I had a dream, a vision where
I looked from out the bus stop,
saw this world as candle's flame, a snapshot
glamour; all those tears.
I can improve on these--
the soft-shelled nights and half-felt days...

This tin wherein I store the world's
collective sighs is overflowing--
levies torn asunder by the mounting wash,
silt in roadway cracks. We
built this world, they say.
We built these stones and all
that home.

What crime that all
gives way to starstuff,
tides of light recede from
nuzzling the earth.

This test of time precedes on
those with faith, the will to see
beyond this spinning stone, and
bones that grind away to days unlived.
So funny, now
to think of all come down, the
dampened bookshelves holding up
what's left of walls meant then for grace.

Heaven Help the Candlestick

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

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

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?

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

We demonstrate in asking
lack and longing and
desire, fueling fires that
breathe and build themselves.

Unwelcome Irony

I'm all about "discovering" myself. And, transitively, anyone discovering themselves. It's a shame to see people get hurt or misunderstood or stuck into places where they're uncomfortable because they're not really sure who they are or what they want out of life. It's a shame to have it happen to me.

And it sneaks up on you. Maybe you don't realize that certain aspects of your life don't jive quite right until it's "too late" (in quotes because, let's be honest, it's never too late).

I'm getting distracted by reading other stuff I've written, but I want to finish with the thought that started this whole musing in the first place, which is this: sometimes the things you learn about yourself, instead of empowering you, make things more difficult.

It's an unwelcome irony at this point.

Snippets

We drop bombs from only the most appropriate heights.

---

If I worked my hardest to cover the page for no sake other than the task itself, ashes floating from on high would leave an impact far greater than any words I could ever dare to set into the world.

---

Last year's wishes aren't enough for this year's man.

---

Just in case, just in caves we wait, wail and waste away the flickering light left behind by a star burning straight to hell.

Fate Leads us Off

This is a beauty that cannot be touched,
that cannot be held. This is a river
that cannot be dammed or diverted.
This is a teardrop that will never fall,
that knows not the touch of a cheek.
This is my beauty, my ebbing, my flow,
the waters I slip into when I go home.
This is my lovely, the sight I can't keep,
the mountain that's straining outside of my reach.
This is my everything all in a row
a list of checked boxes that she'll never know
and this is my beacon that shines forth at night
fading away as it turns to the side
for this is the radiance I'll never feel
a glorified nimbulous stuck at the wheel,
a maiden I know through my rhyming alone
but not any more as her heart has a home
that's not mine--our destinies laid out in stone
two separate paths carving through a delicate noon,
and we never will share in a body's caress
the whispers that stave off this lonliness,
and fate leads us onward
and fate leads us off

My Country

This was my country, was the ground from which my rockets flew to burst in God-forsaken skies. These were my pictures, views of older days with tree swings swaying above that creek, the one in the backyard, our one escape from relatives drunk on American Nationalism, on 4 of July. This was my backyard, my hometown, the bright-eyed crucible of dreams forthcoming. Fuses lit, we huddled close and waited for ignition.

*written while listening to Our Song by Joe Henry

Golden Gardens

Their cries echoing agains the hillside, bursting forth from nature's megaphone, washed over the pair of eyes as they set about for their God-given task--to give light to the facets of the world, categorize them by name and likeness. To document and report on the state of the world, and most of all, to write it down.

