Writing Wrongs

Heaven Help the Candlestick

2011-03-29T22:43:00.000-07:00

Drifting, limbo style, and not the kind with the really low pole.

Emotion isn't subject to the laws of gravity here. What once as up is down, and down extends outwards from the center.

I'm not upset, but I am angry. Mostly at the being here.
I'm not sad, but I am lonely. Mostly for the being here.

And things would be eminently easier if the outside world, representing the future along with all its abundant potential, ceased to swirl about, but I can't be the one to end that.

Days pass in the blink of an eye, and then I work to support the passing of days.

Show, Don't Tell

2011-03-29T22:05:00.000-07:00

For one reason or another (Finder's Keepers, the Persona games, Push) I've been thinking about Tarot cards, Arcana and whatnot, and about how systems such as these have been in effect for centuries as a way of understanding the shape of the world. This I have known for some time, but it was only just recently that I really came to appreciate the sentiment.

Having been raised in the Lutheran church I have at no time been given any reason to invest even the smallest shreds of credibility into belief systems such as astrology, palm reading, card reading, whatever you like. This also means that I've been given into a world of predetermination (dance around that all you like, when you get down to it so much of any Christian denomination relies on this subtle acceptance). We believe that we're not really in control of our lives. Well, we might be in control of our immediate lives, our choices and decisions, but we can't look at the world around us and expect to find much.

For some reason, this bothers me. Not in the sense that I feel left out of some cosmic plan... it's more the knowledge that even if I put forth any sort of effort into reading the world around me nothing would turn up.

Spirit animals, reading the winds, I don't know. I could probably go on with a little bit of research if everything in my life hadn't already conspired to invalidate anything that didn't "fit" the pattern.

I mean, granted there is the Bible. But sometimes I feel like it's a case of telling rather than showing. I just want more to exist by way of symbols, or deduction, or meditation. And it doesn't.

Maybe Astrology

2010-08-30T22:13:00.000-07:00

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?

Maverick?

2010-06-27T20:32:00.000-07:00

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.

Anatomy of a Question

2010-05-05T10:48:00.000-07:00

We demonstrate in the asking
not only a lack and a longing
but desire, and a fueling of fires
that need breath to sustain themselves.
And the lacking and longing we set forth
tell our class, and our state,
tell us where we're be-longing.
Shows a want and a need
a demand to be freed from constriction
and stagnancy, static monotony
pushing the pens on the page of hypocricy
knowing everything, nothing, the secrets of life.
The secrets of life?
As if life is anything but
the greatest kept secret
this side of the universe.

Unwelcome Irony

2010-03-29T10:18:00.000-07:00

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.

Snippets

2010-03-26T14:31:00.000-07:00

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.

Fate Leads us Off

2010-03-26T14:28:00.000-07:00

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

My Country

2010-03-26T14:22:00.000-07:00

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

Golden Gardens

2010-03-26T14:21:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-26T14:19:00.000-07:00

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

Everything Changes

2010-03-19T22:23:00.000-07:00

Good or bad, all things fade away.

It sucks.

Some lines from some music, some other jottings

2010-03-11T12:04:00.000-08:00

"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.

My Team

2010-03-11T11:51:00.000-08:00

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."

Betrayal in A Minor

2010-03-02T13:03:00.000-08:00

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.

By the Thames, October 27, 1997

2010-02-23T11:48:00.000-08:00

"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.

A Day in the Mind of a Guy who's Losing One

2010-02-22T15:37:00.000-08:00

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.

"Wasn't talking about the nine-millimeter"

2010-02-20T23:38:00.000-08:00

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.

The Fisherman

2010-02-20T23:18:00.000-08:00

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.

Unwaveringly, Myself

2010-02-20T23:04:00.000-08:00

That's how it's gotta be. Anything else will crumble away, built upon nothing but illusion.

Love me for who I am, or love someone else. It'll save us both a lot of heartache. (Unless I'm being selfish, or stupid, or exuding any other undesireable trait, of course)

Lannisford

2010-02-17T13:13:00.000-08:00

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...?)

Valentine's Day Thoughts

2010-02-11T11:53:00.000-08:00

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

Story Idea 2: Mind Wipe

2010-02-10T14:23:00.000-08:00

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.

Story Idea

2010-02-09T12:03:00.000-08:00

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.

A Photo Trip around Eastlake and Capital Hill

2010-02-09T00:25:00.000-08:00

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.

Through the Cracks

2010-02-04T12:15:00.000-08:00

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.

Adrift

2010-02-02T12:15:00.000-08:00

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.

And Again

2010-01-28T13:52:00.000-08:00

"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.

Wisdom

2010-01-28T11:26:00.001-08:00

I am wise beyond my ears

I am wise beyond my fears

I am wise beyond my tears

Wings

2010-01-27T11:56:00.000-08:00

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.

Fault Lines

2010-01-27T11:54:00.000-08:00

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

Thank You: Danny Elfman

2010-01-19T12:01:00.000-08:00

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.

An unfinished song I intend to finish...

2010-01-12T12:44:00.000-08:00

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...

The Go Sign

2010-01-12T12:39:00.001-08:00

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.

Deer Crossing

2010-01-12T11:32:00.000-08:00

the driver, eyes
tired,
holds his hands to the
wheel against his will.
subverts the serenade
of slumber.
Spokane in five hours,
grandpa too, if
he can last...
Moses Lake in three.
stop there, maybe, get some
gas--no rest--
save that for the deer
crossing, where eyes awake
and motion
stops
a hairs breadth from
taking life.
driver pulls over,
head on the wheel.
doesn't make it in time.

Various Unfinished Writings

2010-01-07T13:50:00.000-08:00

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.

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

2010-01-07T13:49:00.001-08:00

*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

Give and Take

2009-12-25T15:15:00.000-08:00

When we heard the diagnosis, I remember thinking “well, that’s what you get when you’ve smoked for fifty years,” a viewpoint that was unfortunately and, somewhat horrifically, echoed by my father. Theirs was a strained relationship, so while Dad was dealing with the understanding that a significant part of his life was in great peril, I was dealing with the all-knowing adolescence within me. Or perhaps it was merely a front, a way to push the loss away. Though, having seen my grandfather maybe one week out of every year, I can’t say I felt much anyway.

I do remember things, now and again. Most often through those items of his that are now in my possession. I remember playing games. Cribbage, which he taught my brother and I. Rummy. Trouble. The game doesn’t matter so terribly much. What does matter, what strikes me during these moments of reflection, is the steady breathing with which my grandfather attended his every move, his every play. In one of the creation stories from Genesis, God breathed life into the lifeless clay and formed Adam and Eve. That was the breath of my grandfather. I sometimes wonder if it was the cancer breathing or if it was just him, but his ghostly yet comfortably even breath chilled me. I would revel in his respiration. The mental gears working, the coming to conclusion, the acting out of a maneuver—all of these were revealed in that steady breath. Seeing and hearing the unspoken genius of my bloodline at work, I marveled at it.

It is interesting to me that the two things I remember most of my grandfather are those so diametrically opposed to one another—the breathing to the maintenance of life, and the cancer to its detriment. When my grandfather died we flew down for the funeral. He was placed in the veteran’s memorial. I don’t remember where it is. But I do remember the ten gun salute, the roses we laid on the casket, and my uncle breaking down in tears.

A year later, when my grandmother had finished going through his possessions, we returned via station wagon to collect those items which were “up for grabs,” so to speak. I vaguely remember some of the things I took, or was given—two white shirts, one with a bald eagle reading “Freedom is not Free.” Another with a western landscape, and “Running Strong for American Indian Youth.” (Wrapped in their original plastic, they were little more than freebies, even to him, but I took them anyway). A machete with “1945 U.S.” stamped into the blade. A metal wall cross. Some old tools. A red handkerchief. Most importantly though, to my fourteen year old self as well as to me now: a short sleeved army relief, with a “LUND” name patch above the right breast pocket.

Given my age at the time and my compatibility with the typical action-starved-teenager role, this jacket was the ultimate method of breaking through to that alternative action world. I wanted to wear it everywhere—at home, at school, on the bus. Without regard to my grandfather, I aimed to use the jacket as a means to an experience.

My parents had other plans—I could hang it up in my closet, and be content just knowing it was there. The reasoning was sound, if a little outdated. My mom thought that the crazies might take a shot at me, out of some misguided anti-Americanism. My grandmother thought it would be disrespectful, to the point that she invoked my grandfather’s will as well. My father didn’t say anything, but I could see that he agreed. My father doesn’t stay silent if he disagrees.

---

As time has gone on, I’ve realized that the jacket and the LUND patch on it represent more of a shared history than a personal one. In its time of use, it referred specifically to Andrew Christoffer Lund, military Seargeant in Vietnam and Korea. As a relief, it was used in the time of peace between conflicts, or for times away from combat in the military camps. I can’t be certain of its exact origins, but that I can be fairly sure of.

Now, in my possession, it does not have the immediacy of military context. That takes a backseat to the familial connections it allows. Certainly, my grandfather was doing great things while in the possession of the jacket. And I can’t help but try and take up that mantle, to be my very best if for nothing else than for my ancestry, to whom I owe my existence.

---

I didn’t know my grandfather long enough or well enough to know what he thought of me. Did he harbor expectations? Resentments? Which if any of my pursuits would he approve?

I approach these questions with a social curiosity expected of my generation. We swim through the waters of our world always asking, always probing—what does she think of me? What about him? In my case it is almost universally a search for approval. Acknowledgment. Maybe even acceptance. We exist in the eyes of others.

But in the case of my grandfather, who I never knew, the question leaves a different taste in my mouth. A funny one. So when my family told me, unanimously no less, to hang it away, the hole I felt inside was more than the superficial action-seeker undercut by paternal reason. It had more to do with the fact that I had finally found a way to share a space with my grandfather. To get inside his skin, or carry him with me, or whatever. Regardless, the relief jacket was and is my closest link to him.

Genetically, I am 25% Andrew Christoffer Lund, and 50% Andrew Christoffer Lund Jr. The same is true of my brother, Andrew Christoffer Lund III. I mention this because, aside from being the second child, the younger brother, I am also the one who does not bear my grandfather’s name. But I believe that he is watching me with, at the least, some curiosity. I believe that other ancestors, even more distant, are lining up to get a seat.

So at night when I go to bed, regardless of their characters, I give a wave and a bow to the multitude of my past that is forever cheering me on. It’s a give and take: I keep them alive—they keep me honest.

And in my darker times I put it on, the jacket, and let my military history well up within me. It is a history of power: the power of my grandfather, the power, though often questionable, of the US government. It is the power of breath, the weight of death, and the promise of life rolled into one.

As for Why I Use an Ekans

2009-12-25T15:12:00.000-08:00

I think I owe the Waichowsky brothers a good deal of money for their movie Speed Racer. Not that I pirated it or anything—just that I never saw it in theatres and, well, I’ve watched the DVD more times than a DVD probably should be watched. I like to keep some sort of track of how often I’ve seen my favorite films. For the shock value, I guess, when I tell my friends. It’s not as if I sit around all day and watch movies though. It’s just that I, instead of going to theatres, renting other movies, or buying new ones, am often quite content to see the same four or five films over and over again.

I’ve seen Serenity over twenty times (my estimate is twenty-one), Batman Begins around fifteen, and Speed Racer, well, I must be nearing fifteen with that film as well.

There’s a common theme here. Take Serenity: space cowboy Malcolm Reynolds, while harboring fugitives from the oppressive Alliance, stumbles on a truth so earthshattering that it threatens to topple the entire regime. He—although a bandit, smuggler, and thief by day—risks life, limb, and crew in the service of broadcasting this revelation. At any time he could have sold out Simon and River, the two fugitives, but he does not. In the face of all that feels right, he does instead what is right. (Not to moralize the film for you. The film does that for itself.) Batman Begins is the story of vigilante justice, as is Speed Racer to some degree. They’re all about overcoming. Perseverance. Integrity.

Lofty words that operate on a much smaller scale here in the real world.

---

Me: you know, I've still never been to a college party

John: heh, you're gonna haveta fix that someday
it's something one should experience, even if one doesn't enjoy it

Me: wtf are you saying

John: what I mean? (and meaning what I say?)

Me: I don't understand
wait, do poker parties count?
there was on occasion loud music and alcohol

John: >_>

Me: what do you want/expect from me?

John: dancing, alcohol, girls
poker is allowed if you have to drink after losing a hand

Me: but the only drink I like is whisky
and nobody keeps that laying around

John: haha, you're like an old english gentleman
don't get me wrong, beer sucks ass. Don't think I'll ever enjoy that drink.

Me: anyway, I'm in no position to even be invited to parties
I have no community through which I might access such things

John: you'd be surprised

Me: and all this before the consideration of whether or not I'd want to

John: yup
simply acknowledging the possibility

Me: I find possibility to be irrelevant of late

John: of late?

Me: yeah
I am here
stuff is there:
irrelevant

John: huh?

Me: I have enough to worry about without chasing the shadows of ghosts of constructs that I’m not interested in to start with

John: ghosts? Constructs? Dude, I know you're a creative writing major but seriously?

