I don't mean it's nice to be me. It's nice that you're you as well. Think about it, wouldn't it suck if you were stuck being somebody else? Think how lucky you are that you're yourself! If ever you are in conflict with yourself, it's only a passing thing, and upon closer inspection you're not against yourself at all. It's nice to have somebody always there, just to be with.

You go down an empty stairwell - BAM. There you are. You lay awake at night looking for someone to sit down and think about stuff with - BAM. There you are.

Existing is fun, and so far I can say it's a lot better than not existing. From an existing point of view.

The Teller and the Tale

A long time has passed since I've written anything here, and an even longer time since I've put out anything but poetry. I'm beyond the point where I immediately assume that's a bad thing, but I won't deny that it bothers me.

I used to speak with a voice of authority, and now... do I speak at all? What do I have to speak about? What speaks to me?

As a student, my profession at the moment is simply to learn. I am learning the nuances of text, the crafts of verse, the powers of prose. I am learning the studies of these things, which theoretical microscope to use in the investigation of reality.

I am learning all of these things, but to what end? Where will these studies guide me in my life?

In high school, I had been told that there was no job sustainability for the liberal arts, and I was dissuaded. Choosing instead to pursue the sciences, I spent much of my years tinkering with titans of number, symbol, and formula. To what end?

In college I was told that opportunity was limitless. That no doors would be closed to one who had learned the ways of analyzation, communication, and presentation. I was told - am being told - that my studies in English are every bit as practical as those of practical majors. We tend to ignore that contradiction.

But I am a timid fellow. Those of you who know me will agree. I am not the person I claim(ed?) to be. I am not the hero I wish(ed?) to be. I am a writer who documents the lives of others, both fictional and non-fictional. Their lives. Their stories. Where is the man who tells the tale? Where is the teller's heart? Where is mine?

How is it that I used to have so much to say, and now can hardly reach page 2? How is it that the attempts of the past, the 37s and the 54s have turned into 3s and 1s? Perhaps my standards have changed. Perhaps I can no longer suffer the injustices I had forthwith been so eager to commit to the art.

Perhaps I am busy, perhaps I am lost. Perhaps I am tired, perhaps perhaps perhaps.

What is truth? Can I find it within me, will it aid me to break down this wall of nothingness? Will it let me stand up, reach for the heavens, clutch at the clouds and the moon? Will it let me soak my face in the sun, in the radiance of life?

Will it let me smile again, and let me never forget the warmth of my circumstance?

Perhaps.

Perhaps it will.

For I am the Teller, and this is my Tale.

I Can't Write a Slam Poem

I met a man one day
who said he’d never been
to the ocean
Some people can’t ride bicycles
Follow the leader
Or capture sensation
Some people can’t
Conjure up the fantastic
Or
Build a skyscraper of emotion and
Passionate artistry
Bricks of
Brain waste
Falling out around the ears
Like
Expendable
stuff
And I can’t write a slam poem

I can’t write a slam poem
because
I don’t have anything to say
about race
religion
pol
i
tics
and I haven’t learned how to
wave my arms around
like a windmill
make hand signs
like a deaf man
to em
pha
cize
my every point
throw my fingers in the air
coming up with new ways to count of the three two ones and the one two threes of an algebraically oriented society of ones and zeros,
binary collapsing on my
lungs
getting harder
to
breathe because for every
right there’s a
wrong and
everybody’s talking about black and white like
there’s some sort of
easy line drawn
in the dirt
in the dirt
in the dirt I saw an old man lie down to sleep
never to wake up again
and how do I know?
Because the blood is boiling and the people are tearing at the
Hearts of their brothers and friends and coworkers and partners in crime and business
and lovers fight about who’s right while others stand in the light with black suits tight giving children a fright as they whisper goodnight to the last dream of mankind
and soldiers are dying in foreign lands
as the shreds of truth float away in the wind
and how can a guy like me hope to win
in a battle of the wits as we turn to the pen
What’s privilege?
We live our lives of comfort as each day brings new horrors to the things we used to call people
And I can’t write a slam poem because I’ve got nothing to say
About race
Religion
Or pol
I
tics

Pay Attention

Take a moment to think of the best memory you have of your life.

Can you do it?

...

...

...

I can't.

And if you can't, then neither of us is paying enough attention.