(Here) Listen Up

Kid 2000, reppin the houses
where the people lay down their lives in the form of work
to sanctify their God-given fruits of the earth
and union?
Kicking down the doors of disunion
while passers by send a flare into the air praying for a second chance
praying against prayer with the thought that they can do it for themselves
but no, that's darkness stealing from the light.
Cause don't you see? Someone somewhere is playing that tune
and all you've got to do is listen,
hear, (here)
listen up
to the sound of your brothers as they're marching through the street

Some lines from some music, some other jottings

"I cringe for myself when I cringe for you" ~ Hello My Treacherous Friend, by OK Go

"Sing us a song to hum through the hours of dying" ~ Shortly Before the End, by OK Go

"And I've had recurring nightmares that I'm loved for who I am, and missed the opportunity to be a better man" ~ Hoodoo, by Muse

"You have so much to live for... I'm just dying to stay alive" ~ Show Me Something New, by Shout Out Louds

"You can drive those wheels to the end of the road--you will still find the past right behind you" ~ Carve Away the Stone, by Rush

---

You know what it is about the moon that I love so much? It's a giant undifferentiated rock orbiting the earth at about 300,000km away, and I'm a tiny organism.

It puts me in my place.

---

Used to cut through parking lots to save some time,
but now I walk the sides of streets on someone else's dime

---

As gunslingers go, none better than I
have walked these roads; no mortal eye
as keen as mine has dared to pass
among the hills where life stood last.

---

like days without jackets

---

This is something we cannot solve by words alone. We're speaking chasms here.

My Team

One day you wake up and realize that you don't speak the language of your ancestors, your own flesh and blood.

And you probably never will.

But you carry the bloodline still, despite what might be seen as your betrayals of the form. We want to reach back, of course. We feel the tug at all times when we wish we could live in older times--that's us reaching back. It's futile, we know, but that can't keep us from wishing.

The fact of the matter is, the bloodline is just as subject to the currents of time as we are. The bloodline is one long chain, one long life reaching over a thousand lifetimes. So instead of thinking "I wish I lived in [such and such] time, we ought to think, "my team already did that. Now, I'm here, doing this."

Betrayal in A Minor

Every tragedy endured, but this:
Covered by lies, deceit, false peaks on
A mountain hike, a minor chord.
Eager to depart from this thin-aired
Altitude--can we be real for a second? No.
Epiphanies come far too late. Trust no one.

Even if you told the truth,
Bared it all, confessed your crimes, I
Am betrayed, still.
Even in this resolution,
Be it major or not.
Even then.

By the Thames, October 27, 1997

"There will be dying, there will be dying,
but there is no need to go into that."

~ Derek Mahon, Everything is Going to be Alright

There will be dying, she said,
spoke softly into the night, where
pigeons burst into flight over silver waters,
and a canid spoke to the source.
Yes, she said, there will be dying.
The tides and eddies of a thousand floodwaters
will tear at the pages of our lives,
and Mankind or will mourn the loss of
their children, our books; words that never gave hope
but in that which fades.
They, too, drowned in the rush of new light.
How is it that we know so much yet understand so little?
But there is no need to go into that, she said,
as southern winds birthed clouds above,
dyed silver waters black.
She drew her jacket close.
No, there is no need.

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

Slept through class again. Not accidental. Woke up at around 10:00 and milled around the apartment for an hour, listened to some music and messed around on the internet until about 11:00. Decided to get some air, so I grabbed my headphones, my writing journal, and a few pens.

I walked south for a block to grab a small bag of doritos and an energy drink from the Hamlin Market, which I consumed as I walked north across the University Bridge towards the UW campus. While in the area, I stopped by the bank and cashed some birthday checks (as well as depositing a fat wad of 20s. My roommate thought it would be funny to pay me back for the rent via ATM).

From there I went around the corner to Twice Sold Tales and looked around. I was completely surprised to find not one, but three Christopher Anvil novels. Now, Anvil's not a household name, even within the sci-fi community, but I had discovered him through a short story collection put together by Robert Hoskins (the Stars Around Us). His story Ghost Fleet captured my imagination, not in that it had wildly fantastical ideas, but in the geniousness with which it was put together, including a compelling main character with compelling motives and epic twists.

I picked up one of the books for $4 and caught the 44 to Ballard, stopping halfway in Wallingford. From there I planned to walk down to Gasworks and read or write something. I got off one stop too late because I was absorbed in my book, and not having had breakfast I of course decided that another energy drink was in order.