Me: I'm speaking about the relativity of existence

---

At its heart, Speed Racer is a movie about three things; doing what you love, doing what’s right, and never giving up. Bright colors, quirky editing, and dramatic lighting, in defiance of convention, come standard.

---

When I was younger, I wanted to be a computer programmer. To my child’s mind, it sounded like the ultimate job—computers were at that time already integral components of pretty much everything, so the job market would be easy to slide into. Plus, I was pretty sure that programming computers paid well.

I wrote an exploratory paper about the work of a programmer in a paper for my eighth grade English paper. I discovered why computer programmers are paid so well. Their job is boring and tedious, and I would never make it.

Mr. Jones introduced me, effectively, to the world of science. Seemingly more amenable than computer programming, it held my interest until the first quarter of college, where a difficult calculus class showed me that I would never be happy there either.

---

John: I'm still a bit confused as to your reasons. You want to experience college, yeah?

Me: beats me
what's college?

John: good question
only one way to find out though
and it's not second hand

Me: that's a fallacy
x exists
let's experience x, it must be fun

John: yeah, I know, I know
how about this then, writers draw from experience

Me: but not specific experience

John: nope

Me: if that were the case, all writing would be the same
would you like me to write a vampire novel too?

John: YES!

Me: why would I write about something I have nothing to say about?

John: oh, vampires are simply an embellishment of many human things
lust, sin, using people
...bats
all of which can be found at any good party =P

Me: but they are not the only embellishment of human things
they are only one

John: but you're avoiding my main point

Me: you're discarding my retort

John: I mean, if you honestly don't want the experience, far be it from me to say you should have it

Me: what is the experience? I'm not trying to be existential
i mean, let's define what I'm passing up on

John: why, the quintessential college party!

Me: what is it?
beyond names
beyond categories
what am I missing out on?

John: hard to say in words

---

Sometimes when I fantasize about having children, I wonder if it’s not just because I want to be around people who understand me.

---

In biblical times, the transformation from boy to man took place quickly, culminating in five quick social steps that facilitated the transformation. In modern times, capitalist media has encouraged if not created a stage of life in between—we call this stage adolescence. In it, we have been convinced that we are defined (passive voice) by what we consume as opposed to what we produce. I consume the heroes of movies and produce none of my own heroics.

But at the same time, I consume food and produce something decidedly less than foodlike.

---

Me: dude, fuck zubat, seriously

John: fuckin' zubat.
can't do shit

Me: tell that to my ekans
he's the one getting destroyed by a zubat less than half his level
Christ

John: why would you use an ekans?

Me: for fun

John: even arbok isn't so good

Me: you'd never guess it but using unconvential pokemon makes the game much more interesting

John: I see

...If My Brother Goes Before Me

2009-12-25T15:10:00.000-08:00

As I write this, my brother is quite well. It is 10:45 in the morning, so he’s almost certainly at his work desk, drafting some building details. Maybe he’d rather be home, working on the flooring in the living room, or cutting back the excess fireplace stone, or setting up the kitchen.
Yes, my brother is well. He has, at the age of 23, secured a steady (and well paying) job, he has (in concert with my father) purchased his first home, and he has established the beginnings of a family.

In a church service I attended last night, the pastor mentioned how in ancient times a man went through five quick transitional steps in order to facilitate the transition from boy to man. It’s funny to think of these five steps as they relate to my brother. In a short span of time, he knocked out four out of five of them—move out, finish vocational education, get a stable job, and start a family. The fifth and only step he has yet to take, according to ancient custom, is to have children.

And as I think about his influence in my own life, it is amazing how these responsibilities of his have changed him in my own eyes. I don’t know how I thought of my brother before all of this happened, but I know how I think of him now—one of the strongest and most dependable role models in my life. His every action is an inspiration. He picked up his goals in life and did work, so to speak.

This isn’t to say that he’s perfect by any means. Of the two of us, he is surely the one lacking in the general effectiveness of communication. Growing up with him, and my parents as well, was at times a nightmare. And I was the mediator of these communicational horrors.

We enjoy each other’s company now, my brother and I, something you’d never have believed in seeing us grow up. I remember screaming at the top of my lungs. Get out of my room! I hate you! Why won’t you just leave me alone? But he was as stubborn as I was (if not more) and the rages that I descended into would only fuel the fires of his rebellion. At last, when primal screams were my only remaining channel for expression, bringing the attention of my parents with ambulance speed; was anyone hurt? What was going on? Then, realizing the nature of the dispute (whatever it was) we would be told to get along, that they could hear me screaming from the street.

---

My brother doesn’t call all that often. Even so, he is without a doubt the second most frequent of those on my call list. What he would never admit to, what neither of us would admit to, was that since I had moved out, up to the big world of Seattle, we had missed each other as kindred souls. His wife of a few months will tease him a bit, trying to expose me as his one soft spot. He has the heart to call me anyway, to let simple questions dissolve into conversations and catching up. Most often, he’s calling to invite me to a movie with his friends (which, let’s be honest, are my friends by now too) though I frequently decline due to prior obligations (work, mostly). If for nothing else than to talk for a bit, though, I’ve always appreciated the gesture.

Never more than a week ago, when he told me that back home, my cat was dying. Or sick, or something. They weren’t sure what was happening. Maybe it was just age, or maybe that growth on his back had been less than benign. In either case, he had stopped eating, and his balance was off. I took the news pretty well, I think, texting my roommate immediately. He had lost a family dog a few years earlier, so he could sympathize. In any case, I needed someone else to know. And when that wasn’t enough, I texted my ex-girlfriend, thinking that maybe she would have something valuable to say. I guess in the face of death, I needed to feel alive, something I do best in communion with others.

I had to stop for a while, to really consider what my pet actually meant to me. He was an integral part of my young life. That’s the way of pets and children, I suppose. But if I let this get to me, if I let the death of a pet bring me to the bigger questions, would I be considered overreacting? If I didn’t, would I be considered cold? In essence, I felt what I did and it doesn’t matter what I would be considered as.

He called again a few days ago, from my parents’ house to let me know that my cat was eating—still a little off balance, but eating. I hope this means that he was merely sick, is now better, and will be around for a few years yet. Granted, his age in concert with the average lifespan of a cat makes this less than likely. And at this point in my life, the death of my cat, though small and insignificant to some, would in fact be the death closest to home. That’s the double-edged sword of living apart from extended family. Little or no experience with death means little if any sorrow at the passing of family.

But if death is inevitable, then this is not a protective shield—it is a delay. And if my brother is my closest family member, how strongly will I feel his loss when it comes? If my brother goes before me, I intend to have a good deal to say about his effects in my life—of what he has taught me, and how he has loved. Two sides of the same coin, cut from the same stone. Because in the end, we’re a little bit of every cliché.

-To the memory of my brother, should I outlive him.

Worthy of Prestige

2009-12-25T15:07:00.000-08:00

I’m sitting in church (standing, actually), singing along with the music, searching out the harmonies—the tenor line, the bass. I’m not so involved that my eyes are closed, not so emphatic that my hands are waving in the air like so many others, but I am engaged enough, at least with the music, to face the temptation to burst into full out air-guitar. I think most would agree it’s not something you see a lot of people doing. In church. During worship.

I take evasive maneuvers.

Hands are pocketed. Would-be strumming movements are redirected to a shifting of body weight from the left to the right (which is somehow more acceptable). And in an effort to keep from getting too involved, I make my place in the world by bobbing along like everyone else in a subtle form of dance sanctioned in Chalcedon, 451 AD.

If anything, I’m disappointed in myself for my low ambitions; to be unable to express my love of God (or life, or walking down the street in the rain, or anything worth loving) in a form that I enjoy. What that matters in the end is that I’ve sold out. I’ve gone another week with the bobbing and pretending and there’s no going back, it seems.

But if imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then air guitar is worship. It’s one of those things that I have a covert passion for—not on the surface, not completely understood, though it’s likely as simple as a reaching out for celebrity.

---

I feel compelled to strum along whenever I can. 7 7 5 5 4 4 … 6^ 6 4. This song is in drop D tuning, but that’s the other thing about air guitar. It’s always in tune.

I want to reassure you by saying that yes, I do play the guitar. The real guitar. And to tell you that people who play a real guitar are in a somewhat better position to play a less real one. But that rings defensively, even to me, as if I must defend the practice of air guitar, when really I think the merits speak for themselves.

By merits I mean the actual enhancement of listening. Proper air guitarring is preceded by a close listening, wherein you hear all the parts you didn’t know were there before. It’s that “whoa” moment, when you realize that the rhythm guitar’s been arpegioing in the background the whole time, and even though you’ve heard the song a million times there’s something new about it.

A complicated rhythm is like a puzzle—where to palm mute? Where to strum? With some experience in guitar, I can echo familiar parts even if I have no idea exactly what notes are being played. It’s “oh, I see, this bit here is not so unlike the verse in ‘My Poor Brain,’” followed by an adaptable riff that is, most importantly, consistent. These points of reference provide valuable context to the eventual—and now more or less accurate—air guitar performance.

---

It would be fair to say that if air guitarring has a bad name, it only has itself to blame. Much of this can be attributed to the searching out of “good” air guitarists, through contests and championships and the like. As if air guitarring is A) a measureable skill and B) worthy of prestige.

Ochi Dainoji, the world champion from Japan, manages to imbue a lot of energy into his performance, and I might be impressed if it wasn’t just that—a performance. He goes through all of the motions of a successful rock and roll superstar, strapping the guitar over his shoulders, doing sound checks for a soundless instrument, talking to air managers off stage. It’s an impressive mime show. He even holds the guitar at the proper angles. But what he doesn’t have is any semblance of emotion for the music. Instead of the song, his performance is his god.

Because of this you see over exaggerations; windmill strumming made famous by Presley used to play a song by The Offspring at ten times a Blues tempo. Anachronism at its finest. And what better way to end an air guitar performance than to smash your air guitar on stage?

Maybe it’s just the bands I follow, or specifically the music I listen to that dictates “realistic” guitar playing, but I haven’t seen a musician seriously jump into the air, legs flying wide, while strumming rapid fire power chords in, well, ever. Kickdowns aside, my musical heroes keep their feet on the ground. But what do I know—I’m neither a rock star or an air guitar world champion.

Now, I’m not one to advocate too strongly that we lay aside our good humor and our search for fun in new and creative ways, but national air guitar tournaments seem a bit contrived. And maybe I don’t get it because I actually play the guitar. Because a lot of the time when I’m air guitarring it’s to a song that I can actually play, so when I move from fret to fret and strum to specific rhythm, it actually looks like I know what I’m doing instead of putting on a show. Maybe that’s why I can do it in public, shamelessly. Or at least, less shamefully. Regardless, even I have to agree that air guitar is not the best way to participate in church music.

The phenomena may be, as I’ve said, a reach for celebrity. A way to identify with our musical heroes. And when you get down to it, when I’m standing at a bus station with my headphones in, strumming away, I’m not doing it so that you’ll give me any attention. I’m not hoping that you’ll toss me a sideways glance and evaluate my technical prowess (if there’s any to be had). I’m doing it because deep down, I know that somewhere out there people are making music. And I want to be out there with them.

The Hand Speaks (adapted from Time and Motion...)

2009-12-25T15:04:00.000-08:00

If your hand or your foot causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away. It is better for you to enter life maimed or crippled than to have two hands or two feet and be thrown into eternal fire.
-Matthew 18:8

I am fascinated by symbols. In a way, each symbol we appropriate goes a certain distance towards unearthing the "who we are" at any given moment and time. Our tangential velocity, so to speak, at any given time t.

Of course this is merely gesture in a world of such mutability and rapid fire change. Not that the world is this way by any characteristics that it possesses itself. More likely, our non-static way of life owes its existence to our conceptions of time.

We’ve all heard the argument that time is a construct, and not something that inherently exists. When we try to quantify time, we are really only approximating locations. It’s not that we show up to the meeting because the meeting is at 7:00, no--the meeting is at 7:00 because that's when everyone--including Johnson--can occupy that space without causing conflict with other obligations.

In the sense of personal development, though, and because of our mortality, the way we view time is a measurement of personal progression, a way of organizing experience, and discovering information through the lens of cause and effect.

An example: in my younger years, I aspired to become a computer programmer. I thought, computers are fun, they’re hip, and I’ll probably make a lot of money working with them. Then I researched what a computer programmer actually does. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that the task is repulsive in any way. I think I was disillusioned with the idea of playing with code in front of a computer all day long, but I couldn’t tell you for sure.

Something happened in this exchange, and it goes deeper than "it didn't sound interesting anymore." There was a reason that it no longer sounded interesting, a cause to partner with the effect of me bailing on one dream and searching out another. There were components of my identity, symbols of what I was, that could not exist in conjunction with the profession of computer programming.

I told my brother my discovery. I told him that all of the things that build up who we are can be reduced to symbols. I told him that even thinking this was a reflection of a symbol.

“These are my symbols.” I said, then thought about the mutability of time. “Were my symbols. Are my symbols. Were my symbols.”

“You see?” I said. He blinked at me.

---

The more I thought about symbols the more I thought about objects, and which came first, and which meant what. How does a handgun symbolize both violence and self-defense? Somewhere along the line somebody created the handgun for one reason or the other. Maybe they had both offense and defense on the mind, though what I know of history i.e. people killing other people suggests that self-defense wasn’t on the mind of the first firearm inventors.