The Wretched Warrior

I tread through the mire, forcing my way through the dense branches that reach out to collect my soul, pulling my boots out of the muck with a pop, stumbling forward onto a rotting tree stump. The life of a warrior is not without turmoil. Thrice have I been assaulted by creatures of the dark, and thrice have I repelled them. But an unknown amount of leagues lie stretched out before me, though I cannot see their breadth through the haze and fog. Counting my steps though, I figure that I have gone a little over nineteen. Nevertheless, my path will not always take me through this bog. For now, though, I am compelled to beg passage of the creatures that dwell within. My sword, rusted and pitiful with age, drags at my belt. My shield bears many cracks and weighs heavily on my back. But I trudge on, for I know that my present sufferings are not worth comparing to the glories of that hall to which, with every step, I draw nearer.

I hope that I will have the strength to make it through the fen before night falls - in the darkness, I fear, I may take a step too far and never set foot on the path again. If time will avail me, I can spark a fire and take some rest in the cover of the trees which I know lie on the borders of the mire. The sun sets red. My conscience wavers and I, for a moment, consider staying the night. Then I hear something to my left, and lowering my supplies onto solid ground, I draw my blade with caution.

A dragon of bone bursts from the ground on my left, forcing me to throw myself backwards into the bush. I narrowly avoid impaling myself on my own blade and scramble to my feet, shield whipping over my shoulder and locking into place. The dragon waits not and lunges forward. Terror seizes me, but not so much as to impair my reason. The dragon has no flesh, no blood, so I re-evaluate my tactics. The jaw of my oppressor snaps narrowly above my head, and spinning to the side I see a claw follow. I bare my shield, deflecting the limb for a moment before severing it with one great strike. But the dragon seems not affected. If anything, he comes at me with a fury unparalleled by any other foe I have herein encountered. Another strike at my shield shatters it into uselessness and my arm feels the blow. It responds sluggishly as if broken, and I swipe at the dragon to give myself rest. Suddenly he backs off, and changes tactics, herding me around my small patch of dry earth. I stumble backwards into the clutch of his severed claw - still alive, still grasping for my life. I kick it into the mud, but the dragon has seized his opportunity. Using the distraction, he comes at me once more with his jaws to finish my life.

Teeth meet bone and I cry out, for whereas the breaking of my arm had still been in question, it was no longer. He gives it a twist, sending pain throughout my entire frame before I composed myself to hack that fearsome skull from its body. It does not stop biting, though, and throwing my sword to the ground I grab his jaw and rip it free. The head falls to the ground like so many pieces of bone. I pause for breath, but my job is not done. Before me the body of the dragon flails with a passion, its separated head able only to see what is directly in front of it. I do not rest again until each bone has been torn from its brother, and all lie sinking in the waters. Blood trickles down my arm, and night has come.

Against my better judgment I decide to stay, and giving my useless shield one last task, I construct a fire. Using what herbs I could find I dress the wound and collapse, exhausted. The fire burns out but I am not aware. My only thought is to last the night. I may be, I think to myself, the most wretched warrior that ever lived. But I am a warrior nonetheless, and there comes not a day where the world is safe from its monsters. And there comes not a day when its monsters are safe from me.

Butterflies and Hurricanes - Muse

change,
everything you are
and everything you were
your number has been called
fights, battles have begun
revenge will surely come
your hard times are ahead

best,
you've got to be the best
you've got to change the world
and you use this chance to be heard
your time is now

change,
everything you are
and everything you were
your number has been called
fights and battles have begun
revenge will surely come
your hard times are ahead

best,
you've got to be the best
you've got to change the world
and you use this chance to be heard
your time is now

don't,
let yourself down
don't let yourself go
your last chance has arrived

best,
you've got to be the best
you've got to change the world
and you use this chance to be heard
your time is now

The Ballad of Dominic Peters

Listen to me as I tell you the tale
of Dominic Peters, the man once in jail.
He sought no forgiveness from those he had wronged
the peasants were happy, no longer they longed.

He'd robbed from the rich and given the poor
the things that they then were denied and much more.
A thief without license, at war with the ones
who did the same things by the threat of a gun.

He formed then around him some sort of a band
to fight along side him at freedom's last stand,
so when it had ended at least you would hear
how men of true valor must oft disappear.

But not to the gallows went Dominic P.
His band sought him out and at last set him free.
So listen to me as I tell you it's true-
For Peters lives on both in me and in you.

Marks

Thin rectangle, why do you taunt me so?
Why do you flash your uniform color at me
as if you and I have some sort of pact between us?
Do you not hear? Do you not answer?

I see your mind - you will not yield to pressures.
Delicacy is the key to your secrets.
I shall bring forth the one, yes, the one
and then you will talk.