It was quite a walk, longer than I anticipated, but the scenery was nice. The street was called Woodlawn, Ave. and it was highly suburban, so it was cool to see all the different homes there. Finally, I reached Gasworks.

It was a rare sunny day and so I stayed there for maybe an hour, just reading on the side of the hill until I felt it was time to go back. The book is highly enjoyable, which is good because you never really know when you pick something up... I walked along the Burke-Gillman trail, back up the Ave and up to Jimmy John's, where I had lunch, then onto campus to the computer I'm now sitting at typing this story to you. Along hte way I had various literary insights that I penned into my journal, and you'll likely see some incarnation of them in future posts.

Because every tragedy endured enables enlightenment.

"Wasn't talking about the nine-millimeter"

He pressed the side of his gun's barrel to his head, letting the cool metal relieve the throbbing in his head.

"You gonna come out of there, or make us come in?" Durell shouted. His voice echoed as it passed through the windows and into the concrete room.

"Can I get back to you on that?" Rooter called out in response. He twised the gun against his sull, where it took on a new firmness.

Durell shifted his feet. "Fraid that won't do. See, some of the boys here want to make it home for dinner, you see." The "boys" participated in their henchman's chuckle, the one they used for dramatic effect even if what was said had no humor to it. Especially when there was no humor to it.

Rooter took a deep breath. "I'm gonna have to insist," he said. "Either I get my time to think things over, or you come in here anyway." He paused, trying to buy some time. "And the boys out there die slowly. One by one."

"I think that's rather unlikely. What've you got in there, a nine-millimeter with six bullets? Seven? There's fifteen men out here, Rooter. What are your seven bullets going to do against fifteen men?"

"Wasn't talking about the nine-millimeter," Rooter responed, rapid fire. This provoked a hesitation from Durell's end, and Rooter smiled in spite of the bleakness of his situation. Let them wonder what he might have in the bunker--it certainly didn't hurt Rooter at all to have them nervous about it.

Durell chuckled, too late to hide his concern at Rooter's confidence, but with time enough to salvage what morale there was to be spread around in such desperate times.

The Fisherman

As much as I'd like to blame my lot in life on some external force like destiny, we all know that it's only my fault. The fisherman, to attain viability, bust go to where the fish are, no matter the dangers of the waters, the closeness of the rocks, the temperamental skies. This is his trade. This he must do, or do without.

Lannisford

First thirty, and then thirty-one kilometers passed and we were in diving range of the Lannisford. Kreel reared back the engines to a soft purr and Johan, who had been "monitoring" the sonar equipment began to actually pay attention. Lars and I had been engaged in a game of chess--magnets at the bottoms of the pieces held them down against the pitch and yaw of the ship, whose small size caused it to be easily tossed about by the crosswinds. That same size allowed the four of us to share the same cabin space. The company had been nice up until we reached the wreckage spot, at which point the atmosphere took a significant turn for what seemed to be the worse.

They were feeding off of me, I knew, and cursed myself for bringing them out there at all. We stood to lose so much in the expedition. Aside from sailing into demilitarized waters--without sanction or warrant--we had taken liberties even in our use of the vessel. Suffice to say we had put ourselves--I had put us--in a very dangerous situation.

"Your move," Lars said, bringing me back to the chess game.

"Sorry," I said, appologizing for my distance.

"Just relax," Johan said, still pouring over the sonar readings. "I'll let you konw when we see anything. Kreel, can you take me up another hundred meters?"

We continued on in this way, Lars and I with the chess (which, I must admit, I was losing horribly at), Johan and Kreel bouncing coordinates off of one another. There seemed to be a neverending pool from which suspense could be drawn.

Lars took my queen just before Johan got a hit. I tensed up. Lars leaned back, eyes on me. "False alarm," Johan said appologetically. It was killing all of us, and I think he wanted to do anything but increase the tension.

(to be continued...?)