A handgun is only one of these weapons. But the handgun means nothing until it is held. Until it is used, until it is experienced through the ultimate interactive technology known to man: the hand.

We are what we do, what is done by our hands; creators, destroyers, artists and artisans all. All by the same mold, all by the same hands, all different for any reason at all.

The hand is us, and we are the hand.

It is a palm, a touch, a caress, a slap, a giver equally of pleasure and pain, a comforter and a deliverer of offensive commands too shocking to vocalize. The hand is as indeterminate and versatile as is our own person, and as such we are defined by our use of it. Does the hand hold a pen? A guitar? A baseball bat? A knife?

Does your knife cut tomatoes or flesh?

It makes a difference.

---

I cannot type with my mind. Not yet, at least. Everything you see here passed from synapse to nerve ending to Hand to nerve ending to synapse. The telepathy of language facilitated by finger movements on a piece of plastic with differently lettered keys. Can you hear me inside your head? That’s my hand speaking to you through the accumulation of letters. Is that natural?

Wrong question, maybe.

Perhaps we should ask; Is it what’s natural to us that defines us? What feels right as it sits in your palm? The machete from your dead grandfather? The one he probably used in Vietnam? Maybe. What about a tennis racket? Sure.

What these say about me is what they say about anyone else. I exist; I use tools. Without them I am still a man, but maybe not a tennis player. Maybe not a foot soldier. Is the war in my blood?

Is it not in everyone’s?

Curl the fingers inwards, wrap the thumb around, and your instrument of interaction is now a bludgeoning weapon. Or a symbol, yes, symbol of brotherhood, if two fists connect and separate shortly following.

Why is it that a fist feels so natural to me? I, who have never had to use it? Is there a violence somewhere underneath my skin? A self defense? What about my grandfather’s machete? Or his army relief? Both symbols of a militancy that shook out before my time. Both symbols with which I feel an uncanny connection.

In the end we are only what symbols we pick up and pick out; only what we use, and only what the Hand allows.

Time and Motion, Symbols and Semblance

2009-12-02T13:52:00.000-08:00

I am fascinated by symbols. In ways, each symbol we appropriate goes a certain distance towards unearthing the "who we are" at any given moment and time. Our tangential velocity, so to speak, at any given time t.

Of course this is merely a gesture in a world of such mutability and rapid fire change. Not that the world is this way by any characteristics that it possesses itself. In totality, our non-static way of life owes its existence to our conceptions of time.

You may have heard the argument for time as a construct, and not something that inherently exists. In some ways this is true--when we try to quantify time we are really only approximating locations. We don't show up to the meeting because the meeting is at 7:00--the meeting is at 7:00 because that's when everyone--including Johnson--can occupy that space without causing conflict with other obligations.

In the sense of personal development, though, and because of our mortality, the way we view time is a measurement of personal progression, a way of organizing experience, and discovering information through the lens of cause and effect. I wanted to be a computer programmer, and then I researched computer programming and was disillusioned. Something happened in this exchange, and it goes deeper than "it didn't sound interesting anymore." There was a reason that it no longer sounded interesting. There were components of my identity that could not exist in conjunction with the profession of computer programming.

These are my symbols. Were my symbols. Are my symbols. Were my symbols. You see?

It's not a chaos equation--there is some degree to which we appropriate and maintain certain symbols over others. There are priorities that we place in our lives.

The meaning is circular when you approach the beginning of one's existence--from where did certain affinities stem? One might be quick to suggest that parents, both biologically and ethnocentrically, create this foundation upon which we build ourselves. But that's just as circular as your own identification within a group, because the evolutionary chain of characteristics that create your parents come from their parents, and so on and so forth. In this then we must at some base level share a resemblance with one another, or if not, a similar base for experience when traced back and back and farther yet back.

Its always of interest to me, though, which symbols I carry with me at any given time. Sometimes I think, and wish, if I could just get it all down once, it would be so easy to maintain as things come and go. It's not like getting a tattoo which is expensive, uncomfortable for a week, and then potentially more expensive and more uncomfortable if you change your mind far too late. It's just a piece of paper, or a word document, or an excel spreadsheet, or... something. Anything.

How hard could it be? Writers constantly pour themselves out on the page, and I've enough material to fill columns and columns.

Is the work too hard? Too involved? Is laziness a symbol I've yet to purge?

Not if I can help it.

A Primer for Stairmasters

2009-11-16T16:39:00.000-08:00

Until this point, at the publication of this document, only I have known the extend to which I lack regard for stairs.

In part this is due to my physical height. At 6' 1", I have the adequate leg length to, both while ascending and descending a set of stairs, take them two at a time. This, in concert with the alternative discomfort provided by single stair steps (v.) (it is simultaneously a physical malady and a psychological one), seemingly disallows mediocrative ambulation concerning all types of elevation altering technology. This I call the Rule of Two.

It is also why flying in coach has lost it's luster, an affliction that even a window seat is helpless to remedy.

My stairwell behavior varies on the context of those stairs. This is to say that exposed flights (those outside) permit not only the Rule of Two but also an appropriate acceleration, a quickening of pace and a maintained upper limit that tapers only as the landing is reached. This pace is little less than a full-out sprint, which may seem incontextual in the sense that "sprint" is the measurement of speed over commonly flat ground. This troubles me in and of itself, as it implies that stairwell locomotion is to be relegated only to those paces set as acceptable for the whole of mankind. I am light of foot and wholly unconcerned with stairwell safety.

There are times, however, when more appropriate methods are required. When in the company of someone not known too keenly, I must slow and adapt to the pedestrian way, so as not to seem to eager to do anything other than maintain a locked speed. Futhermore, certain buildings and therefore, certain stairwells, operate under differing rules of noise level, that disallows (we are speaking still of ascension) an accelerated pace. These challenges I nonetheless approach with a determined and unapologetic Rule of Two, at a rate of speed that would be common for others to take steps singly.

The proper format for descent matches closely with that of ascension, though it differs by nature of employing the force of gravity as opposed to resisting it. This I say with more than quaint observation. My methods of descent utilize the gravitational constant of acceleration to shocking (and shock-resistant) effect. The Rule of Two, still strong, is modified now by this gravitational acceleration, for to step down two steps at a time with rhythmic consistency would prove uncomfortable as well.

This is due to difference between the distribution of weight on an ascending climb, where the moving leg subtracts from the weight of the stationary leg (by being placed higher vertically, it absorbs this weight in the transfer of motion and pushes upwards against gravitational acceleration), and the distribution of weight on a descent. In a descent, the more vertical leg maintains the weight until it adds that force to the gravitational acceleration. But, the leg in motion does not extend downwards to make up for the vertical distance as it does in an upwards motion, which it can do by virtue of shortening it's overall length with a bend at the knee. Rather, the leg carrying the weight must bend, while the leg in motion stays stiff and receives the weight transfer. The inefficiency goes unnoticed by single steppers, who have only half the distance to travel compared to the Rule of Two. A two stepper would instead feel one great jarring motion after the other, having to stop a greater momentum with each step.

The remedy is to twist the hip ever so slightly so as to allow an almost sideways motion, where the second step careens over the first which has not fully taken the weight of the body. This results in an every-other system of weight distribution, which always falls on the favored leg (right) due to its more frequent use and therefore greater precision. This precision step is critical to avoid stumbles, because it has travelled a full four steps of height as opposed to one, or even two; the anticipation of this vertical distance is paramount to the maneuver. Too short and the weight will careen forward, too long and again, the stepper will fall forwards to catch his footing.

As involved as this descent may sound, it proceeds at a rate equal to or greater than four times the speed of the regular pedestrian, and though it does not share the rhythm of the upwards Rule of Two, it nonetheless has a rhythm of its own. Still, there are areas inappropriate for this method of quickly changing elevations, and I try not to worry myself with the inconvenience of moving like everyone else.

I suppose that to some degrees, I am interested in making up for the lost horizontal distance that elevation change necessitates. Or perhaps I subconsciously perceive stairs as locales of transformation, and prefer the change that they offer. But really, it is quite simply that I have places to go and cannot afford to trifle with locomotive hurtles.

And so I take the big steps, and I make the big changes exactly when and where I deem appropriate.

Hurricane

2009-09-29T19:59:00.000-07:00

If society’s a hurricane,
then I live in the eye.
And through that lens I see the slump
of every earthly sigh.

I watch as bonds that lovers share
are torn apart by rage,
uprooted by those fearsome winds
that even I can’t gauge,

And as I watch the sky in dance
the sun sets in the west,
a sole survivor of the trials
abandoning the rest.

Delivering the final punch,
the nightfall comes to stay.
It brings the end of life and death
to those with sense to pray.

Swell

2009-09-19T01:01:00.000-07:00

From seed and sprout as the clouds passed by they grew,

higher and wider, like a spreading out of balloons let go.

We climbed them then, in days of youth and summer,

let their altitudinous forms lift us up to a brighter day.

When the clouds rolled in and days grew dark

we'd sit on the porch and watch the trees deflate.

Color burned away, volume bought the farm,

and the strands strained against the pull of gravity,

reaching, reaching, waiting for a gust of air,

a maiden's tear, a burst of life,

anything to inflate those balloons again.

And we would swell up with them,

Expand until we rose to the stratosphere,

and finally, burst into multicolored debris.

Extraction

2009-08-26T01:00:00.000-07:00

As a single guy, I carry within me an aversion to those items which may excite in me some semblance of happiness. I speak more specifically what might be more commonly known as “Hollywood Happiness,” that good feeling that is relentlessly served us on a silver platter. My aversion, of course, owes its existence to the comparative degrees that such happiness leaves behind. The aftertaste, so to speak, when the lights come back up and I realize with crushing finality that I am an entity quite divisible from the winning hero on his unlikely yet deserved wedding day. Whereas the watching of the film encourages the idea that his victories are my victories, that his hopes are my hopes, the reality of my plight is that when all is said and done, the character has nothing to do with me, and furthermore has not the ability to return the sympathy which I so freely lavish upon him. And the lights do go up. I suppose if we could entertain the idea of a never-ending movie reel, stretching on into the future as far as the “eye” can see, we might enjoy an endless fantasy from which we would never wake. But it is a ghostly filmstrip for ghostly prospects. In order for this fantasy world to exist, it would necessitate our compliance with the script—and though it might on occasion give us cause to feel, it could never offer us the cause to be. We would be nothing more than stifled animals, forced (by our own choice, no less) to relinquish what it is that makes us human and adopt a cookie-cutter cavalcade of a recipe for happiness, eradicating any claim to individuality, and thus any claim to a rightful existence. This, I am sure you can see, will not do. Thus, the aversion mentioned at my first timid scribbles.

The medium is not flawed in such a way that it affects all people the same—far from it. It is only the man who is in danger of succumbing to this fantasy, who vividly perceives it as real and good, who endangers himself. He who looks on mindlessly looks on with less a mind. As a single guy with a mind worn ever thinner, mindlessness becomes all too familiar, and it causes me to stumble.

I’m tired, exhausted, and frustrated with the world because it won’t do and be the things I want it to, and only rarely calling myself out for not doing anything about it.

We’re good people, aren’t we?

In Branches and Leaves

2009-08-20T12:30:00.000-07:00

In Branches and Leaves

“You know, when I was your age, I made the greatest tree fort known to man. Mmhm. I’m sure you hear all sorts of folk talking that way, but when I tell you I did it, by God did I do it.” My grandpa was going off on a tangent. Again. I paid as little mind as possible while maintaining the illusion of attentiveness. My parents were, after all, paying me to spend [i]quality[/i] time with Grandpa - not to play with my Game Boy (Which they still believed was hidden in the back of the pots and pans drawer. Come on, really? I was going into middle school the very next year, not kindergarten.).

“Nursing homes are a scary place for old people,” my dad would say. “Especially someone with memory problems like Grandpa. How would you like to end up all alone in a strange place? Strangers at breakfast, strangers at lunch, and strangers changing your bedsheets?” So every Saturday from noon to five I would grab my Game Boy, hop in the van, and ride off to Sunset Valley Nursing Homes to meet Grandpa. My parents usually went out for dinner or dancing - what did I care really? It was like being baby-sat, except I got paid instead of Grandpa. He got what he wanted and I got what I wanted. Of course, it all depended on his on his testimony as to the evening’s events. Usually the reports came back well.

“Tommy’s such a nice young man,” he would say when they came to pick me up. The fact that he knew my name at all times sparked a lot of chatter by itself. I mentioned that Grandpa had memory problems, right? Well I was told that he didn’t remember anyone that well any more, but he sure had a handle on me. It got my dad absolutely beaming, like that look a dog gets when you pat him on the head, you know? And every week it was the same reaction, the same shock and surprise, like somehow they thought he was getting better and next week it would be “Hi Mark and Marilyn Kensey. How are things at the Post Office Marilyn? Did you enjoy that card I sent last week?” And maybe the next week he’d get out of his wheelchair and do a dance! Completely unrealistic, of course. The name he remembered was mine, and mine alone. I suppose I should have been glad of it, maybe even proud of the fact that amidst a sea of unfamiliar faces, mine was the beacon of light that guided him home, but honestly? I just want my money. At the time there was this nice red sports car in the used papers, and my dad said that if I could save up for half of it... well, you know. Five more weeks of [i]quality[/i] time with Grandpa and that ride was mine.

