To say nothing of flowers, well anyway,
It’s as simple as biology or biorhythyms or
bio bio bio
life
Or maybe it’s the conversation
maybe astrology
but probably not
In admiration of strength, I
build up the castle walls higher
and higher until the world grows dark...
and the world grows dark
and cold, I think, but who’s to say
it’s just a challenge anyway
a test of person, test of will
I hope you’ll wait on the other side,
I’m almost through
Is there anything else that should be said?
The universe is standing still and I hear
in the darkness there’s the toll of a bell
crisp and clear and
where is it coming from, and
why?
All places, or none.
What do I want out of this life of mine?
Do good, I guess, and good done, die.
Or more. Your thoughts?
My head is swimming
body treads
or drowns
or
I don’t know
It’s love, you know as well as I
there’s little else worth my time
that’s how we say goodbye
to, at least, the day
what do we say to the night?
hello
or
halt! who goes there?
Monday, August 30, 2010
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Maverick?
At total risk to my own sanity, I have entered a world without a people behind me.
And even as I sit here and write it, I'm not sure what it means. But I do know that the "aloneness" which I haven't been able to fully identify is at home here, within this one fact.
The question is, what is a community? Is it a gathering of like-minded individuals, who may find solace in each other's company? Or is it a gathering of disparate minds, each one going its own way to an individual oblivion?
If Seattle is a community, then we're a community who doesn't talk amongst itself (look up the Seattle Freeze).
I'm sure UW is a community somehow, but I haven't the slightest idea how one interacts within it or what the point is.
The Church is a community that exists only insofar as the beliefs of its members are the same. Well, couldn't that be merely coincidental? And what do we do when "our" Church believes to some degree in that which we cannot? In the past I would have said that a single discrepancy cannot undermine unity, that I could retain my own individual beliefs in the face of that which I deemed wrong. I would have urged others to feel the same--that if a sermon or teaching did not represent your beliefs, you need only affirm your own and endure upon the strength of your own belief.
Now I'm not so sure.
I guess the only point I'm trying to make is that I feel like a person who's gone out on their own, a politician who has no funding, something like that. And I want to believe that that is an okay way to live. Well, whether it is or not I at least know where I stand and why I feel the way I do.
And even as I sit here and write it, I'm not sure what it means. But I do know that the "aloneness" which I haven't been able to fully identify is at home here, within this one fact.
The question is, what is a community? Is it a gathering of like-minded individuals, who may find solace in each other's company? Or is it a gathering of disparate minds, each one going its own way to an individual oblivion?
If Seattle is a community, then we're a community who doesn't talk amongst itself (look up the Seattle Freeze).
I'm sure UW is a community somehow, but I haven't the slightest idea how one interacts within it or what the point is.
The Church is a community that exists only insofar as the beliefs of its members are the same. Well, couldn't that be merely coincidental? And what do we do when "our" Church believes to some degree in that which we cannot? In the past I would have said that a single discrepancy cannot undermine unity, that I could retain my own individual beliefs in the face of that which I deemed wrong. I would have urged others to feel the same--that if a sermon or teaching did not represent your beliefs, you need only affirm your own and endure upon the strength of your own belief.
Now I'm not so sure.
I guess the only point I'm trying to make is that I feel like a person who's gone out on their own, a politician who has no funding, something like that. And I want to believe that that is an okay way to live. Well, whether it is or not I at least know where I stand and why I feel the way I do.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Anatomy of a Question
We demonstrate in asking
lack and longing and
desire, fueling fires that
breathe and build themselves.
lack and longing and
desire, fueling fires that
breathe and build themselves.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Unwelcome Irony
I'm all about "discovering" myself. And, transitively, anyone discovering themselves. It's a shame to see people get hurt or misunderstood or stuck into places where they're uncomfortable because they're not really sure who they are or what they want out of life. It's a shame to have it happen to me.
And it sneaks up on you. Maybe you don't realize that certain aspects of your life don't jive quite right until it's "too late" (in quotes because, let's be honest, it's never too late).
I'm getting distracted by reading other stuff I've written, but I want to finish with the thought that started this whole musing in the first place, which is this: sometimes the things you learn about yourself, instead of empowering you, make things more difficult.
It's an unwelcome irony at this point.
And it sneaks up on you. Maybe you don't realize that certain aspects of your life don't jive quite right until it's "too late" (in quotes because, let's be honest, it's never too late).
I'm getting distracted by reading other stuff I've written, but I want to finish with the thought that started this whole musing in the first place, which is this: sometimes the things you learn about yourself, instead of empowering you, make things more difficult.
It's an unwelcome irony at this point.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Snippets
We drop bombs from only the most appropriate heights.
---
If I worked my hardest to cover the page for no sake other than the task itself, ashes floating from on high would leave an impact far greater than any words I could ever dare to set into the world.
---
Last year's wishes aren't enough for this year's man.
---
Just in case, just in caves we wait, wail and waste away the flickering light left behind by a star burning straight to hell.
---
If I worked my hardest to cover the page for no sake other than the task itself, ashes floating from on high would leave an impact far greater than any words I could ever dare to set into the world.
---
Last year's wishes aren't enough for this year's man.
---
Just in case, just in caves we wait, wail and waste away the flickering light left behind by a star burning straight to hell.
Fate Leads us Off
This is a beauty that cannot be touched,
that cannot be held. This is a river
that cannot be dammed or diverted.
This is a teardrop that will never fall,
that knows not the touch of a cheek.
This is my beauty, my ebbing, my flow,
the waters I slip into when I go home.
This is my lovely, the sight I can't keep,
the mountain that's straining outside of my reach.
This is my everything all in a row
a list of checked boxes that she'll never know
and this is my beacon that shines forth at night
fading away as it turns to the side
for this is the radiance I'll never feel
a glorified nimbulous stuck at the wheel,
a maiden I know through my rhyming alone
but not any more as her heart has a home
that's not mine--our destinies laid out in stone
two separate paths carving through a delicate noon,
and we never will share in a body's caress
the whispers that stave off this lonliness,
and fate leads us onward
and fate leads us off
that cannot be held. This is a river
that cannot be dammed or diverted.
This is a teardrop that will never fall,
that knows not the touch of a cheek.
This is my beauty, my ebbing, my flow,
the waters I slip into when I go home.