You will speak with the voices of others,
of girls and boys, of dragons and robots.
You will speak with the confidence of men
scribbling away as they mark you forever.

And I will speak through the one
And she will speak to you
And you'll say what we've all been thinking
Or at least what I have been thinking.

You will speak with a voice not your own,
and I will hear it all the clearer.
I will see what was previously hidden
in the marks I leave on your soul.

I will blacken you out,
hide the nakedness of your skin.
I will cover your shame with words
as the artist might with pictures.

I will cover you with words of comfort,
words of anger, of love, of indifference,
and you will tell the tales of our heroes.
You will relate to us deeds unattainable.

In your blank stare I tremble to think,
to dare to be another
and another
and another

Thin rectangle, I mark you thus.

Who am I if I'm Not Myself?

And if I find of late that I am one such coward, what then? Shall I bury myself beneath the iniquities of my own shortcomings? If I taste the bitterness of complacency, should I capitulate before the liberation of my mind? Perhaps I should.

My position is pitiable - for all my claims of daring, for all my wishes of adventure and gallantry, I have not the conviction to see them through. The very thought of fulfilling my greatest desires leaves me trembling.

Is this what life is? To be forever confined, forsaken from our most grand of dreams?

There is no oppressor but him of my own making. Nothing tangible arises to lambast my path, to preclude my intrepidity. Why, then, do I shrink as if the hand of death is upon me?

And who am I if I'm not myself?

Life Goes On

I didn't ask for this, he said.
I didn't sign up on the cosmic list of life,
didn't apply for a position on the earth.
I didn't want to be a protector of the weak,
didn't expect to be held to rigorous tasks.
I didn't ask for this.

I don't deserve this, she said.
I didn't earn the infirmities,
didn't warrant the wrath of the "better."
I didn't incur the positions of poverty,
didn't beg to become a beggar.
I don't deserve this.

I didn't ask for this, he said.
But I got it.
I didn't ask for this,
but it's mine to do something with.

I don't deserve this, she said.
But I got it.
I don't deserve this,
but it's mine to do something with.

Life goes on as
lives goes on and
lives are different
But they're ours to do something with.

The Valley

Break the dams
and flood this valley of ignorance

Let the tides and eddies
tear at the pages of our lives
Let the books be drowned
in the rush of new light

Words that never gave hope
but in that which fades
How is it that we know so much
yet understand so little?

Damn the breaks
and close this valley of ignorance

John the Warrior

On that day, so long ago
I raised myself up,
praised my skill,
and, using Arrogance
my weapon of destruction,
struck down my state
of depression.

But Arrogance
has an icy grip of its own
and it wove itself before my eyes
blinding me to reality.

I thought I was something,
not just anything,
but something.
I thought I had it figured out.
I thought I knew the formulas,
had the reputation.
And worst of all
I thought I was the best.

I tell you this because
it is an insidious beast,
snaking around and behind
to launch its killing blow.
Why, just today I turned and saw
that cobra head
flared to strike

To be honest, no fear seized me
for I knew in an instant what it was.
That serpent bore the markings
of my trusty blade
and though it had seen me through much
my life was now on a precipice.

But, seeking the truth,
I knelt before him
leaned in close
and told him "no."
And the serpent then
did something strange.

I know that in his dance
he sought to mesmerize,
to carry me back in time
back to my naiveté
my ignorance
my Arrogance

But it was too late
for I had seen one greater than I
with a blade not as sharp
but sharper.
And, telling him, he fled from
those words most deadly:

"I don't believe you."

In his absence
I sought the company
of the blade warrior
who alone holds the strength
the true strength
of humility.

Strange Positions

Of what consequence the viewer
on the nature of the art?
Hath he sway so much as a tempest full?
Nay, but that which is merely seeking
to exist must find itself in positions strange.
Wherein to know what a thing should be
is as the man to question the sun
why it shines so brightly.

Things Go On

A clock does not cease to run
when we cease to look upon it,
its existence not dependent on our desires.
And I would not that it was.

No creature, creation, or construction
needs to bow before me.
I am no maker besides to what I am alloted.
No words have come that have not been.

Things go on without us
and maybe they should
since we have not the wisdom to repay the favor
with care and compassion.

Things go on without us.
The world is in your hands.