“This was no ordinary tree fort, I can guarantee.” Grandpa may have had memory problems, but he could stick to a story like gum to a school desk. This was unfortunate for me of course, because this week’s story was unusually lame. I grew up in the [i]city[/i], get it? Not only had I never made a tree fort, but I was completely content never to do so. Our backyard (if it could be called that) consisted of 20 square feet and a single poplar tree. Not the best for fort making. Anyway, I had no problem letting Grandpa run his course. He might ask a question every now and then, but other than that I could just shut down, relax, and dream about that sports car... just five weeks until I had it for myself, and a mere four years until I was taking it through hairpin turns, catching air off of giant city hills, just like in the movies, and then bursting through a ring of-

“Have you ever built a tree fort Tommy?” I hated it when he snapped me out of daydreams like that. It was such a delicate operation, and no matter how hard I tried I felt that car sputter and die before it faded away, waiting for the next dream.

“No sir, I haven’t.” I answered. Simple answers were the best. They let me get off without saying much and opened a world of possibilities for him to keep the conversation moving.

“A damn shame,” he said in response. I chuckled and shook my head. Of all the things to miss in the world, tree forts?

“Well anyway, this tree fort was special. The first thing you’ve gotta know about tree forts is what constitutes a good tree, and then you check the branches, see, and you’ve gotta do that step, it’s the most important one...” And I was driving through the countryside, wheat grass waving in the wind… And what better to complete the picture than a dazzling blonde in the passenger seat? She asked me where we were going but I wouldn’t tell her. ‘Just a bit farther,’ I’d say, and she’d get that mysterious smile on her face...

Grandpa was still rambling on. I nodded every now and then, making sure he saw that I was paying attention (I did feel bad from time to time), and after a few more minutes dismissed myself to the bathroom. At least, that’s where I told him I was going every week. I usually waited in the hall and pulled out my Game Boy for a solid half hour. Race Rock 3 - Expert mode. It was hard, but what made it even harder was the fact that no matter which car was best for the track, I always took the red sports car... and there was my dream girl, waving the flag at the finish...
This week was different. No sooner had the words come out of my mouth than Grandpa decided to come with me. Horrified, I stammered for a response. You know that feeling you get when you’ve been building something up, something you’ve been waiting on for so long, and then you realize that you won’t be able to do it?
“I can go by myself,” I told him calmly. But I could see he wasn’t going to back down.

“Nonsense. I’ve only gotten to the best part.” I sighed inwardly and agreed. Inside of the bathroom I waited two or three minutes, then ran the water pretending to wash my hands. Then, thinking about the nursing home I washed them anyway. Another week without Race Rock 3... What was Grandpa so excited about that he would follow me to the bathroom to talk for all of the 30 seconds it took to get there?
When I came out of the bathroom, he was down the hall, looking out the back window. Across the patio and the lawn was a small forest, the same one which bordered the river. It wrapped itself along 4th and Sprague and died out near Town Hall. I lived across the river to the North, where city streets and sidewalks left only those trees which served an aesthetic purpose. And Grandpa just sat there at that window, looking out. I remember that something felt different, almost foreign about him when I approached him.

“There.” He pointed, making me squint. His voice was softer than usual. Soft but strong.

“There what?” I asked

“There he is. Trent.” He brought his shaking hand up to cover his mouth and a small sob escaped his lips. It escaped me then, but looking back I should have been more surprised. Whereas his delicate memory sensors could only previously recall “Tommy,” there had been another name in there, another name waiting to come out.

“Trent?” I asked again, not seeing anyone among the trees.

“My best friend. The tree.” And tears rolled from his eyes. “We haven’t talked since I was 13. And I promised him and he remembered.” His sobs grew louder and I remember I was afraid. I thought maybe something was happening to him, or even worse, that a nurse would come by and think that I had done something wrong.

“Do you think we could... do you think we could go out and see him? One last time?” It occurred to me that he wasn’t asking. He was begging.

“Grandpa, I don’t understand.” I whispered close. “Who is Trent?” And I’ll never forget the look he gave me, completely defeated but at the same time valiant. All he said was please.

So I got a nurse and we made our way out the back onto the trails, into the forested area. Grandpa surveyed the area from his wheelchair like a king over his loving subjects. We’d gone maybe fifteen feet when he asked her to stop.

“Tommy,” he said. “That one right there.” He pointed with a shaky hand. “Could you roll me up next to it?” I looked at the nurse and she nodded.

It was difficult placing the wheels among the roots, but I did it well enough so that Grandpa could reach out and touch the bark with his hand.

“Trent...” he said softly. “Trent, I’m back.” The nurse gave Grandpa an odd look. “Remember, I promised and I came back.” He gave a small laugh. “Here’s us at the end then, huh old buddy?” He patted the trunk and looked around. “We were always getting into trouble, weren’t we? Staying up late, skipping dinner.” And then he smiled a deep smile and looked at me.

“Did you hear him?” He asked me. His eyes seemed to look [i]through[/i] me, and I didn’t know what to do. The nurse looked at the sky and saw clouds gathering.

“Mr. Kensey, it looks like it’s going to start raining soon. We should go back inside.” Grandpa ignored her. He went on muttering to the tree and the nurse looked around helplessly.

“Mr. Kensey, we need to go back inside.” She said again, a bit louder.

“No...” Grandpa answered softly. “No...”

“Mr. Kensey, I must insist. It is getting far too cold out here and I will not have it be the death of you, now come along.” She moved forward as to grab the wheelchair.
“NO!” Grandpa shouted. “Tell her Tommy, tell her! You can hear him, can’t you Tommy? You can hear him, listen to him speak!”

“Now Mr. Kensey, this really is too much.” She grabbed the wheelchair and made as to pull it back onto the path, but grabbing the bark my Grandpa lurched forward and fell at the foot of the tree.

“Mr. Kensey!” The nurse yelled in shock.

“Tommy.” Grandpa said softly, beckoning me forward while hugging the tree as a sailor would hold onto a mainmast on a stormy night. “Tommy, can you hear him? He says I’m going to live forever Tommy. He says I’m going to live in him. I’m going to grow in him and... and I’ll be in his branches, and his leaves and...” his voice dropped lower. “And I’ll never be alone again.” He reached out with his right hand and grabbed mine, and I knew that it was the end.

His eyes closed and he saw no more.

The nurse rushed him back into the home but nothing could be done. I cried that day, for the first time in a long while. My parents had never seen me so depressed. The funeral came and went, and that next year I entered middle school. I was afraid and anxious (not to mention five weeks short of my sports car) so I was really put off of the whole idea of school. Grandpa talked me through it though. I talk to him a lot now, as often as I can spare time to sit under the tree in my backyard. And every time I look up at the branches and the leaves I whisper “I’m sorry. I should have listened more.”

“Forget about it,” he says. “Let’s talk about getting you that sports car...”

Meltdown Imminent

2009-08-20T12:24:00.000-07:00

Zale walked to the lab every day. He would take the scenic routes along the bay, and through the city. Sometimes he would stop to rest at a cafe, or maybe stay a while with a homeless man. His path always came in from the north, past the old nuclear power plant which was connected to the lab where he worked.

He had to wake early, of course, but it didn’t bother him. He always arrived on time, and he never tired of the exercise. There was transportation available, of course, but he never took it. People speculated that he wanted the exercise. Others said that he had a profound love for all things in life, and didn’t want to pass them by. Beyond that, his coworkers jokingly suggested that Zale was in fact a robot, and that the magnetic rails underneath the trolley would interfere with his internal systems.

They were right.

One would expect that some sort of story detailing the creation and maintenance of such an android would follow, but this story cannot be told, because there is no man living who knows it. Questions of where Zale came from, and indeed [i]why[/i] remain a mystery to this day.

The lab where Zale worked was connected to a nuclear power plant that was thought to have been shut down for years. Had it not been for this plant, nobody would even know that Zale was any different from anyone else.

It was a day like any other. Zale arrived at the lab, perfectly conditioned and without any wear from his three-mile hike. His co-workers snickered behind his back, feeding their insecurities as they called him a loner and a freak. Zale paid them no mind as he walked into his personal lab and locked the door. While there, Zale talked to nobody and nobody talked to him. The only exception was his first day of work, when he tried to make friends with Jonah Cayle in the zygology offices.

Jonah, like Zale, was something of an outcast. He was always looked down on as an engineer in the place of “real scientists,” as they called themselves. “A waste of funding,” he had heard as well, along with other names not pleasant to repeat. Jonah didn’t know what to think about that. At first he had dismissed the reluctance of his coworkers as simple ignorance, a case for the proof of the human condition. Everybody, Jonah felt, needed someone to pick on, someone to feel better than. And in the world of science, where there was no distinction between better or worse, how could he as a simple engineer stand up? [i]Don’t let it bother you,[/i] he always said, but it still got to him. They were right, to a degree. At any given moment, Jonah knew that there were hundreds of “real scientists” out there making a difference in the world: saving lives, finding resources, inventing new ways to simplify life. He made connections.

“Nuts, bolts, screws, rivets, hinges, you name it,” Jonah had said when Zale inquired as to his profession. “We find new ways every day to keep stuff together. Better ways. Next thing you know, we’ll have a world of metal, through and through. Nothing to break, nothing to fix.” That was Jonah’s dream. Zale took a long look around the office and the workrooms, taking in every sight (which he did quite literally) before turning to leave.

“Don’t forget the flowers,” Zale said in a mournful voice.

“What’s that?” Jonah had asked.

“In your world of metal,” Zale said, “don’t forget the flowers.” Everyone was right when they said that Zale had a deep appreciation for the arts. In his private lab there were paintings of flowing rivers and majestic landscapes, sculptures of animals and people, and flowers as well. Some in the corners, in amongst his machines - anywhere and everywhere one could find some small facet of art or expression.

There were, of course, his work materials. Machines, tools, capsules, electronics. Nobody knew what happened in that office, and nobody really cared to find out. They were so engrossed in their own tasks that they gave no heed to the workings of Zale. They did notice, however, that there was an unusual silence in his workspace that day. Whereas before there had been poundings of metal and the hiss of welding equipment, now there was only an eerie silence, the kind which raises hairs and makes skin crawl.

Zale had been there for an hour, no more, when he left again, abruptly. This was another oddity, and more workers began to take notice. Jonah, feeling some connection to Zale from day one, decided to forsake his lunch break and follow him out of the building.

Zale went straight for the power plant. Jonah didn’t know why anyone would go there, and his curiosity deepened when Zale passed the security doors without missing a beat. The plant had been locked down for years, and Jonah knew that it shouldn’t be intruded upon so easily. Thinking that something dangerous was going on, he rushed back into the lab, grabbed a Geiger counter, and was back in front of the plant inside of five minutes.

By then, he saw no sign of Zale. He passed the outer and inner gates and stood with bated breath outside of the heavy doors. [i]Why not just turn back?[/i] he remembered thinking. A million things could be awaiting him inside - a druglord hideout, a murder suicide, a contamination... But then, [i]No. I’ll show them.[/i]. He was, of course, referring to the scientists back at the lab, to whom Jonah thought he had something to prove.

He slowly edged the door outward and was met by a wave of heat, so intense that he stumbled backwards. The Geiger counter began to tick wildly and Jonah knew that something was wrong. He forced the door shut with all of his might and ran back to call for help.

The radiation levels in the power plant were off of the charts. It seemed that there was a section of the facility which had not been properly shut down all those years ago, and a small leak there had allowed a buildup, to dangerous levels.

They found Zale’s body next to one of the generators. His skin had melted away, revealing the wire frame and frayed circuitry inside. On the floor next to him had been scrawled the words “Meltdown imminent. I’m sorry.” Jonah identified him and asked for a proper burial, but they left his body there. His entire workings emitted radiation, and even the workers in the suits could stay in the building for no longer than ten minutes. That meant that even a scientific study of the android would be impossible until the area cooled down, which caused a minor uproar amongst the robotics scientist community.

Everyone stood outside watching the commotion and trying to find their way onto local news, but inside of the laboratory one body still stirred. It opened the capsule wherein it had rested until Zale’s signal had terminated. Outside it found a note and a flower. The note read, quite simply,

[i]Dear Zale2,

They were mean to us, but I saved them.
Don’t give them our secrets.
Tell Jonah.

Zale1[/i]

Zale2 left a note for Jonah and left the building, never to be seen or heard from again.

For Misha

2009-08-20T12:19:00.000-07:00

Captain William Braxford:

My dear friend, if you are reading this letter then I am sure you have killed me. I congratulate you. I don’t know what day it is, but I hope it reads well on my gravestone. You always see those people there who have had the bad luck to die on some odd sounding day of the year, like January 23rd, 2507. Too many syllables. Give me a May 1st any day.

Will, I want you to understand that I never once wished any harm to the Confederacy. Truly, I had no choice in the matter, and I spent every waking moment trying to think of a plan to turn things around. I hope you can see that... I will not say that you would have done the same in my place, but know that I leave you not with regret, not with anger - but with joy. Joy because my threat is no more.