This is my lovely, the sight I can't keep,
the mountain that's straining outside of my reach.
This is my everything all in a row
a list of checked boxes that she'll never know
and this is my beacon that shines forth at night
fading away as it turns to the side
for this is the radiance I'll never feel
a glorified nimbulous stuck at the wheel,
a maiden I know through my rhyming alone
but not any more as her heart has a home
that's not mine--our destinies laid out in stone
two separate paths carving through a delicate noon,
and we never will share in a body's caress
the whispers that stave off this lonliness,
and fate leads us onward
and fate leads us off
My Country
This was my country, was the ground from which my rockets flew to burst in God-forsaken skies. These were my pictures, views of older days with tree swings swaying above that creek, the one in the backyard, our one escape from relatives drunk on American Nationalism, on 4 of July. This was my backyard, my hometown, the bright-eyed crucible of dreams forthcoming. Fuses lit, we huddled close and waited for ignition.
*written while listening to Our Song by Joe Henry
*written while listening to Our Song by Joe Henry
Golden Gardens
Their cries echoing agains the hillside, bursting forth from nature's megaphone, washed over the pair of eyes as they set about for their God-given task--to give light to the facets of the world, categorize them by name and likeness. To document and report on the state of the world, and most of all, to write it down.
(Here) Listen Up
Kid 2000, reppin the houses
where the people lay down their lives in the form of work
to sanctify their God-given fruits of the earth
and union?
Kicking down the doors of disunion
while passers by send a flare into the air praying for a second chance
praying against prayer with the thought that they can do it for themselves
but no, that's darkness stealing from the light.
Cause don't you see? Someone somewhere is playing that tune
and all you've got to do is listen,
hear, (here)
listen up
to the sound of your brothers as they're marching through the street
where the people lay down their lives in the form of work
to sanctify their God-given fruits of the earth
and union?
Kicking down the doors of disunion
while passers by send a flare into the air praying for a second chance
praying against prayer with the thought that they can do it for themselves
but no, that's darkness stealing from the light.
Cause don't you see? Someone somewhere is playing that tune
and all you've got to do is listen,
hear, (here)
listen up
to the sound of your brothers as they're marching through the street
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Some lines from some music, some other jottings
"I cringe for myself when I cringe for you" ~ Hello My Treacherous Friend, by OK Go
"Sing us a song to hum through the hours of dying" ~ Shortly Before the End, by OK Go
"And I've had recurring nightmares that I'm loved for who I am, and missed the opportunity to be a better man" ~ Hoodoo, by Muse
"You have so much to live for... I'm just dying to stay alive" ~ Show Me Something New, by Shout Out Louds
"You can drive those wheels to the end of the road--you will still find the past right behind you" ~ Carve Away the Stone, by Rush
---
You know what it is about the moon that I love so much? It's a giant undifferentiated rock orbiting the earth at about 300,000km away, and I'm a tiny organism.
It puts me in my place.
---
Used to cut through parking lots to save some time,
but now I walk the sides of streets on someone else's dime
---
As gunslingers go, none better than I
have walked these roads; no mortal eye
as keen as mine has dared to pass
among the hills where life stood last.
---
like days without jackets
---
This is something we cannot solve by words alone. We're speaking chasms here.
"Sing us a song to hum through the hours of dying" ~ Shortly Before the End, by OK Go
"And I've had recurring nightmares that I'm loved for who I am, and missed the opportunity to be a better man" ~ Hoodoo, by Muse
"You have so much to live for... I'm just dying to stay alive" ~ Show Me Something New, by Shout Out Louds
"You can drive those wheels to the end of the road--you will still find the past right behind you" ~ Carve Away the Stone, by Rush
---
You know what it is about the moon that I love so much? It's a giant undifferentiated rock orbiting the earth at about 300,000km away, and I'm a tiny organism.
It puts me in my place.
---
Used to cut through parking lots to save some time,
but now I walk the sides of streets on someone else's dime
---
As gunslingers go, none better than I
have walked these roads; no mortal eye
as keen as mine has dared to pass
among the hills where life stood last.
---
like days without jackets
---
This is something we cannot solve by words alone. We're speaking chasms here.
My Team
One day you wake up and realize that you don't speak the language of your ancestors, your own flesh and blood.
And you probably never will.
But you carry the bloodline still, despite what might be seen as your betrayals of the form. We want to reach back, of course. We feel the tug at all times when we wish we could live in older times--that's us reaching back. It's futile, we know, but that can't keep us from wishing.
The fact of the matter is, the bloodline is just as subject to the currents of time as we are. The bloodline is one long chain, one long life reaching over a thousand lifetimes. So instead of thinking "I wish I lived in [such and such] time, we ought to think, "my team already did that. Now, I'm here, doing this."
And you probably never will.
But you carry the bloodline still, despite what might be seen as your betrayals of the form. We want to reach back, of course. We feel the tug at all times when we wish we could live in older times--that's us reaching back. It's futile, we know, but that can't keep us from wishing.
The fact of the matter is, the bloodline is just as subject to the currents of time as we are. The bloodline is one long chain, one long life reaching over a thousand lifetimes. So instead of thinking "I wish I lived in [such and such] time, we ought to think, "my team already did that. Now, I'm here, doing this."
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Betrayal in A Minor
Every tragedy endured, but this:
Covered by lies, deceit, false peaks on
A mountain hike, a minor chord.
Eager to depart from this thin-aired
Altitude--can we be real for a second? No.
Epiphanies come far too late. Trust no one.
Even if you told the truth,
Bared it all, confessed your crimes, I
Am betrayed, still.
Even in this resolution,
Be it major or not.
Even then.
Covered by lies, deceit, false peaks on
A mountain hike, a minor chord.
Eager to depart from this thin-aired
Altitude--can we be real for a second? No.
Epiphanies come far too late. Trust no one.
Even if you told the truth,
Bared it all, confessed your crimes, I
Am betrayed, still.
Even in this resolution,
Be it major or not.
Even then.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
By the Thames, October 27, 1997
"There will be dying, there will be dying,
but there is no need to go into that."
~ Derek Mahon, Everything is Going to be Alright
There will be dying, she said,
spoke softly into the night, where
pigeons burst into flight over silver waters,
and a canid spoke to the source.
Yes, she said, there will be dying.