A New Day Begins

a new day begins, is born
as another dies with the passing of the sun
a dependable entity to us maybe
but to the days, each one abandoned time after time
it is a fickle creature
which cares not for that which it reveals
but demands respect for its ability
a hypocrite
in his absolutism, he becomes vain
every day he rises to give light to a new world
relaible
but every night he abandons us to the darkness
like so many broken promises
and half-ways
not like the moon, who tries her best to accommodate
scrambling to make ends meet
even though she shines light not her own
despite that she shines light not her own
she tries to lift that darkness, when she can
flexibility making the deed that much more personal
noble
appreciated
as a new day begins

Here I Am

I should be in bed
or reading a book
but here I am
writing

I should be studying
or planning my life
but here I am
writing

I should be like them
start looking ahead
but here I am
writing

I should be involved
try getting a life
but here I am
writing

I should be alive
it seems that I am
for here I am
writing

Pleasure Novels

I was flipping through a Jack McDevitt novel yesterday (Moonfall) and a friend of mine asked what I was reading. I showed him the front cover and he kind of chuckled.

"Pleasure novel?" he asked. It kinda pissed me off. A) because Jack McDevitt is so much more, and B) because the concept of a "pleasure novel" exists in the first place.

Is it a pleasure novel because it doesn't teach us anything about life? Because it doesn't have some societal or philosophical standpoint on which we can base our entire existence? Because it doesn't confront issues of race, gender, or class?

Don't you think that scholars find pleasure in unmasking those messages?

OH SNAP

I Don't Necessarily Agree

People say this all the time at school. They did at high school too. I never thought much about it. But look at it from this point of view:

Professor: So, you think X?

Student: Well, I don't necessarily agree, but I think it's an interesting way to look at Y.

P: You don't necessarily agree, but you don't disagree.

S: No...

P: Then why are you afraid to defend your point of view?

S: Because it's not mine.

P: Because somebody else came up with it, so you don't have to put yourself out there?

S: I don't want to take a stand until I've thought it out carefully.

P: Why not?

S: Because I could be wrong.

P: And then what?

S: ...

P: You can take a stand, be wrong, and change your mind. It's part of the learning process.

S: These issues do not share a binary relationship. Neither allows you to learn better. If I preface something with "I don't necessarily agree," it's because I'm open to interpretations and other points of view.

INCONCLUSIVE POST

Belief

I'm thinking about belief, and more specifically, religion - but only insofar as it applies to the notion of belief in itself.

Belief is a strange thing because, simply, it defies the logic of reality, the laws of physics, and the concepts more than generally agreed upon concerning philosophy and psychology. All of this applies for the most part because belief is a thing of the mind.

If I were to tell you that I didn't believe in gravity, that I thought that a holding god was reaching out from the center of the earth and holding us down, it would be a true statement. Not because the holding god exists, but because I would believe it. It is fact. I believe X. Theoretically anything is possible. I can believe that I am from Mars. I can believe that you are from Mars. I can believe that we are on Mars. All true statements.

So, considering the overwhelming possibilities of belief, it's no surprise that there is a plethora of religions, mentalities, and philosophies. And the question is no what are your beliefs, but why do you have them?

Why am I a Christian? An atheist might suggest that I was raised to be a Christian, and that no reason exceeds that one alone. It's plausible. I've heard the argument against the more fundamentalist religious that they would not believe what they do now if they were born in Africa, and if they did, they would lack common sense. I see their point, and I've often asked that very question of myself. If I was born in Africa, would I think about life the way I do now? Probably not. Would I be a Christian? Probably not.

But I wasn't born in Africa. And that's the key. That's what I'm trying to say. Life isn't about us choosing what we believe in - it's about realizing it. Like a program working its way through this crazy world. But if belief is such a trivial thing, then what's the point of believing in anything?

Well, I figure that somewhere out there is the ultimate set of beliefs. The one that will lead you to perfection. And I guess you want to match that set as closely as you can.

So I'm a Christian, and I think that those values bring me closer and closer to that perfect set. That's my opinion. And if I was raised in Africa, I guess I'd be finding my way to that set in a different way. But I don't think any of us have it just yet. I think the ones who will be rewarded are the ones who try, who genuinely go out of their way to be the best person they can possibly be.

I know that clashes with traditional Christian viewpoints of "believe in Christ of you'll go to hell," but I can't help but think that it's more about being like Jesus than anything else. Some cite "I am the way, the truth, and the life. Noone comes to the father except through me," as a passage that refers to Christianity and it's path to Heaven. Well, I would argue (and Rob Bell would agree) that this passage doesn't refer to a religion, but a way of living life. Living like Christ, perfectly, as we were meant to be before the fall.

That's what I believe in.

What do you believe in?