All these years we served under the flag. The brown, blue, and green. The Star and the Key. Did we ever figure out what it meant? What we stood for? What we fought for? I never did. But absence of reason, I’ve found, is no cause to abandon belief. I hope that you find the same.

I say [i]served under the flag[/i], but in your case perhaps I should say [i]will continue to serve[/i]. I pray you will. But nevertheless, you will go your way, and I of course, mine. I’m hoping I’ll see you after this life, but if fate has it that we split ways, I hope that it is you who finds an eternity in the presence of God. I know you never bought into that “religious crap,” but humor a dead man.

I am sure that I owe you my account of the past few months. Rather, you owe it to [i]yourself[/i] to read my explanation.

They came in the early days of the year. Black suits and the whole routine. One of them was tall, dark skinned, short black hair and all that. The other was medium height, but solid as a rock. Well, they wore the badges of the Confederacy and asked if I was alone. I said yes and invited them in. Misha was at that dancing convention - you remember, we went clubbing the night after she left. Stupid idea. Was it mine or yours? My God, I do ramble on. Well, I figured that these men were going to give me some sort of special mission. A chance to move up in the ranks, maybe make Captain. I remember thinking how you would react. The both of us, Captains in the Corps...

So I invited the fellows in, thought maybe I’d bring out some drinks or something. My invitation, it seemed, went completely unheeded. They pushed right by me and started checking the entire place out. They asked me, of all things, if my place was wired. That made me wonder. It’s down in our constitution somewhere that we have the right to record whatever we want in our own homes. I know, I looked into it afterwards. Thought maybe I could find a legal loophole.

‘Standard security system is all,’ I answer. And apparently that’s some sort of indication that they need to close all my shades and shut down my power hub. Well, by now I’m a bit upset as I’m sure you can understand. I’ve never been one to be pushed around by anyone, unless clear reason can be shown, and Misha was supposed to return from dance class at any minute.

‘What’s the meaning of all this?’ I say finally losing my temper. I find myself sprawled out on the floor in response, the mark of the raygun still burning in my side. I don’t remember which one did it, but I wanted the bastard dead. But they throw this file next to my face, even as I writhe there, and ask me to open it. The tall one moves off to inspect the rest of my house, and starts fiddling with the trinkets on my mantelpiece. Then he’s off somewhere else, waving a sensor around like a madman and pushing buttons into its display.

I opened the file, expecting some sort of fabricated criminal evidence against me. Why else would Confederate officers assault their own soldiers? But it wasn’t evidence. It wasn’t a mission briefing either, as I had thought earlier. They were pictures.

You have to understand, Will. They had Misha. The whole time, they had Misha. What was I supposed to do? I tried to think of a way to let HQ know that I was under the thumb, but they put a patch on my system. Anything wired to me was forwarded to them. Anything recorded by me as well. And I couldn’t risk it. My Misha! She had asked me to go with her that week. To the dance thing. But I wanted to party with the guys. I could have protected her, done something...

So they lay it out for me, plain and simple. I give them HQ schematics, they give me Misha. They must have thought me a moron. I bring them the schematics and they let me go? Please.

They ask me if everything’s clear. I lie and say yes. They hit me with the raygun anyway. And that was the last I saw of them. They always sent two new guys, or had me meet at this restaurant, or that diner.

I got the names of a few. Pseudonyms, of course, but I hope they help. I hope you neutralize the bastards.

Jonah, dark skinned, a little over 6 feet tall, slim build, short black hair.

Barry, medium build, maybe 5’8”, short brown curls.

Sean, medium build, maybe 5’10”, short blonde curls.

Hunt, 5’4”, bald

Walsh, 5’8”, large dragon tattoo on right wrist, probably all the way up his arm too.

Charlie, unknown height (I only saw him seated), but a scar on his nose, left side.

I regret to say that you were too late. I already gave them the schematics to HQ. I doctored them up a bit, enough for you to lay a trap in the East wing, but they’re getting a lot of free information with it as is. I’m sorry. If you take a look at the eastern underground access tunnel, it has a checkpoint in it. In the fakes I gave them, I edited it out. That’s where they’ll go, I know it. If you set up a post you should be able at least to detain anyone with the characteristics I mentioned above. Hopefully you get them.

If you find Misha, tell her that I love her and I’m sorry. And if you could, friend, lay a single white rose on my grave so that I’ll know she’s well. Trust me, I’ll know. I doubt I’ll be buried with any honors, but I’m okay with that. You’ll have to try and get me in the Rosewood Cemetery. You know, the one close by, with the poplar trees.

You were always a brother to me, Will. You were a saint. Whatever you do, don’t feel bad for taking my life - it had to be done. Even God can understand that.

Your brother in arms,

Michael

P.S. “I pray you, in your reports, when you shall these unlucky deeds relate, speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak of one that loved not wisely but too well.” It’s Shakespeare. You always did love Shakespeare

One Last Shot

2009-08-19T10:08:00.000-07:00

The rungs of the ladder that I used to climb
fall away as I wonder if going up was right
not that I have the time to think
that I did growing up as a child
it’s all wasted...
and intellect, it lasts as long as love lives on
but not before creation flows,
a fee that’s paid for by your landlord.
Waiting is an invitation to all your vices
shake their hands and roll the dice,
decide your fate in a game of chance
but not before you wave goodbye
and hope that with your one last shot
you clear the way for the future,
not the one you thought you’d choose
but good enough to keep you clean.

My Worst Trait

2009-08-16T21:58:00.000-07:00

As if this pen could fix a thing
This pad, it is nothing but the means to an end
As every opportunity wasted serves to attest
that I, when at my lonliest have nothing
nothing to say--and nothing said, I settle
in my pillowed bed
awaiting a morning no more bright
And though the sun may rise
it sinks as well.
Litturae sends my soul to hell
I look up from below to see
the faces I once knew surpassing me
in life. They flew a little higher,
avoiding situations dire as mine.
Encapsulated by this tomb I scratch these rocks
but it's too late. Indifference.
It's my worst trait.

Awake in the Mourning

2009-07-05T21:23:00.000-07:00

To write is to decide that certain words in a certain order hold some sort of meaning, and more, to write is to decide that those words are worth their labor.

Writers put in time, and cash in their rewards (which they sign up for early on--payment plans include but are not limited to self-gratification, recognition of others, preservation of events/thoughts/time, etc.).

As writers, [they're] often asked why [they] do it (if you haven't figured it out, [they're] the ones doing the asking). [The writer] knows [he's/she's] thought about it. [He's/She's] even written about it. [The writer] reasoned that it was something [he/she] enjoyed and left it at that.

Really, though, [the writer] thinks [he/she] just want attention, and this is [his/her] ideal way of getting it. They have a payment option for that? Sign [this writer] up.

Of course, attention or recognition (or, hell, even acknowledgment would do), are contingent upon other people reading what [the writer] has to write.

In lieu of this luxury, [the writer] realizes that [he/she] can compose word combinations mentally just as easily as [he/she] can literally (as the latin root relates to "by the letter"), and ceases to do the latter.

Does the world mourn?

[This writer] does.

Captain (with new version!)

2009-07-05T21:20:00.000-07:00

A variation on “Those Winter Sundays” by Robert Hayden

Summers also Captain woke early
And cawed his beak off in the early dawn
Then with soft chirps that soothed
From grogginess in the lazy morning, made
Sleepy eyes open. Mike never thanked him.

Captain would sit and dream of the day opening, unfolding.
When his cage was opened he’d float
And flutter. Mike could cook and clean,
Knowing the resulting freedoms of that schedule,

Calling furiously at Captain
Who had knocked over the vase
And nudged all the picture frames as well
What did Mike know, what did Mike know
Of friendship’s veiled and subtle avenues?

---

In summertime especially, Captain woke early
with a chirp and a wrraawk! that shook the blinds.
Mike would wake, grey sheets over eyes
that refused to give in without a fight.
Morning moans battled beating wings,
but Captain’s wake up call was triumphant.
Mike never thanked him.

When Captain’s cage was opened he’d hop around,
warm up laps for the final show,
then take off in wide circles.
Mike would cook breakfast for them both,
clean the dishes he had left from the night before,
and call furiously at Captain,
who had tipped over the vase
and nudged all the picture frames just so—
especially that picture of Karen
the one with the white dress, from last August—
as if to say “Where did she go?”
And Mike would stop washing the dishes.
He would stop, and considering the magnitude of things,
he would cry.

Point Being? (with new version!)

2009-07-05T21:19:00.000-07:00

Because we all know that sex is the darker side of loneliness, and acoustic guitar is a better balm then most, I think I’ll just head back to my place. Besides, we know no more about each other than ice cream flavors; you’re a chocolate mint and I’m not quite okay with that. I’ll walk you to your car I guess, and I’ll probably offer to call you sometime soon. I don’t think I will. The heatwaves rising off the pavement are interfering with the signal. Anyway, I think of you and me and recoil. You’re sweet, of course, but really, you’re not my type. The heatwaves stop jamming radar and go back to work burning bridges. Did I get off in time? I imagine myself crisp and blackened, like a tortilla left on a stove too long, and duck inside. The trees reflect a living green, livid that I would privilege my whitewash walls and subtle melodies over springtime sanctity. What can I say? What can I say? Quicksand forms beneath my feet (not so much forms as is acknowledged by the author who is, only now, questioning what he should do). Right now I’m thinking “find a girl,” but what’s the point. Right? When I still remember what it’s like to hold her hand, what’s the point?

---

Because we all know that sex is the darker side of loneliness, and acoustic guitar is a better balm than most, I think I’ll just head back to my place. Besides, we know little more about each other than ice cream flavors; you’re a chocolate mint and I’m not quite okay with that. I’ll walk you to your car I guess, and probably offer to call you sometime soon. I don’t think I will. The heatwaves rising off the pavement are interfering with the signal. Before long, though, they’ll go back to burning bridges, while I wave at you from the other side of the bank.

I duck inside my apartment to escape the midday heat and sit immobile from a spell. Outside, the trees leer at me with living green, livid that I would privilege my whitewash walls and subtle melodies over springtime sunshine. I try to explain, but they shake their leaves from side to side. “We cannot understand,” they say, or maybe “No excuses.” What can I say, though? Quicksand forms beneath my feet (not so much forms as is acknowledged by the author who is, only now, questioning what he should do). Right now I’m thinking “find a girl,” but what’s the point? Right? When I still remember what it’s like to hold her hand, what’s the point?

Granite-Grinding (with new version!)

2009-07-05T21:17:00.000-07:00

We build each other up, you know.
It goes to show what we can do
When we are at the last removed
From granite-grinding dusk to dawn.
Like when I said let’s get some chai
And figured out an alibi for why
My homework wouldn’t be complete
(I’m sick, and that’s the very least).
We walked along the streetlamp road.
I told you that my week was good
But it wasn’t. You seemed to know;
I thought to talk
But when I tried to speak I choked
And all the things I meant to say
Were lost to me, just the same.
Our drinks emptied themselves;
Rings of foam restrained from lips
That thirst for the apocalypse.
You went your way and I went mine
Awaiting what would be the next time.
And even though I hardly know
Which way to go
I often see
You, friend
Beside me.

---

We build each other up, you know.
It goes to show what we can do
when we are at the last removed
from granite-grinding dusk to dawn.
Like when I said let’s get some chai
and figured out an alibi for why
my homework wouldn’t be complete
(I’m sick, and that’s the very least).
We walked along the streetlamp road.
I told you that my week was good.
You nodded in that way you do
when what I say is not quite true.
We sat there while our drinks were brewed
and finally you asked what’s up.
But when I tried to speak I choked,
and all the things I needed to say…

Our drinks emptied themselves;
rings of foam restrained from lips
that thirst for the apocalypse.
You went your way and I went mine.
At times I thought the black of night
would touch me with a darker soul.
But then I saw, and now I see
that you, my friend, are beside me.

Monster Truck (with new version!)

2009-07-05T21:15:00.000-07:00

(New version following the original)

On Sundays after church we’d cross the street
and head to Albertson’s—but not before
the dollar store, where Mom would front the cash
in order to substantiate our needs.
Cheap plastic was the gold of youth; to Mom
we were but fountains of the stuff. (Which stuff?)
It always worked—content with “new!” we made
no fuss while she was looking for the non-
fat milk and wholegrain bread and pancake mix.
To her loving deception we were blind
We knew no better, but who cared? I had
a monster truck, in red, and Andrew had
a white and blue robot (he said it could
shoot lasers from it’s eyes—I said my truck
could run him down). The time did not last quite
so long as we had feared. Ironically
my truck endured no longer; battle left
it more or less in ruins, plastic bones
across a bone white desert of floor tile.
The burial was improvised—the trash
received the mortal skeletons of joy
and Mother said, before we left, one arm
around my shoulder like a sheet of light,
“We must take care of all the things we love.”