The tides and eddies of a thousand floodwaters
will tear at the pages of our lives,
and Mankind or will mourn the loss of
their children, our books; words that never gave hope
but in that which fades.
They, too, drowned in the rush of new light.
How is it that we know so much yet understand so little?
But there is no need to go into that, she said,
as southern winds birthed clouds above,
dyed silver waters black.
She drew her jacket close.
No, there is no need.
Monday, February 22, 2010
A Day in the Mind of a Guy who's Losing One
Slept through class again. Not accidental. Woke up at around 10:00 and milled around the apartment for an hour, listened to some music and messed around on the internet until about 11:00. Decided to get some air, so I grabbed my headphones, my writing journal, and a few pens.
I walked south for a block to grab a small bag of doritos and an energy drink from the Hamlin Market, which I consumed as I walked north across the University Bridge towards the UW campus. While in the area, I stopped by the bank and cashed some birthday checks (as well as depositing a fat wad of 20s. My roommate thought it would be funny to pay me back for the rent via ATM).
From there I went around the corner to Twice Sold Tales and looked around. I was completely surprised to find not one, but three Christopher Anvil novels. Now, Anvil's not a household name, even within the sci-fi community, but I had discovered him through a short story collection put together by Robert Hoskins (the Stars Around Us). His story Ghost Fleet captured my imagination, not in that it had wildly fantastical ideas, but in the geniousness with which it was put together, including a compelling main character with compelling motives and epic twists.
I picked up one of the books for $4 and caught the 44 to Ballard, stopping halfway in Wallingford. From there I planned to walk down to Gasworks and read or write something. I got off one stop too late because I was absorbed in my book, and not having had breakfast I of course decided that another energy drink was in order.
It was quite a walk, longer than I anticipated, but the scenery was nice. The street was called Woodlawn, Ave. and it was highly suburban, so it was cool to see all the different homes there. Finally, I reached Gasworks.
It was a rare sunny day and so I stayed there for maybe an hour, just reading on the side of the hill until I felt it was time to go back. The book is highly enjoyable, which is good because you never really know when you pick something up... I walked along the Burke-Gillman trail, back up the Ave and up to Jimmy John's, where I had lunch, then onto campus to the computer I'm now sitting at typing this story to you. Along hte way I had various literary insights that I penned into my journal, and you'll likely see some incarnation of them in future posts.
Because every tragedy endured enables enlightenment.
I walked south for a block to grab a small bag of doritos and an energy drink from the Hamlin Market, which I consumed as I walked north across the University Bridge towards the UW campus. While in the area, I stopped by the bank and cashed some birthday checks (as well as depositing a fat wad of 20s. My roommate thought it would be funny to pay me back for the rent via ATM).
From there I went around the corner to Twice Sold Tales and looked around. I was completely surprised to find not one, but three Christopher Anvil novels. Now, Anvil's not a household name, even within the sci-fi community, but I had discovered him through a short story collection put together by Robert Hoskins (the Stars Around Us). His story Ghost Fleet captured my imagination, not in that it had wildly fantastical ideas, but in the geniousness with which it was put together, including a compelling main character with compelling motives and epic twists.
I picked up one of the books for $4 and caught the 44 to Ballard, stopping halfway in Wallingford. From there I planned to walk down to Gasworks and read or write something. I got off one stop too late because I was absorbed in my book, and not having had breakfast I of course decided that another energy drink was in order.
It was quite a walk, longer than I anticipated, but the scenery was nice. The street was called Woodlawn, Ave. and it was highly suburban, so it was cool to see all the different homes there. Finally, I reached Gasworks.
It was a rare sunny day and so I stayed there for maybe an hour, just reading on the side of the hill until I felt it was time to go back. The book is highly enjoyable, which is good because you never really know when you pick something up... I walked along the Burke-Gillman trail, back up the Ave and up to Jimmy John's, where I had lunch, then onto campus to the computer I'm now sitting at typing this story to you. Along hte way I had various literary insights that I penned into my journal, and you'll likely see some incarnation of them in future posts.
Because every tragedy endured enables enlightenment.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
"Wasn't talking about the nine-millimeter"
He pressed the side of his gun's barrel to his head, letting the cool metal relieve the throbbing in his head.
"You gonna come out of there, or make us come in?" Durell shouted. His voice echoed as it passed through the windows and into the concrete room.
"Can I get back to you on that?" Rooter called out in response. He twised the gun against his sull, where it took on a new firmness.
Durell shifted his feet. "Fraid that won't do. See, some of the boys here want to make it home for dinner, you see." The "boys" participated in their henchman's chuckle, the one they used for dramatic effect even if what was said had no humor to it. Especially when there was no humor to it.
Rooter took a deep breath. "I'm gonna have to insist," he said. "Either I get my time to think things over, or you come in here anyway." He paused, trying to buy some time. "And the boys out there die slowly. One by one."
"I think that's rather unlikely. What've you got in there, a nine-millimeter with six bullets? Seven? There's fifteen men out here, Rooter. What are your seven bullets going to do against fifteen men?"
"Wasn't talking about the nine-millimeter," Rooter responed, rapid fire. This provoked a hesitation from Durell's end, and Rooter smiled in spite of the bleakness of his situation. Let them wonder what he might have in the bunker--it certainly didn't hurt Rooter at all to have them nervous about it.
Durell chuckled, too late to hide his concern at Rooter's confidence, but with time enough to salvage what morale there was to be spread around in such desperate times.
"You gonna come out of there, or make us come in?" Durell shouted. His voice echoed as it passed through the windows and into the concrete room.
"Can I get back to you on that?" Rooter called out in response. He twised the gun against his sull, where it took on a new firmness.
Durell shifted his feet. "Fraid that won't do. See, some of the boys here want to make it home for dinner, you see." The "boys" participated in their henchman's chuckle, the one they used for dramatic effect even if what was said had no humor to it. Especially when there was no humor to it.
Rooter took a deep breath. "I'm gonna have to insist," he said. "Either I get my time to think things over, or you come in here anyway." He paused, trying to buy some time. "And the boys out there die slowly. One by one."
"I think that's rather unlikely. What've you got in there, a nine-millimeter with six bullets? Seven? There's fifteen men out here, Rooter. What are your seven bullets going to do against fifteen men?"
"Wasn't talking about the nine-millimeter," Rooter responed, rapid fire. This provoked a hesitation from Durell's end, and Rooter smiled in spite of the bleakness of his situation. Let them wonder what he might have in the bunker--it certainly didn't hurt Rooter at all to have them nervous about it.
Durell chuckled, too late to hide his concern at Rooter's confidence, but with time enough to salvage what morale there was to be spread around in such desperate times.
The Fisherman
As much as I'd like to blame my lot in life on some external force like destiny, we all know that it's only my fault. The fisherman, to attain viability, bust go to where the fish are, no matter the dangers of the waters, the closeness of the rocks, the temperamental skies. This is his trade. This he must do, or do without.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Lannisford
First thirty, and then thirty-one kilometers passed and we were in diving range of the Lannisford. Kreel reared back the engines to a soft purr and Johan, who had been "monitoring" the sonar equipment began to actually pay attention. Lars and I had been engaged in a game of chess--magnets at the bottoms of the pieces held them down against the pitch and yaw of the ship, whose small size caused it to be easily tossed about by the crosswinds. That same size allowed the four of us to share the same cabin space. The company had been nice up until we reached the wreckage spot, at which point the atmosphere took a significant turn for what seemed to be the worse.
They were feeding off of me, I knew, and cursed myself for bringing them out there at all. We stood to lose so much in the expedition. Aside from sailing into demilitarized waters--without sanction or warrant--we had taken liberties even in our use of the vessel. Suffice to say we had put ourselves--I had put us--in a very dangerous situation.
"Your move," Lars said, bringing me back to the chess game.
"Sorry," I said, appologizing for my distance.
"Just relax," Johan said, still pouring over the sonar readings. "I'll let you konw when we see anything. Kreel, can you take me up another hundred meters?"
We continued on in this way, Lars and I with the chess (which, I must admit, I was losing horribly at), Johan and Kreel bouncing coordinates off of one another. There seemed to be a neverending pool from which suspense could be drawn.
Lars took my queen just before Johan got a hit. I tensed up. Lars leaned back, eyes on me. "False alarm," Johan said appologetically. It was killing all of us, and I think he wanted to do anything but increase the tension.
(to be continued...?)
They were feeding off of me, I knew, and cursed myself for bringing them out there at all. We stood to lose so much in the expedition. Aside from sailing into demilitarized waters--without sanction or warrant--we had taken liberties even in our use of the vessel. Suffice to say we had put ourselves--I had put us--in a very dangerous situation.
"Your move," Lars said, bringing me back to the chess game.
"Sorry," I said, appologizing for my distance.
"Just relax," Johan said, still pouring over the sonar readings. "I'll let you konw when we see anything. Kreel, can you take me up another hundred meters?"
We continued on in this way, Lars and I with the chess (which, I must admit, I was losing horribly at), Johan and Kreel bouncing coordinates off of one another. There seemed to be a neverending pool from which suspense could be drawn.
Lars took my queen just before Johan got a hit. I tensed up. Lars leaned back, eyes on me. "False alarm," Johan said appologetically. It was killing all of us, and I think he wanted to do anything but increase the tension.
(to be continued...?)
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Valentine's Day Thoughts
With Valentine's Day rapidly approaching, a hefty host of us are spending a lot of time thinking of one thing or another. In the case of those with significant others, plans and surprises are likely being put in motion. With any luck, these plans will proceed unhindered, and good times will be had by all.
The rest of us are thinking of quite different things. Maybe someone is planning a winning move. I wish you the best of luck (not that I encourage people 'hooking up' on Valentine's Day just to feel like they're not alone). Others of us (myself included) are watching the day approach like a NEA readying for terrestrial impact. We know it's coming, we know it's going to suck, and there's nothing we can do about it.
As a mechanism of dealing with these considerations, should you share them, I would like to encourage you to realize that we are in a position of strategic advantage. Allow me to explain: for people with significant others, Valentine's Day marks out something special. It'll be an "up" day, a day to look forward to. By contrast, the "unattached" might be tempted to see Valentine's Day as a "down" day, something to dread. A day when things go from bad to worse.
Don't panic.
Look at it this way--Valentine's Day is painful to the unattached for what reason? Because it makes us aware of our detachment? Because we know that others around the nation will be celebrating their love, a love that you currently don't possess or share with anyone?
Both of these, and maybe more. But here's the upswing; is Valentine's Day the only day you're made aware of your detachment? Is it the only day where you realize that others are sharing their love for each other?
It's not. Valentine's Day is not remarkable in the negative spectrum to the unattached, because it's simply no worse than any other day. And really, it's not about being alone on Valentine's Day. It's about being alone, period. This isn't new (unless, you know, it is, in which case I feel for you). We've been weathering this storm some of us for weeks, months, years even. And we're still here. We're still alive. We still function. Yes, at times it may be lonely, and at times it may cause you to question your own value... but we've already got our hands on the short end of the stick. We've had our hands there. And you know what? We can take that short end, and we can go on, and well...
I guess that's something.
Love to my family and friends,
Matt
The rest of us are thinking of quite different things. Maybe someone is planning a winning move. I wish you the best of luck (not that I encourage people 'hooking up' on Valentine's Day just to feel like they're not alone). Others of us (myself included) are watching the day approach like a NEA readying for terrestrial impact. We know it's coming, we know it's going to suck, and there's nothing we can do about it.
As a mechanism of dealing with these considerations, should you share them, I would like to encourage you to realize that we are in a position of strategic advantage. Allow me to explain: for people with significant others, Valentine's Day marks out something special. It'll be an "up" day, a day to look forward to. By contrast, the "unattached" might be tempted to see Valentine's Day as a "down" day, something to dread. A day when things go from bad to worse.
Don't panic.
Look at it this way--Valentine's Day is painful to the unattached for what reason? Because it makes us aware of our detachment? Because we know that others around the nation will be celebrating their love, a love that you currently don't possess or share with anyone?
Both of these, and maybe more. But here's the upswing; is Valentine's Day the only day you're made aware of your detachment? Is it the only day where you realize that others are sharing their love for each other?