---
Monster Truck

On Sundays after church we’d cross the street and head to Albertson’s,
but not before the dollar store, where Mom would front the cash
in order to fulfill our childhood needs; two active minds
routinely screamed “STIMULATE ME!” If not by running down the aisles,
then being boys (and making noise) would send the message. Mom preferred alternatives;
something not-quite-a-bribe, but close. Cheap plastic was the gold of youth;
to her we were but fountains of the stuff. It always worked—content with “new!”
we made no fuss while she was looking for
the non-fat milk and wholegrain bread and pancake mix.
We thought nothing of her loving deception, and who cared?
I had a monster truck, in red, and Andrew had a white and blue robot.
(He said it could shoot lasers from its eyes—I said my truck could run him down).
The shopping did not last as long as we had feared.
My truck lasted no longer; battle left it more or less in ruins,
plastic bones across a bone white desert of floor tile.
The burial was improvised—the trash received the mortal skeletons of joy,
and Mother said, before we left, one arm around my shoulder like some sheet of light,
“We must take care of all the things we love.”

Demon Eyes

2009-05-31T11:23:00.000-07:00

At night, from a distance, stoplights channel demons.
Eyes glaring red threaten to pierce my soul.
They smolder in the distance, looks of rage
undo my calm, until at last
we drive past.

Night Drive

2009-05-31T11:22:00.000-07:00

is the name of a song that a friend of mine wrote
and in it he spoke of the road, and how it helped him forget.
Dark. Empty. Eternal. Unassuming. Unpresumptive.
It swallows all of our darkness, our sadness, our emptiness.
It devours all of our failings, our fallings, our foolishness.
Ingesting shadows, with no contract for return.
We take them back, of course, when the sun rises red,
and the road lights up with a thousand souls.
We have to, really. To be human.

Sun Cycle (Final Edit?)

2009-05-20T11:57:00.000-07:00

The sun will set forever
As it falls every night into dusk.
No matter the strength of the weather,
Like clockwork, it falls as it must.

It will sink every night into dusk
Tearing a rift in the sky as it flees.
Like clockwork, it falls as it must,
Tunneling through the horizon with ease.

Tearing a rift in the sky as it flees
It drops behind mountain ridge blades.
It tunnels through the horizon with ease
As the earth’s final bugle is played.

It drops behind mountain ridge blades,
Yet a birthday cake candle burns bright;
And the earth’s final bugle is played
Just before someone blows out the light.

And a birthday cake candle burns bright
As the planet is shaken by weather.
The Son of God blows out the light
On the day that the sun sets forever.

Table Hockey

2009-05-16T10:06:00.000-07:00

Cuts
back and forth.
William Shatner on potassium.
Pity pecker presses
the agendas. She wants apple pie

But
wait a tic
her finger ringed suggests this wedding
is the girls, not unlike
the dresses, flowers, or her hair.

Pie?
Apple pie.
But Mrs. Roberts, I would really
I mean—traditional...
We—Joe and I—would like a cake

This is a Good Episode

2009-05-16T10:04:00.000-07:00

The TV chatters away like some engaging aunt.
Submarines dive to crush depth.
Gunfire erupts
and cools
and erupts
and cools
like some unstable Hawaiian mountain of fire.
This is a good episode.
The TV is actually a computer
in the library
because I can’t afford the
Comcast service package and
even if I could
I’d rather not.
It’s quiet in here.
Students study on the couches.
Students study on the computers next to me.
I’ve gone over the signs thoroughly
to ensure that I’m allowed
to use these facilities to my own ends
and I can.
(I prepare myself for the inevitable,
the part where I explain/lie about how
my current media class requires such and such
It’s a good speech).
Just now, a character breaks down in tears.
Holy shit.
This is a good episode.

Sun Cycle: or, The End of the World (+ New Version)

2009-05-11T14:50:00.000-07:00

The sun sets forever
In the mountains it sinks
Through all kinds of weather
It neither sleeps nor thinks

In the mountains it sinks
through the rocks and the trees
It neither sleeps or thinks
In the dark mountain's teeth

Through the rocks and the trees
Through all kinds of weather
In the dark mountain's teeth
When the sun sets forever

NEW VERSION!

Sun Cycle: or, The End of the World

The sun will set forever
At the end of each day it will sink
No matter the strength of the weather
Like clockwork, while gazing eyes blink

At the end of each day it will sink
Through cloud forms and rocks and through seas
Like clockwork, while gazing eyes blink
The sun tears a rift in the breeze

Through cloud forms and rocks and through seas
It drops behind mountain ridge blades
The sun tears a rift in the breeze
Tomorrow’s beginning to fade

It drops behind mountain ridge blades
And a birthday cake candle burns bright
Tomorrow’s beginning to fade
As if someone just blew out the light

And a birthday cake candle burns bright
As my body is slammed by the weather
The Son of God blows out the light
On the day that the sun sets forever

Against You, Too (with new version!)

2009-05-06T21:16:00.000-07:00

"Rage, rage against the dying of the light"
This is the way the words in the book lie.
My thanks, Dylan Thomas, for freeing me. Too
often am I stuck in sap, sickly sweet. I pine
away the last days on an arid steppe
Comforted only by this book's leaves.

The bones of the earth crunch--the sun drops like a bowling ball, leaving
no sign that it ever was. All that remains is the moon's dim light,
and the hope (so small) that when I take the last step
towards salvation, I will not stumble into a lie.
The dying of the light comes to tree, to pine.
It rages against you, too.

---

Against Us, Too

“Rage, rage against the dying of the light”
I consider the way that the words in the book lie,
and wonder how much he knew—Dylan Thomas, I mean—
about the death of light. I wonder if he knew
of the passing from visible to infrared.
Of wavelength, nanometers, amplitude.
An uncanny shift; a bloom to a bud,
a dusk to a dawn. What was he really raging against?

I don’t have the heart in me to summon fire.
I spend instead the world’s final day on an arid steppe
comforted only by the letters here assembled.
No matter how long I read, how strained my thoughts are,
the bones of the Earth crunch—the sun drops like a bowling ball,
leaving no sign that it ever was. I rise by the moon’s aluminum light,
with only the hope (so small) that when I take the last step
towards salvation, I will not stumble into a lie.
The world dips into darkness, but gathering breath,
with book in hand and hand over heart,
I cross the edge between earth and sky
and fall.

The end of the light comes to oak, to pine.
It rages against us, too.

Have a Good Day!

2009-04-27T11:13:00.000-07:00

I work in retail, so I hear this a lot. In fact, I hear it about as much as I say it. It's become (well, became a long time ago) a commonplace phrase, used by anyone and everyone to express a generalized sense of good wishes.

Repetition and familiarity of course lends itself to insincerity and non-intimacy. Case in point--have you ever heard the phrase "three little words"? "I love you" is so "commonly thrown around" (see all the quotes?) that we begin to question how genuine these phrases really are when they're spoken. The following question, then, is what do we mean by "have a good day"?

But if you deconstruct the phrase in itself, and think about what it is that you're saying, and think about what it is that you're meaning... you'll probably realize that you actually, genuinely mean it when you say it.

It's certainly not the other way around--I don't wish ill on anyone that I come into contact with. What else is there but to wish for the unification of joy?

Owing it all to nothing more than our similarities, our humanity, we're more in love with each other than we realize.

Connections

2009-04-27T11:09:00.000-07:00

the connections we share
with others
are so much more important
than any of this
school nonsense

The Light at the End

2009-04-20T11:42:00.000-07:00

Sick, I
lay in bed past ten
and mourn mortality.
It started Thursday;
so did work,
which I suffered through
like a champ, for four days.
Four days!
The yellow cuffs of
that black OfficeMax polo
crept up my arm,
tickled their way past my collarbone,
whispered terrors in my ear
and dove into my throat
day after day.
And somewhere now a bell is ringing
high above Denny Hall;
feet march off buses, down streets
up stairwells, through rosewood doors.
Class begins
but I’m not there.
I’ve suffered enough
at the hands of responsibility
and await instead the haven
of tonight’s softball game.

Tuesday

2009-04-13T12:17:00.000-07:00

The sun was out, which,
being rare enough, was complimented by
the scarcity of days-off between Luke and I.
We headed for the beach.
It was, I think, a no-brainer,
considering the weightlessness of the rays,
the weightlessness of the backpacks not on our shoulders,
and of the music playing bright.

The beach was cold as hell,
but a length of rope, hung down from
the ambitious limb of some coastal tree,
provided counterwarmth,
both in times being had
and in the company of Greg,
a tall dark stranger
with dredlocks past his shoulders,
a black shirt and a nose ring.
His niche in the sand held a guitar,
some cheap champagne, whisky, and grass—

And everyone can appreciate a rope swing
and skipping rocks into the ocean
so we did that for a while;
a network of wispy clouds,
brushing against one another over the tide
and passing on to horizons not shared.

So Luke and I left our friend
Left champagne
Left whisky
Left grass

We bought some energy drinks and went on
with our Tuesday.

Sailboat to Nowhere

2009-04-01T17:09:00.000-07:00

I'm on a wave tonight
which is not to say that I want to be
(or that I don't).
The moon offers a faint glow,
second-hand rays of light creep across the deck
where they give way to the shadows of the sails.
I'm on a wave tonight
which is not to say that I want to be.
Directional inclinations would be nice
for then I might know which wave
went where
or I could tell...
something.
I don't know.
This stillness is killing me.
How do they expect me to last
these weeks in solitude?
My chains clink in somber answer.
They don't.

Abandon All Fear, Ye Who Enter Here

2009-04-01T10:43:00.000-07:00

So I told a friend of mine that I had based a character off of her in one of my posts (not saying which one) and she told me how scared she wast to read it, which I found funny... until I realized that I was just as scared for her to read it. No writer wants a person to be offended by their writing, let alone writing that involves characters directly influenced by that person.

Before I got her feedback, I was a little worried, and thought maybe I had made a mistake in telling her about it at all. But then I was like, wait... that's stupid.

We need to talk to each other. Not my friend and I specifically, but all of us as people. We need to share experiences and emotions and stories and our lives.

As I've said before, "We must, as a society, overcome the fear of addressing strangers in broad daylight." While that's not directly relevant to a friendship, it carries the same spirit.

I'm tired of being afraid of how people will interpret what I say. Why not just say it, and correct them if they're mistaken? The thing is, few as they may be compared to others, I have friends. And yeah, I want to meet new people and make more friends but if for example that doesn't work out it's okay.

In a way it's learning to live more with less, which is a sentiment I can latch on to.

Fake

2009-03-31T23:33:00.000-07:00

Darren swung back and forth lethargically. His head was bent, and on the downswings of his arc, his feet would scuttle across the ground, kicking up plumes of dust. In time, his arc would decay, and be set in motion once more by a languid push.

Across the lake, the reddening sun fell to the earth. It pushed against what little air separated it from the horizon, creating a wave of pressure that hit Darren in the form of a warm breeze. He lifted his head and heard a crunching of gravel, characteristic of car tires in a parking lot. Turning his head revealed the white Corsica of Karen Moore. Darren looked back over the water and continued swinging, but now more conscious of his body he fiddled with his hands as she approached.

“I love the swings,” she said, setting down her purse and hopping into the swing next to his. They rocked for a while in silence. “I betcha I can go higher,” she teased.

“I’m not in the mood,” Darren replied, head down again. They swung back and forth a few more times. “It’s just, everybody I know is so fake, you know? Fucking Carl thinks he’s the best actor in the world, but if he’s not going to take notes the whole show’s going to suck. And Karly…”

“Am I fake?” Karen asked, slowing her motion to a stop. Darren stopped and finally looked over at her. She pursed her lips as if modeling for a fashion magazine, and Darren laughed despite himself.

“Now? Yes.”

“What?” Karen said, Her hand flew to her chest in feigned shock.

Darren laughed. His head was up, his eyes were lit, and for the first time since the horrible play practice, he felt like himself again.

“Thanks for coming out here,” he said, after the laughter had subsided. Karen smiled at him, grabbed her purse, and reached out her hand.

“Come on,” she said, as Darren let her pull him out of the swing. “Lets go get some milkshakes.”
As they left the park, the sun completed its setting. The sky grew dark, and a million points of light shone on two cars winding their way towards the nearest Red Robin.

Adapted from Everything, a Muffled Silence

Ascendency

2009-03-30T17:06:00.000-07:00

Like a cloud I rose
drifting upwards to kiss the
needle point of an
earthen cliff.
The pack I carried
clanked against my back
and I paused,
slowed,
stopped completely
to hear the voice of my climbing gear
echo against the great walls of stone.
A faint breeze licked the side
of that face of desolation
like a newborn to a mother's breast.
A blackberry bush, growing against convention
swayed gently in that whir
and I knew I was home.

The Notemaker Ballad

2009-03-28T20:55:00.000-07:00

Who, I ask (not knowing why,
or what, or how, or when), am I?
I've asked before, and thought I knew
but always am I reduced to
the thought that maybe in the end
a man alone is man's best friend.
It's not a thought I'd like to keep
but if I don't soon make a leap
it's in this frame of mind I'll stay
no matter what I do or say.
God dammit! Why can't I break free
of social norms constricting me?
I speak as freely as I can
but never do I take the chance
that's laid before me plain to see.
In times like these it's time to be
a one man aristocracy;
to claim the right to speak my mind,
remove myself from daily grind,
destroy the chains that bind the heart
and force us all to stay apart.
For if I play by culture's rule,
and slave along as if a tool
I'll only serve to build a wall
dividing us from one for all.
And all for one will be a dream
that flashes on the silver screen
before the nightman takes us out
because our life is not about
the unity of common man
but sticking to a silly plan
of iron covered up with gold
and all our virtues being sold
to money for a killer deal
because we don't know how to feel
anything anymore.