It's not. Valentine's Day is not remarkable in the negative spectrum to the unattached, because it's simply no worse than any other day. And really, it's not about being alone on Valentine's Day. It's about being alone, period. This isn't new (unless, you know, it is, in which case I feel for you). We've been weathering this storm some of us for weeks, months, years even. And we're still here. We're still alive. We still function. Yes, at times it may be lonely, and at times it may cause you to question your own value... but we've already got our hands on the short end of the stick. We've had our hands there. And you know what? We can take that short end, and we can go on, and well...
I guess that's something.
Love to my family and friends,
Matt
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Story Idea 2: Mind Wipe
Okay, so I've been reading The Devil's Eye by Jack McDevitt, and one of the devices he uses in this particular universe is the mind wipe, which is a socially instituted way for criminals and others who want a new stab at life to move on. They're housed in a facility for a few weeks until they relearn how to read, walk, communicate, be a person etc, and are given a fake history and family, then sent off to a distant part of the known worlds as a completely new person. No record exists to correlate between the old persona and the new--the person has effectively died. Memorial services are held, yadda yadda. In many ways, this notion is similar to suicide (which McDevitt always manages to touch on).
That's all McDevitt, and it's a relatively minor part of his universe structure.
Now, here's my spin and where a story comes out of it; what if someone who wanted a mind wipe to escape some past was so famous that other people knew who he used to be? But he doesn't know who he used to be, because... he's a completely different person. He notices that people follow him around and ask him strange questions. The key to tying this story together would be that the mind wipe procedure would be kept off the page for as long as possible. There can't be some lost lover who surfaces to tell him all of the things he was--that kills suspense, and it takes emphasis away from the main character, who is personality 2 and not personality 1.
The story would be driven by his own attempts to discover who he was, and more importantly, why he chose to undergo the procedure. It has nothing to do with some military amnesia or whatever--I'm not interested in that. That's been done.
Is he maybe still a little himself? (p1)? Or is he just a random guy (p2) looking into the history of some gone and dead celebrity?
It would take a lot of handwaving, but that's why it's showing up in Skeleton Plots.
That's all McDevitt, and it's a relatively minor part of his universe structure.
Now, here's my spin and where a story comes out of it; what if someone who wanted a mind wipe to escape some past was so famous that other people knew who he used to be? But he doesn't know who he used to be, because... he's a completely different person. He notices that people follow him around and ask him strange questions. The key to tying this story together would be that the mind wipe procedure would be kept off the page for as long as possible. There can't be some lost lover who surfaces to tell him all of the things he was--that kills suspense, and it takes emphasis away from the main character, who is personality 2 and not personality 1.
The story would be driven by his own attempts to discover who he was, and more importantly, why he chose to undergo the procedure. It has nothing to do with some military amnesia or whatever--I'm not interested in that. That's been done.
Is he maybe still a little himself? (p1)? Or is he just a random guy (p2) looking into the history of some gone and dead celebrity?
It would take a lot of handwaving, but that's why it's showing up in Skeleton Plots.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Story Idea
So a lot of times I come up with skeleton story ideas and they fall to the wayside; I usually don't give them any attention because they're so fleeting and, well, I have a million (3) other stories I'm developing at the moment.
Nevertheless, there is probably some value in cataloging these story ideas. I mean, what's the worst that could happen? Even if someone stole the idea, it would be getting more light than I ever intend to shed on it.
Enough with exposition: on with the show.
So a character encounters a meteorite, but it doesn't give him any special powers or anything--he just takes it as a sign that something fantastic is happening in his life and he begins looking for signs everywhere, thinking that his state in life will improve, his relationships with women, whatever.
And basically, it doesn't. The people close to him think he's being crazy and unreasonable, and in the end the message is that you have to do things for yourself, and no meteorite, mystically empowered or otherwise, can change that.
I told you it was skeletal.
Nevertheless, there is probably some value in cataloging these story ideas. I mean, what's the worst that could happen? Even if someone stole the idea, it would be getting more light than I ever intend to shed on it.
Enough with exposition: on with the show.
So a character encounters a meteorite, but it doesn't give him any special powers or anything--he just takes it as a sign that something fantastic is happening in his life and he begins looking for signs everywhere, thinking that his state in life will improve, his relationships with women, whatever.
And basically, it doesn't. The people close to him think he's being crazy and unreasonable, and in the end the message is that you have to do things for yourself, and no meteorite, mystically empowered or otherwise, can change that.
I told you it was skeletal.
A Photo Trip around Eastlake and Capital Hill
This building caught my eye, though I'm not sure why. It could be as simple as the fact that it was very cleanly presented, and it was sunny, and the building is an off white so it stood out.
This is the same building a little further up. I framed that small tree to the left hoping it would look cool... it's alright I guess.
This is a doorway in the same building, but I thought it looked really cool. I like taking architectural pictures because they interest me in terms of drawing them (primarily in terms of art that might become part of a graphic novel), and it's the little things that you never think about that really stick you when you're trying to draw buildings or whatever. (I'm not an artist by any means; in fact I rarely draw anything, but still it's the thought process that governs what I take pictures of so I guess that's relevant enough).
Looking down some stepped hills. The roads are super bumpy in these parts, it's like cobblestone but bricks. One of Luke's classmates from his video program told us that the whole city used to be "paved" in this stuff, and if you see parts of the roads in Seattle that are wearing down (on Eastlake Ave near I-5, for example) the bricks show through underneath. The water at the bottom of the hill here is Lake Union.
These two pictures are of the same yard space even higher up, where all the buildings have ridiculous views of Lake Union and even the Seattle Center (Space Needle, etc). Anyway, I thought it was quaint.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Through the Cracks
I am in love with the sound
of rushing air between cracks in a car door
bold and bland as it rocks me to sleep, neck craned
in the back of a Chevrolet on the way to Dent, still
two days out, but I could doze in the car while Dad drove,
listen to spacey music as I looked up,
up at the stars and when I was lucky, the moon,
which held all of my greatest hopes and dreams
suspended in the sky in a beacon of light,
even though I know now it has an albedo of 11%
and it can't hear me through the vacuum of space.
The dog was asleep in the back.
"Like a child," I'd think, and reach out
to touch his soft black ears.
In the back of a Chevy Caprice, almost
midnight now, his eyes open, search out mine.
With a lick of his lips, says "hi," then shifting paws
eyes close again, golden brown suns retiring for the night,
plus we've run out of things to do by now
in the back of a Chevy Caprice Classic on the way to Dent,
Minnesota, where we will certainly swim in the many lakes,
the one shaped like a star in particular, where the dog
will learn to swim too because my dad will carry him
into the water and he'll flail about at first but finally catch on.
My dog does not howl at the moon because
he knows, like me,
that the moon is not listening.
We've stopped for gas, so
I take him around the block, fill his dish
with some water from the outside spout.
Says thank you with his eyes.
Are we getting back in the car now?
Longs to hear the sound of rushing air
through the cracks of a Chevrolet
on the way to Dent.
of rushing air between cracks in a car door
bold and bland as it rocks me to sleep, neck craned
in the back of a Chevrolet on the way to Dent, still
two days out, but I could doze in the car while Dad drove,
listen to spacey music as I looked up,
up at the stars and when I was lucky, the moon,
which held all of my greatest hopes and dreams
suspended in the sky in a beacon of light,
even though I know now it has an albedo of 11%
and it can't hear me through the vacuum of space.
The dog was asleep in the back.
"Like a child," I'd think, and reach out
to touch his soft black ears.
In the back of a Chevy Caprice, almost
midnight now, his eyes open, search out mine.
With a lick of his lips, says "hi," then shifting paws
eyes close again, golden brown suns retiring for the night,
plus we've run out of things to do by now
in the back of a Chevy Caprice Classic on the way to Dent,
Minnesota, where we will certainly swim in the many lakes,
the one shaped like a star in particular, where the dog
will learn to swim too because my dad will carry him
into the water and he'll flail about at first but finally catch on.
My dog does not howl at the moon because
he knows, like me,
that the moon is not listening.
We've stopped for gas, so
I take him around the block, fill his dish
with some water from the outside spout.
Says thank you with his eyes.
Are we getting back in the car now?
Longs to hear the sound of rushing air
through the cracks of a Chevrolet
on the way to Dent.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Adrift
I rowed for a year straight, and so
my arms were sore, my back was sore,
my throat was parched and I needed rest.
Drifted by lands of fantasy, not daring
to face dangers tropical and exotic;
jungles too green; suspiciously green.
Others a green too dark; black rock shorelines
faded in the night like so many landmines.
Water supply running low I took a chance
on a lonely island, solitary yet beautiful,
loving yet temperamental. Footprints in the sand
ran deeply, a heavy tromp, a naval officer perhaps.
They led out the way they came in, and I was
alone there for some time.
A copse of trees surrounded
fresh water, where I slept at night,
made meager meals of the native fruits,
just enough to get by. I kept the waterskins
filled to the brim, kept them in the boat
tied to a tree on the shore, should I need
to depart in haste. Storms came and went,
but I never needed to.
I stayed for a month straight, upon
that land of shifting sands, land of wildflower petals,
land of solitude, until it sank, like shifting island sands sink.
Shed a tear of longing as it bubbled underneath,
out on my own, out with the tide
my own damn tide on my own way out;
restocked, repaired.
Rinse and repeat, reclaim the waves,
patch the leaks that spring
in a heart that has no home.
Drift until you can't anymore.
my arms were sore, my back was sore,
my throat was parched and I needed rest.
Drifted by lands of fantasy, not daring
to face dangers tropical and exotic;
jungles too green; suspiciously green.
Others a green too dark; black rock shorelines
faded in the night like so many landmines.
Water supply running low I took a chance
on a lonely island, solitary yet beautiful,
loving yet temperamental. Footprints in the sand
ran deeply, a heavy tromp, a naval officer perhaps.
They led out the way they came in, and I was
alone there for some time.
A copse of trees surrounded
fresh water, where I slept at night,
made meager meals of the native fruits,
just enough to get by. I kept the waterskins
filled to the brim, kept them in the boat
tied to a tree on the shore, should I need
to depart in haste. Storms came and went,
but I never needed to.
I stayed for a month straight, upon
that land of shifting sands, land of wildflower petals,
land of solitude, until it sank, like shifting island sands sink.
Shed a tear of longing as it bubbled underneath,
out on my own, out with the tide
my own damn tide on my own way out;
restocked, repaired.
Rinse and repeat, reclaim the waves,
patch the leaks that spring
in a heart that has no home.
Drift until you can't anymore.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
And Again
"The biggest lie you were ever told was that you had nothing to say..."
If I am an admirable man,
if I function, if I breathe,
then we can accept my social quirks
and establish a model wherein patience
rules the day.
But if I am flawed,
if I am broken, if I break,
speak it aloud. Say it to my face,
or condemn me to condemn myself
over and again and
again and
once more for good measure.
If I am an admirable man,
if I function, if I breathe,
then we can accept my social quirks
and establish a model wherein patience
rules the day.
But if I am flawed,
if I am broken, if I break,
speak it aloud. Say it to my face,
or condemn me to condemn myself
over and again and
again and
once more for good measure.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Wings
The Roosevelt Bridge spans across
the hook of Lake Union, where
boats pass lazily below and crew captains
shout out from megaphones; and
from the sidewalk as cars race by
I see two birds, small and dark,
dive off of a streetlight--bodies like bullets
racing to black waters, disappearing from sight.
They threw their wings wide, I think
(not knowing for sure as they danced below my view)
catching the air and locking wings in a partnership
untouched by time.
We could be those birds, if you would
touch your wing to mine--I offer
nothing more than my everything.
My bones, my feathers, my small bird heart.
the hook of Lake Union, where
boats pass lazily below and crew captains
shout out from megaphones; and
from the sidewalk as cars race by
I see two birds, small and dark,
dive off of a streetlight--bodies like bullets
racing to black waters, disappearing from sight.
They threw their wings wide, I think
(not knowing for sure as they danced below my view)
catching the air and locking wings in a partnership
untouched by time.
We could be those birds, if you would
touch your wing to mine--I offer
nothing more than my everything.
My bones, my feathers, my small bird heart.
Fault Lines
sidewalk cracks divide
us like continents
and fault lines your fault
not mine at least I
tried is this how things
are meant to be no
I hope not stay for
God's sake stay on your
side of the street and
I'll stay on mine don't
step on the cracks or
you'll fall and break my
heart really yes my
heart again at least
whats left of it now
us like continents
and fault lines your fault
not mine at least I
tried is this how things
are meant to be no
I hope not stay for
God's sake stay on your
side of the street and
I'll stay on mine don't
step on the cracks or
you'll fall and break my
heart really yes my
heart again at least
whats left of it now
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Thank You: Danny Elfman
The beauty of art is not inherent in the art itself. For me, the beauty of art is how it takes on new life in the eyes or ears of the viewers, the listeners, the readers. The way it touches people, the way it acts as a communicative tool of shared experience. The way it gives voice to those feelings we might not so easily express through more standard means of speech and thought.