Letter 3: What Would it Take?

2009-03-19T22:18:00.000-07:00

If you had disabled PMs, we would have never figured it out. Unless I started talking to Will... I wouldn't call that a failure though. It was fun while it lasted and it gave me a very strong sense of pride. Also I was introduced to Megan which is a good thing too. :) (Our everyday readers will have no idea what we're talking about, but that's okay, I've decided--I'm not writing a letter to them now am I?)

Well I know I've told you the story about how I actually met the Notemaker but I think it's something that deserves a re-pondering... so as I was thinking about it, I was wondering who would make the best Notemaker character... I've realized for a while now that the Notemaker's thoughts aren't so different from what makes other cultures more open. The chasms between us as American's are pretty exclusively American. We have to appologize for everything, even bumping into people. And we think, well, it's not that big of a deal, it's not something we should have to appologize for all the time... but when you think about it, anybody bumping into you without appologizing is instantly a jerk, even if you're not bothered by the fact that it happened.

All this to say that the Notemaker should have some sort of international experience. And I thought about a friend of mine who has some international experience, and I thought about his personality and I realized that he's perfect. :)

Finals went well. I'm pretty sure I laid the beatdown on them (not that big of an accomplishment in the sense of traditional finals). I pretty much waited until the last minute for both, and then just... put out good pieces of work. I did a slam poem for my postcolonial literature class that talked about many of the themes of the class, and everybody clapped after I had finished. (They, uh, didn't clap for anyone else >_>). I had planned on posting it separately, but I might as well just post it here, since it's on topic:

What Would it Take?
by Matt Lund

The end of the course
seems to demand
that we ask the tough questions
or the questions at hand
what’s the point?
what do we do?
when our fifteen choices of peanut butter
stare
back
blankly
and ask us again
what do we do?
understanding hunger does not feed the hungry
understanding loss does not console the suffering
and if it did
have I gone to far to suggest that we
understand at all?

Readers might say, with greatest intent,
“I know what they went through”
Please,
you read it in a book
anyone could take a look
at that and come away with your
“understanding”

But fine, let’s see what it is you’ve read
The Inheritance of Loss? Cast Me Out if you Will? The Hamilton Case?
These books scratch the surface of colonial aftermath
“They’re political works,” you will say
and I’ll laugh
Do you think you felt rape in that last paragraph?
Yes, it’s true they’re political
like it or not
but should we deny what aesthetics they’ve brought
to the table? Or is it that all South Asian works are the same
they all deal with poverty, colonialism, or pain?
So the writers adhere to this system, or what?
we have free speech, yes
but when we at last have been put to the test
will we say what we want to if it will not sell?

I’m being facetious
It’s hard not to be when from every angle,
from every sight I see there’s no right way
no wrong way to interpret these things

authenticity
big elephant in the room
how to please both sides closing in like a tomb
while the publisher sees that the market’s gone west
“They’ll eat this book up, without a contest”
and the grandparents feel that they’re being ignored
while the sellouts get rich and the poor
well
the power of language
to create
to destroy
disenfranchisement is part of the ploy
but America’s drunk on the brown millionaire
just jumping to know that they too get a share
never mind that its fiction
it’s enough that we care
but in seconds turn back to our primetime television

is that wrong?
what obligation do we have to do otherwise?
well the documentarians might say we’re
implicated
that their history is ours
and that’s true to some point
when we look at the sky we can see the same stars
so as people, they might say, we have hardly a choice
we must put aside something in support
(that’s not a mandate of course)

But they’re wrong—I don’t owe anything to Nepal
or to India, Bangladesh, Pakistan, or Sri Lanka
and I don’t know the filmmakers,
I don’t know their child
I don’t have breakfast with their families once in a while

Wait, I’m making this sound all wrong
I don’t mean to say that my thanks don’t belong
at least somewhere
But as you can see
I don’t necessarily owe things to the documentary

Look nobody’s outside of power relations
or culture, or pride
what I’m saying is I’m implicated to myself
It’s not that the film has inspired me to help
it’s that when it’s been said through and through
if it touches me and if it touches you
it’s our feelings to which we owe action, if anything
because in those moments of
held back tears
when you see people make a living
by crushing brick…

Well, let’s throw them computers
and hope that will solve
colonialism
I mean, technology can
as they say
open doors
Is that all we’ve learned at the end of this course?
Or course not!

Globalization is just another name
for easy solutions that, in the end,
have great consequences.
Think Partition
That’s all I have to say

What would it take for me to
fill in the blank
What would it take?

Letter 2

Response 2

Letter 2: Library

2009-03-13T19:40:00.000-07:00

John,

I'm envious of one thing right off the bat--I don't really remember how I meet people. I might remember the odd anecdote about close friends (and not close ones--these are the most fun because they have no idea why I remember personal things about them from the first grade). I met one friend while playing in the band for graduation. I've met others in classes, at jobs, and at church. But nothing stands out that is so anecdotal as yours, and that makes me sad, even though I know that it doesn't really play a part in the quality of a friendship.

Also, I have to thank you for reminding me about that social network thing I had in mind. I remember having an intense feeling of pleasure when I came up with the name because I found it clever. (You'll remember Ner0, utilizing the phonetic sounds of n, er, and a 0 to represent a circle... inner circle... oh, the memories of failed attempts at glory)

I have to say, one of the greatest things about the English major is that... there is no weed out. At all. I've mentioned this before, I'm sure, but I didn't even have to write anything to apply! To the English major! Of course, the real gold mine (the Creative Writing track) has a terrifying 13% acceptance rate.

FYI, sprink break is a more commonly used term for the spring break that falls ludicrously before my own. I still find your baking of bread quite fascinating. It's not usually on people's list of, say, hobbies. Which isn't to say it's a bad thing--there are two types of food: good bread and everything else.

(All of my paragraphs start with "I." Hopefully that doesn't mean I'm self-absorbed...)

And by all means, buy a camera. You should know as well as I do that little is more liberating than the artistic process (why isn't there an artistic method to compliment the scientific one?) no matter what form it takes. What you need to do is get hired at an office store, and have that office store be closed down, and buy a discount camera like I did.

As for a "blog war," you'll find that in conversation proceeded thus: "let's have an epic blog back and forth." I am now of the belief that you inserted the term "war" yourself, which leads me to be concerned about your current psychological state (not really). But if it is a battle of the wits you desire, you shall have one!

---

Library
inspired by:
Ode to the Lonely Hearted - Sugar Ray

Library closing in, voices crowd out
thoughts of finals that arguably,
occupying your time, would be of more use.
Honestly, here? You could socialize at
a cafe, or a park. An ice cream parlor
a dormitory lounge, a trendy restaurant,
or, hey, a group study room.
Yet chatting frustrates
not because of the library, but
because it reminds me of all the voices
that don't say anything
to me

---

How's that? (Aside from emo)

-Matt
---

Response 1

Letter 1

Letter

2009-03-13T18:43:00.000-07:00

John,

Today I've been thinking a lot about how we know people, which is an interesting concept especially in regard to our friendship. Through the years I've had a fair amount of close friends. Naturally that number has diminished over the years, as distances both physical and emotional increase. Some attend other colleges, some start making choices that I can't rightly support. Still others live close enough but never reach out. And that leaves me with a very select few. I'm not unhappy about that at all. If I'm unhappy about anything it's that I don't have a very close friend near my apartment at all. Someone that I can hang out with, write with, play basketball at the small park with. It sounds like an overly romanticized friendship, but honestly it can't be that rare. Can it?

I've always been the kind of person who needs attention--not to the point of acting out, but to the point where a certain amount of my self esteem depends on the fact that other people around me share similar interests and can appreciate me for who I am and what I do. I suppose I could say that I achieve this through my writing in a way. Though, I'm tempted to say that it's not enough, but that's a blatant lie. The happiest moments in my life are when I receive any sort of praise or compliments for my writing. I sit back and think "yeah, this is what it's all about." It's in these moments that I know I chose the right major, no matter how "impractical" it may seem.

I can tell that I'm writing here without much direction, so I might as well continue the trend. I AM UNBEARABLY FRUSTRATED with our social structures. It's almost impossible to meet and introduce yourself to new people. I say almost because, quite frankly, it's not at all. (I happen to be playing through Skies of Arcadia Legends at the moment, which as you know is all about never giving up). However, there's this ever present fear, both of rejection and of misinterpretation. You can't approach just any girl and strike up a conversation without her thinking you're only interested in that one thing (which I am SO not at this point in my life. I just want some g.d. companionship, some camaraderie, you know?).

Of course, this is what the Notemaker is all about. The irony is that I'm not the archetype for the Notemaker, I'm the archetype for the extras in the back, the ones who are inspired by the Notemaker. Can I write the Notemaker without being him? I probably can, or could, if I wasn't in a "writing slump" (subjectively, of course. Don't yell at me).

I appologize for going on about myself for so long. How are your classes? Did you have a good sprink break?

Looking forward to your reply,

Matt

Touch

2009-03-10T18:06:00.000-07:00

If I were to be so bold as to sit by your side
And subtly (not so subtly) nudge your leg
with mine would you withdraw?
Or maybe on a better day
if you would venture me the same
I think I'd stay to feel your touch.
This loneliness is just too much.

Unnamed Poem, Parts I-VII

2009-03-02T19:13:00.000-08:00

This is the "final" version (the latter parts still need some looking at).

I.

I want to stay friends, you said
on walking out the door.
But now a week has come and gone
and I don't hear from you anymore
A week perhaps is far too short
a time to judge a girl's intent
And I exaggerate, it's true
Because last night I heard from you
but all the same you only call
when you need something.
Is this a friendship? I can't tell.
I don't feel like I'm doing well,
but from your calls no one could say
that life, for one of us, is a constant struggle

II.

I'm getting laid off, my love interest
isn't quite so interested as I had hoped
and you sit there in your nice place
content because, well, you're engaged.
I want to channel happiness,
I want to be the happiest
of all the people that you know
because for you I've felt so strong
and really, I want to get along.
This time for you is probably exciting.
And more than that I'd say it's fact;
exciting is a half-bit word
that can’t convey the things I've heard
in voice inflection as you chat
with him, your lover - I know that.
But no matter how I try to feel some joy
inside, I'm dying. (Drama is my default game,
so apologies for speaking this way
I'm sorry if I "play the victim"
but it's hard to stop it when it's real.
And if that's not the way you feel
I get it.) Do I drag you down?

III.

Tomorrow I will interview
in Ballard. It would be nice
to work for the same company twice
assuming that I get the job, of course.
I’ll lose an hour every day in transport
whether I ride my bike or take the bus
but I can’t seem to make a fuss
in any sort of good conscience.

IV.

You called me late three nights ago
and, groggy, I picked up too late.
Your message on the following day
asked if I wanted to see your place
or maybe your puppy. You have a fiancée
and a puppy? That’s hardly fair!
(Don’t spread your fortune everywhere,
God knows I’d hate to get a share)
You say you’ll understand
if my final answer is a no
You think that I won’t want to go.
Well God damn. You’re right.
I never want to see his face
And if you’d left without a trace
(Not to mention the extra space
I’d have with all your things gone)
then maybe we could get along.

V.

“I'm still torn up,” is what I really said.
“Some things aren’t right inside my head.”
My love interest might be a fraud,
a rebound crush, which is not at all
the cure for my most recent fall.
“I'd love to discuss these things with you
and maybe ask what I should do.
Over dinner sometime, if that’s okay.”
And you responded in such a way…
“If you have anything to say,
you can e-mail me any time.” Wait, what?
A few short lines and down I’m shut?
Is this the way to treat a friend?
At least I still tried to connect.
Who knew? A horrible mistake.
Conceited you, what will it take
for you to know I know we’re through?

VI.

It looks like Ballard is a go
(at last some news that’s good to know).
What’s more, I may have gained some ground
in regard to that girl I found.
That’s not to say the thing will fly
but ignoring that, I got some time
with her (we watched the pilot of Firefly).
I won’t say things are looking up,
that things are going well,
but all the same I learned today
I’m better off the further away
I get from you.

VII.

She’s going to London this spring
and home for summer in Silverdale.
And if money wasn’t an obstacle,
or the application date hadn’t passed
I think I’d be there by her side.
Which sounds a little crazy,
or maybe contradictory,
but anything else would only be
a case of irresponsibility.
In life, if we don’t take a chance to live,
we’ll never make the good times last.
And now at last I think I see
the real reason that you left me.

Everything, a Muffled Silence

2009-02-22T12:31:00.000-08:00

Everyone I know is fake.
Well, that’s an exaggeration
I came up with on those blue swings
down by the lake last summer.
Remember? You were there.
I remember thinking you weren’t fake.
But I can’t help but feel this way
at least sometimes, when the sky is dark
and a million points of light shine on me
and everything is a muffled silence.