Art is the link that transcends our mediocrity.
And for all this, I am indebted to artists of all sorts; men and women of all races and identites across the globe. Today I want to give my thanks in particular to Danny Elfman, hollywood composer and music director for many various works (in my case, I'm referring to the Terminator Salvation soundtrack).
If Mr. Elfman is master of nothing else, it is his pention for stirring string intervals layered over a solidly mounting low brass key change. There is a presence in his work that I cannot deny, and one that I cannot quite put to words either, so I'll suffice to say thank you and leave it at that.
Art is the link that transcends our mediocrity.
And for all this, I am indebted to artists of all sorts; men and women of all races and identites across the globe. Today I want to give my thanks in particular to Danny Elfman, hollywood composer and music director for many various works (in my case, I'm referring to the Terminator Salvation soundtrack).
If Mr. Elfman is master of nothing else, it is his pention for stirring string intervals layered over a solidly mounting low brass key change. There is a presence in his work that I cannot deny, and one that I cannot quite put to words either, so I'll suffice to say thank you and leave it at that.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
An unfinished song I intend to finish...
This poem's
about another guy
who's been
left living on emotional streets
and
This poem
could tell you how it is
for him
no time to question what the system's throwing down
for him
And this poem's
about the things he says
and does
and asks the people why they never seem to hear
his cry
But this poem
is not a substi-
tution for
the way you treat him when you see him downtown
and yet
we're living
in
a world of fascinating sights and sounds...
about another guy
who's been
left living on emotional streets
and
This poem
could tell you how it is
for him
no time to question what the system's throwing down
for him
And this poem's
about the things he says
and does
and asks the people why they never seem to hear
his cry
But this poem
is not a substi-
tution for
the way you treat him when you see him downtown
and yet
we're living
in
a world of fascinating sights and sounds...
The Go Sign
Rolling through the streets of town
I hit the go sign at fifth and Pine
and did as it said; not questioning,
no time for questioning,
driving too fast to not obey.
Sped past the alleys dark with rot
those same the light of day forgets in winter
when the clouds convene; a sky of shale.
Too heavy for now, maybe, for me.
Skipped out-town with wheels on fire
sympathetic faces yet to be stared back
to see my taillights gleam in the gloom,
gone too soon.
Especially for the girl on twenty-first,
who bore a name I could not know
I could not stop; the sign said go.
I hit the go sign at fifth and Pine
and did as it said; not questioning,
no time for questioning,
driving too fast to not obey.
Sped past the alleys dark with rot
those same the light of day forgets in winter
when the clouds convene; a sky of shale.
Too heavy for now, maybe, for me.
Skipped out-town with wheels on fire
sympathetic faces yet to be stared back
to see my taillights gleam in the gloom,
gone too soon.
Especially for the girl on twenty-first,
who bore a name I could not know
I could not stop; the sign said go.
Deer Crossing - updated 10/18/17
driver, eyes
tired,
holds hands to
wheel opposing will
subverting slumber.
Spokane in five,
grandpa too, if
he's to last...
Moses Lake in three.
stop there, maybe, get some
gas--no rest--
save that for
deer crossing,
eyes awake, motion
stops
a hairs breadth from
taking life.
pulls over,
head to wheel.
doesn't make it in time.
tired,
holds hands to
wheel opposing will
subverting slumber.
Spokane in five,
grandpa too, if
he's to last...
Moses Lake in three.
stop there, maybe, get some
gas--no rest--
save that for
deer crossing,
eyes awake, motion
stops
a hairs breadth from
taking life.
pulls over,
head to wheel.
doesn't make it in time.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Various Unfinished Writings
Spin me round and make me weak
Draw me in close so I can't speak
Destroy the man I used to be
It's overrated to be free
Spin me round and make me weak
Draw me in close so I can't speak
Destroy the man I used to be
It's overrated to be free, oh yeah
Slavery's a different game
when you're slaving to a person you would die for
Gives slavery a different name
---
It's seven o'clock on a Friday night. Footsteps march up the stairs with a silent determination. You want to run, but don't. You don't want to seem so bold. But you can't stop the beating in your heart, the quickening in your pulse, and the feeling that all things are possible.
This is magic.
"This is my room," you say, flipping on the light. You launch yourself onto your bed and sit facing her. She stands with her hands in her back pockets, like a potential tenant, ready to move into that space. Her eyes, like blue candles, scan your life's assortment, illuminating everything they touch. She walks over to you, eyes upwards, looking at a poster of the Milky Way that is tacked to the ceiling. Your eyes follow hers and she sits next to you. A wave of scent washes over you and half of your reasoning centers are gone, just like that.
---
I have nothing to apologize for, in sight of the fact that I was merely speaking openly for once.
There are, I think, two remedies for this. Forget about what "this" is. Just close your eyes and read.
Draw me in close so I can't speak
Destroy the man I used to be
It's overrated to be free
Spin me round and make me weak
Draw me in close so I can't speak
Destroy the man I used to be
It's overrated to be free, oh yeah
Slavery's a different game
when you're slaving to a person you would die for
Gives slavery a different name
---
It's seven o'clock on a Friday night. Footsteps march up the stairs with a silent determination. You want to run, but don't. You don't want to seem so bold. But you can't stop the beating in your heart, the quickening in your pulse, and the feeling that all things are possible.
This is magic.
"This is my room," you say, flipping on the light. You launch yourself onto your bed and sit facing her. She stands with her hands in her back pockets, like a potential tenant, ready to move into that space. Her eyes, like blue candles, scan your life's assortment, illuminating everything they touch. She walks over to you, eyes upwards, looking at a poster of the Milky Way that is tacked to the ceiling. Your eyes follow hers and she sits next to you. A wave of scent washes over you and half of your reasoning centers are gone, just like that.
---
I have nothing to apologize for, in sight of the fact that I was merely speaking openly for once.
And if that created an uncomfortable realm of conversation, I cannot be continually blamed for your refusal to enter that sphere.