The Song of a Song

2009-02-22T12:29:00.000-08:00

It was the sound of a voice
It was the edge of a cloud
It was the rise of a mountain
It was the voice of the voiceless
It was the turn of a tide
It was the page of a book
It was the run of a relay
It was the breath of the breathless
It was the bark of a dog
It was the note of a friend
It was the key of a padlock
It was the life of the lifeless
It was the taste of a meal
It was the throne of a Queen
It was the red of a flower
It was the sense of the senseless
It was the thing of a thing
It was the song of a song

Prose Adaptation: "What the Hell"

2009-02-22T12:25:00.000-08:00

(Based off of What the Hell)

Early one morning, I ate breakfast with my usual rapidity, having woken up just in the nick of time to shower, inhale my food, and drive to school. Finding parking was going to be hell, but I guess that’s what I was bargaining with for my extra (and quite sacred) fifteen minutes of sleep. My shower lasted 7 minutes, a bit longer than necessary, but of course one cannot so easily turn away from a nice hot shower. I applied the necessary cosmetics (deodorant, cologne), and entered the kitchen where my Mom was awake and washing dishes. The bread maker droned on at regular intervals in the corner, and the morning news chirped away from a distance.

“Good morning,” she said pleasantly. The bread machine whirred.

“Mm.” I grunted, only half awake. It seemed like the thing to say, or rather, the thing to brutishly expostulate. Heaven forbid I make pleasant conversation with my own mother before school.

I poured myself a bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats, with their tendency both to please and disgust. They were the ultimate breakfast chimera, and I wondered how the board meeting had gone at their proposal some years ago. “Mr. Hamilton, we really like your idea, but two sides of frosting? We need something that the kids will like, but we need something their parents will buy, too.” And poor Mr. Hamilton never realized his dream of a doubly frosted mini-wheat.

As my mind drifted, the television was there to catch it. A story came on about a man who broke into a house, raped an 11 year old girl while her parents slept, and ran away. My initial reaction, I’m sorry to say, was indifference. Terrible things like that happen so frequently, how can we do anything but distance ourselves from them? But that was just my initial reaction. Then I saw the description of the man. I didn't catch the majority of it because my eyes were held fast by the top line: age: 18-20.

I realized that my birthday was coming up in a few days. 18. One of the big years. One of the years that my peers at school used to start buying cigarettes, or playboy magazines, or things from TV infomercials, or lotto tickets. I was interested in none of those things, as would be expected if you knew me. But even more, I was uninterested because I was struggling with the realization that, in a few day’s time, I could plausibly fit the profile of a rapist. A murderer. A thief. Any number of names you could give, and I could feasibly fit the profile of any of them.

Somewhere, a man my age had raped an 11 year old girl, and left her with the weight of that reality. And I, waiting to turn 18, was horrified.

Volleyball

2009-02-22T12:23:00.000-08:00

When my brother and I were young, he and I would play volleyball using a somewhat flat soccer ball and the clothesline. It was a coveted activity that we would return to over and over again on lazy summer days. His court was made up of the corner of the shed, two of the posts that held up the deck, and an empty milk carton, triangulated to make a rectangle longer from side to side. Mine was marked by the corner of the cement patch (which I had to avoid gingerly to prevent stubbed toes and scuffed feet, summertime being synonymous with bare feet) and another milk carton. My court was a rectangle longer from front to back, and many times discussion would turn to the advantages or disadvantages of each court, but being stubborn as boys are, we never switched or even rotated.

I remember one particular dispute, which dealt with a potentially game-changing point. I had battled my brother back and forth for this last point, straining every muscle, conjuring every ounce of swiftness and dexterity I could until-

“Yes!” I screamed. My brother had failed to return the ball. In fact, he hadn’t even made an attempt.

“That was under,” he said calmly, picking up the ball and readying himself for another serve. He required only one more point to take the whole game.

After my initial shock at his call, we went back and forth, me saying it was over, him saying under, never once reaching what anyone would call a shouting match as one might expect boys our age to do (he and I were both trying, I now realize, to embody our stoic and often composed father). I laughed the issue aside – obviously he was crazy. And I had the last word, calling on my religious sensibilities. “We’ll see when we get to heaven. You’ll see.”

He “won” the game, and after a few days things were back to normal – or as normal as they could be. After that fateful game, our dad hit the ball with the lawnmower blade.

Villainy

2009-02-11T15:16:00.000-08:00

Today I discovered how villains are made
I'll tell you the secret at night
Complacency strikes from all corners of Earth
But it's false and it's fake and you'll see it's not right

They realize good has no purpose
When they see that there's no greater cause
In time if you're looking you'll see it as well
The good men receive no applause

Today I discovered how villains are made
So tell me where I can apply
And if there's a waiting list I'm sure I can hold
Just give me a call and we'll give it a try

Re: Belief, Hypocricy

2009-02-11T14:33:00.000-08:00

Ryston asked in his comment to Belief:

I also wanted to ask you a question that might inspire a rant of it's own. What is your position on hypocrisy?

For those of you who have memorized my entire works, you'll probably realize that my history on hypocrisy is somewhat disjointed. One post that sums this up well is Resolutions, a post I made at the beginning of the 2007 year (or, rather, the end of the 2006 year). Having gotten over my first breakup a few months prior, I was in the midst of a period of redefinition/rediscovery from which I formed the person I am today. (That statement carries much less weight once you realize that it is applicable at all points of life)

As part of these revelations, I sought to eradicate from my life all aspects of hypocricy, to reestablish myself as a source of credibility and uniformity. In reading the post you'll see that in the midst of writing it, I had a change of heart and turned it completely upside down backwards and on it's head.

I reasoned that as a leader (that's how I perceived myself at the time) I couldn't afford to be double checking and self checking every thought that crossed my mind, every word I said. As a leader (I cringe to type it) it was my job to inspire, to incite action, to put people on the pages who hadn't been there before.

It fizzled out. Life overcame my dreams and ambitions, and I was left living it (albeit happily). Of course, tragedy gives us pause, and once again I am left alone in the proverbial relationship world, left alone to my thoughts. Once again I must redefine myself, and this time, with no one left to lead, I must first find a role to fill, a person to be.

Where does that leave us with hypocricy? Well, at the moment I'd have to say that a moment of redefinition is the ABSOLUTE WORST TIME EVER to be disingenuous. With that said, there's no telling where that will leave me six months from now...

And I know Ryston was probably thinking of other things when he asked that question, but in order to enter into the debate in any further depth, I had to first establish those basics.

In a future post I will address the question perhaps a bit more literally, asking such questions as "can/should a smoker lecture against smoking? can/should a pedophile preacher spread the Word of God? can/should I and many others bother realizing "hard lines" that we ourselves do not adhere to?"

All good questions that I'm a bit too exhausted to answer right now, though the answers are there.

Thanks for reading, Ryston, and for commenting.

Four Ladies

2009-01-26T22:15:00.000-08:00

Today again I failed to hail
my object of desire
But three poetic notions nestled there
in my being; Ladies more faithful and fair
And this one too will make it four
Moving on with strength in numbers
Write them all and fear no more

T. North

2009-01-26T22:11:00.000-08:00

T. North, or so he's called,
is in my English class.
But T. is not here today.
No, T. is not here today.
Singled out because he offered
repose, refuge from rejection,
yet refrain from reprimand because
rejection? what? did I even try?

Vision Fission

2009-01-26T22:10:00.000-08:00

I have a vision,
a dream,
of a backlit table
with a soft green glow
covered in hundreds
of tiny paper rectangles

My Best Weaponry

2009-01-26T22:01:00.000-08:00

My best weaponry consists of two inconsequential items
yet of great significance both

A cross necklace I got from my Aunt last Christmas
with leather cords and pewter 't' with equidistant arms
The catch broke off and I replaced it with
a bead of Jade from China
it leaves my neck for 15 minutes a day
hardly enough time for the demons to work their way in

I don't know if she understands how much it means to me
this weight I carry, which is far too heavy and yet too light
Because thank yous have a tendency to meet the mundane
to chat about the weather and how school has been
but never get to the heart of the gift

Then a pocket knife from my ex's late great grandfather
with a dirty cloud swirl and two now-dull blades
that cut too much sod at the Puyallup Fair last summer.
Now the shorter of the two rages through packaging tape
like the tooth of a silent and determined beast
cardboard collapses, meets the baler
but time cannot be cut away

I never met him, received this gift in death
and now the bridge has burned
and I will never know the man
who owned this tool before me
and I am too busy for sorrow

And I am armed, both body and soul
with the best weaponry possible

I'm Far too Sensible for my Own Good

2009-01-20T21:55:00.000-08:00

Because what I really want to do is
grab that starcaster and shatter its melodies
into a thousand pieces
watch them bounce and burn as shrapnel ignites
like entering the atmosphere

I want to punch through the drywall and
hope that it leaves me bruised and bloody
to feel the rush of pain that I feel inside
to bleed from my fingers
like they were tendrils of my broken heart
and my television screen is just ****ing asking for it

I hate you, God
because this life you've given me has turned
so sour, like milk left out too long
I hate you even though it was me
it was me
it was me, I cry
I'm the one that left it there, on the counter
to rot and decay like
Oh God, I didn't mean that
not a single word
I want to talk to someone, I just want to be heard

I want to cry, but
this milk hasn't even spilled

**** this life, this work towards nothingness
The lady who walked away, content,
a new digital camera and replacement plan in tow
There are no words to match the curses of my soul
and I can't remember
have I used the images of brokenness and blood?
I have? Then there's no recourse for you but to
label me
call me names that sting not because they hurt
but because you're not listening
you're not paying attention to the woes of my heart
oh my heart
I've used that too?
I'd ask you but I'm not sure that you'd know
what I should do

I'm far too sensible for my own good

One Million Dollar$

2009-01-11T19:48:00.000-08:00

"What would you do with a million dollars?" he asked.

I thought for a while.
I thought a lot of things that other people might think, like traveling the world, or dropping out of school, or starting my own business, or volunteering in some impoverished place, or buying everything I've ever wanted.

But really, the only thing that came to mind was that maybe I'd quit work so that I could focus on school.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I wouldn't even do that.

I can't just change my entire life because I fell into a bit of money. Money has no effect on the quality of my life. It doesn't change anything.

If, for example, I traveled the world with my million, making the travel itself the focus of my life, wouldn't that mean that the focus of my life, all these years, has been dependent on the acquisition of wealth?

Or say I dropped out of school. Effectively retired, periodically investing my money so as to gather interest, and... what? Would I just sit at home and read books, watch movies, play videogames?

Maybe I could pay for expensive guitar lessons, and invest my future in making music. Well then, my desire to do that, to be that, is false. I have never once made a serious attempt to get guitar lessons, even though I could afford them without a million dollars. Guitar lessons would be an investment of convenience, not of passion. That's not to say that passions cannot change, that a million dollars doesn't have an effect on the landscape, but still I have deeper to dig.

Say I start my own business. An editing/publishing business. I'd be doing what I love, and I wouldn't have to get a degree to get someone to hire me and work my way up. I could just jump into my passion and start NOW. But then, wouldn't I be saying that I had nothing to learn from school? Is that the case? Is my education such an obstruction that I would avoid it at all cost? Is there no worth to it? Of course there is. I am here to learn. That makes these times learning times. In any case, a proper education helps to secure future investments.

Okay, so I'll volunteer, donate to causes, help people around the world. But then again, aren't I making this a passion of convenience, and not of something that I really want? Don't get me wrong - I have a strong desire to help others. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't get satisfaction out of it. No, the even bigger issue here is that to start helping on the condition of a million dollars says at the same time that the path I am on right now is one that cannot do the same. And I refuse to believe that. In the background of my career pursuits there has always been a mind to aid, even so small as to encourage writing and the producing of other various arts. Translations of works can be sent to countries in the aid of improving literacy. And I would be the moving force behind the power of language to both communicate, teach, support, and reach other people. I do not need a million dollars to do this.

And I do not need a million dollars to buy everything that I want. The list is quite short and relatively inexpensive.

So what would I do with a million dollars?

I don't know. I guess I'd start researching people to give it away to. What would you do?

Everyone Wins

2009-01-04T19:32:00.000-08:00

As I sit on my couch and watch the snow fall,
I wonder if you think about me at all.
Did I pass through your life like neutrinos through lead?
Or could it be that it's all in my head?

My back has been watched by the closest of friends
It's stupid to think now that this is the end
The snow is still falling and so are my tears
But crying is something that real men don't fear

The sad part is that in the end it won't matter
You're done and we're done and I must move much faster
I'm moving on
I'm moving on
Even when it looks like all my time is gone
Even when it looks like my path is all wrong
I'm moving on

It's time I looked forwards, and no more behind
And after a while, another I'll find
She might not bake cookies that taste quite like yours
But she won't make me live my whole life on all fours

The funny part is, in the end it won't matter
You're done and I'm done and I'll shatter the plaster
I'm moving on
I'm moving on
Even when it looks like all my time is gone
Even when it looks like my path is all wrong
I'm moving on

It always has been a tough pill to swallow
To try and accept that it's all for the best
Everyone wins meaning you meaning me
meaning all of the rest

Tears

2009-01-04T19:19:00.000-08:00

Tears are liberation from bondage to sorrow.

Move Along - All American Rejects

2008-12-22T13:49:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-22T11:13:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-20T20:37:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-04T23:09:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-04T22:53:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-29T21:23:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-17T16:15:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-17T16:13:00.000-08:00

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.