And this does not mean that I am a lost cause. It only means that you won't talk to me any more. It does mean that you have things to say but won't say them, which means whatever it is you think might help me to understand myself is less important than maintaining your own comfort. And it means that via your perception, there is help needed. Maybe there is; it would be unfair of me to say there wasn't.
But if I need help and you refuse to give it, where does that leave me? Is it something you're hoping I'll figure out for myself? And if/when I do, how will you know? How will we ever reach beyond this barrier that has been built (I say again) by openness?
---There are, I think, two remedies for this. Forget about what "this" is. Just close your eyes and read.
The first and most obvious is the relationship. Comfort. The quintessential coupling, the... the... whatever.
The other--and sometimes I swear to God more delicious--remedy, is the Badassery. You know, kicking down doors. Blowing up cars. Fighting evil. It's good for the soul, I swear. Just one hitch.
You can't go around doing that!
Well, you can, but you probably wouldn't cozy up to the consequences. I mean, the people that do go around doing this wind up in jail and stuff.
Those of us with greater self-control opt for the more reasonable (read: pansy) way. We watch movies or read books where "our" "heroes" do the things we always wish we could. While I hesitate to label that as pathetic, I most definitely want to resist this idea...
Relationships in an Hour
*The following data was taken from 05/22/09, and it has not been updated to our current time.
Really, my loneliness can be boiled down to one thing alone--my perceptions of time.
I'm twenty years old. Twenty years and a few months ago, I didn't even exist. I entered into my first relationship when I was seventeen. It lasted for three months.
17.5*12=210
3/210=1.43%
That first relationship comprised about one and a half percent of my entire life, and that's not even counting the time that passed afterwards.
My second relationship started shortly before my eighteenth birthday, and lasted until the summer before my twentieth (about 20 months).
19.5*12=234
20/234=8.55%
Now, 8.55 percent is a considerably larger chunk than 1.43, but 8.55 percent of my life is like 5 minutes of an hour. My first relationship was less than a minute.
1h=60min
60*0.0855=5.128
60*0.0143=0.858
Taking all months of relationship into question puts us at 23/234 or 9.83% (5.9 minutes). Taking all months of relationship into my entire life puts me at 23/243 or 9.47% (5.68 minutes). That's less time than there are commercials in an hour long TV show.
It doesn't take a rocket scientist to deduce that the majority of my life has been spent "alone" (quotes signify that I've never been literally alone but you get my point).
Looking at the numbers, I'd say the sense of loneliness or longing that I'm exhibiting is quite ludicrous and presumptuous. Of course, different definitions of time could yield different results. If we count only the years that I was interested in girls (excluding some of my childhood, of course) the minutes to the hour ratios are quite different. The first relationship comes in at 2% (1.2 min) and the second at 11.49% (6.9 min). Taking them together runs 12.568% or 7.54 minutes, still just under the commercial break line.
The next argument follows that I could only truly understand the lack of relationship after being in one. Okay, well that changes percentages drastically. Now we're talking about 23/38, which is a whopping 60.5%! That's a 36 minute timeslot!
I understand that this entire post is more than a little tedious, but the point I've been trying to make is that time is a flexible construct, depending on how we look at it. And, as time is our usual benchmark for life events, it only makes sense to explore our feelings as they change and develop through time.
And average world live expectancy is 70 years.
The thing is, my longings, my desires to have someone to hold or whatever, they're chemical. They're a part of me in order to propagate the survival of our species. So unless God has a plan for me to have a companion, I might just be better off living in a cave.
But love is more than a little bit insidious. It's wonderful, and addictive, and once you've had it you'll never ever feel it unnecessary. It's the sweetest poison around, and detoxing is as painful as it gets.
The experiences I've been through and my reasonings here have led me to believe firmly that it is not better to love and have lost than never to have loved at all.
FML
Really, my loneliness can be boiled down to one thing alone--my perceptions of time.
I'm twenty years old. Twenty years and a few months ago, I didn't even exist. I entered into my first relationship when I was seventeen. It lasted for three months.
17.5*12=210
3/210=1.43%
That first relationship comprised about one and a half percent of my entire life, and that's not even counting the time that passed afterwards.
My second relationship started shortly before my eighteenth birthday, and lasted until the summer before my twentieth (about 20 months).
19.5*12=234
20/234=8.55%
Now, 8.55 percent is a considerably larger chunk than 1.43, but 8.55 percent of my life is like 5 minutes of an hour. My first relationship was less than a minute.
1h=60min
60*0.0855=5.128
60*0.0143=0.858
Taking all months of relationship into question puts us at 23/234 or 9.83% (5.9 minutes). Taking all months of relationship into my entire life puts me at 23/243 or 9.47% (5.68 minutes). That's less time than there are commercials in an hour long TV show.
It doesn't take a rocket scientist to deduce that the majority of my life has been spent "alone" (quotes signify that I've never been literally alone but you get my point).
Looking at the numbers, I'd say the sense of loneliness or longing that I'm exhibiting is quite ludicrous and presumptuous. Of course, different definitions of time could yield different results. If we count only the years that I was interested in girls (excluding some of my childhood, of course) the minutes to the hour ratios are quite different. The first relationship comes in at 2% (1.2 min) and the second at 11.49% (6.9 min). Taking them together runs 12.568% or 7.54 minutes, still just under the commercial break line.
The next argument follows that I could only truly understand the lack of relationship after being in one. Okay, well that changes percentages drastically. Now we're talking about 23/38, which is a whopping 60.5%! That's a 36 minute timeslot!
I understand that this entire post is more than a little tedious, but the point I've been trying to make is that time is a flexible construct, depending on how we look at it. And, as time is our usual benchmark for life events, it only makes sense to explore our feelings as they change and develop through time.
And average world live expectancy is 70 years.
The thing is, my longings, my desires to have someone to hold or whatever, they're chemical. They're a part of me in order to propagate the survival of our species. So unless God has a plan for me to have a companion, I might just be better off living in a cave.
But love is more than a little bit insidious. It's wonderful, and addictive, and once you've had it you'll never ever feel it unnecessary. It's the sweetest poison around, and detoxing is as painful as it gets.
The experiences I've been through and my reasonings here have led me to believe firmly that it is not better to love and have lost than never to have loved at all.
FML
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