jack vs. the invincible ink

http://ckboddy.tumblr.com/

2010-03-24T19:46:00.001-07:00

http://ckboddy.tumblr.com/

"colossal in tons. unknowing it wants"

2010-03-23T00:10:00.000-07:00

the brown, leather-bound, journal - that’s where he kept the secrets of the universe. secured by a single rubber band, he would often quip that when the time came he, “would be the one laughing”. mostly we joked, often at his expense, but he never really cared. truth be told he guarded that thing with the intensity of a hurricane, never letting it leave is side. there was only one day, a wednesday, when he lost it, the journal. god, i still remember it so clearly. the only day it’s ever happened. it was the same day mason told him about the rocks in the quarry. yeah, i know, rocks in a quarry, who cares, right? well, we’ll get to that. but i remember him running, sprinting, faster than i’d ever seen, back to the cove. he said it was there, under a sandcrab, like a paper-weighted piece of him. “thank god it was still there,” i told him. without looking, “god’s got nothing to do with it. the universe. it’s all here. you’ll see.” still so clear after all this time.

you wrote it again.
excuse me?
you wrote it. again.
no, i didn’t.
yeah, you did. right there.
that wasn’t me.
yeah, it was. i watched you do it.
no way, man. wasn’t me.
i god damn watched you, man. i fucking watched you.
it wasn-
yes it was! yes it fucking was! you said you were past it. you said you-
i know what i said! i just- fuck. i didn’t mean it.
yeah, well, you said that last time.
i don’t even remember.
it was five minutes ago.
i don’t remember. it just happened.
man, you need help.
i don’t need help.
you need som-
i said i don’t need help! i just- i just need some time.
three years isn’t enough time?!
you don’t understand.
i don’t understand?
no. you don’t. it’s hard, man. it’s so hard.
i know, man. i kn-
no! you don’t. you really don’t.
i mean, c’mon. you know i’m here for you. but this, this shit right here, it’s gotta stop.
i don’t think i can. i really don’t.
it’s hard. i know. i get it. i’ve been there. right there with you since the beginning. i get it.
i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.
it’s okay. we’ll work at it.
but it’s coming. there’s-
don’t even think about it. there’s time, okay? we’ve got time.
i just- i gotta get outta here.
i know, man. i know. we all need to.

i saw the sun come up over the hill, green spread across the never-ending. this was it, i said. this is all that’s left. it just felt…it felt like the end. like i’d never see them again. i couldn’t even begin to imagine what it’d be like, back then, if i knew that’d be the last sunrise we’d ever see. those words, just words then. just thoughts. a feeling. they meant so much more than i could have imagined. we sat there as it rose, slow at first, but seemed to pick up speed with each passing cloud. time seems to move faster when you don’t want it to, i said, and she agreed. time’s just a made up thing. minutes, hours, none of it’s real. i hate clocks. this, this right here, this is all i really need. i smiled. i patch of clovers opened to the newborn rays and i held her tight, hoping my words were nothing but a feeling.

ssssssssss

2010-03-22T00:08:00.000-07:00

i am a single atom particle, you, a death's lock in moonlit skies. shed your skin every few years, become a new being, a new face, a new marker on the spinning orbs. i crawl up an ascending note, claw to the top of peak with no plateau. we look down from the cliff, spin in place, sharing what we now know against what we knew then. shine, what you do best. you shine, and i'll reflect. and somehow we reach the top. just like that. gold and diamonds. you with your glass-blown chalice, me, a rainbow fashioned satchel skull. random assortments of this and that. the plateau is littered with everything. burned away at one point, you say, burned away and restarted fresh, like cosmic fires. the ashes form letters, the letters, in turn, form words. quite the site, i say. darling. showman. carapace. orion. atrium. just a random assortment.

yes, but...

2010-03-20T00:54:00.000-07:00

i'll spend a quite night in, tucked away in a blanket somewhere in the den, next to the fire with a scotch and some beat up, ancient copy of asimov's to read through. this is the life i fall asleep into, the landscape of a dream where i am what i wish i were grown to be. peeling away, page by page, the last desire, uncovering a fresh escape: in the clouds of a deserted metropolis, above a fire-filled seafloor, back-to-back with a secret love against the end-all-be-all of villains, motorcar firefight. anywhere and everywhere. part of the ether.

(taken from c. william bunting's journals, originally found aboard the s.s. speakeasy, 1872)
it’s nice today, you think. it’s really nice outside. and so you stay a while longer because the weather is good and the sky is clear and the sounds of passing cars, screeching to a halt at every yellow light, starting and stopping as if this one light were the end of the world, is better than the sounds of self-loathing and regret back home. but, you think, the small fact that it is “nice” outside is hardly a good enough reason, is it? it is, but that doesn’t stop you from thinking of a better, no, scratch that, of an alternative reason. a more fitting reason…perhaps, because in your head, in the deep, dark back where all the little terribles are, there’s always a more interesting, a more comforting, a more dramatic reason…for everything.

what are the dreams of men like us? born into the waking world with never a want nor need to raise any little finger to task. what do men dream of when they already have it all? her shadow grew and fell in perfect tempo upon the bedroom wall. the shifting of bodies, in winter's cold, were all too eager to keep the other warm. this is a night i dreamed of: the triumph of tiny victories that led to this point, the shaking nervousness, the overwhelming excitement and fear, warm skin, warmer heart. the stillness of two upon the down bed. and the dream. the dream of dreams, and the passing thought.

"...half of what i really meant..."

2010-03-13T00:41:00.001-08:00

jack turned a year older today. twenty-four to be exact. nothing to be proud about, nothing to sing a song about. and this was it. this was all he could muster. a few choice words, too fabricated to mean a single thing. nothing worth the time and attention of you or anyone else. just another year to add to the collection. it was sad for him, for jack, looking back on all the things that had come and gone, all the people that had once been something, that had once meant something, and all the hearts now left in ruin somewhere deep in the past, all of it too sad and depressing to recall. though, in all truthfulness, beneath all the self-loathing and pity lay the real tragedy of it all: that yet there was more to be made. whether it be in the vein of sorrow or the vanity of elation, all of it still had yet to be set into the reality of the future (this is where it all falls apart. right here. the fiction of it all, the presumptuous, self-serving storytelling that makes for a more pathetic comprehension, finally spills outward toward the masses. this is the truth of it all, what i’ve been really trying to say my entire life: the honesty, the heart-ache, the bittersweet love that never lasts no matter how hard you try, these are the sincerities that i wish were truly real every day of my life. not some half-assed, sorry attempt at a half-truth, but something real, from the heart, unburied and free, under the sun, pulsing, stretching out, becoming me and you and everything that was and will be. this is what it must be, regardless of the consequences, of who may be caught in between. because nothing matters more that the truth of our hearts. nothing matters more.)

woeful beginnings (part 7 of 10)

2010-03-07T21:50:00.001-08:00

there was a point in shank’s life where everything seemed to be on a never-ending cycle, as if the universe looked down upon him and took a giant spiral-shaped shit and said, “this, young shank, this will be your life. enjoy it, bitch.” and even though the universe cannot speak (not physically at least. numerous tests have been run and although the science is still out on whether the universe can communicate in an indirect manner say, like, subconsciously or spiritually, the scientific community is in a majority agreement that it cannot, in fact, speak) shank felt, in that certain, special “fuck you” way, that it was speaking to him. yelling, in fact, with mouth agape and saliva aloft, spraying shank with a relentless stream of heartache and disappointment.

streammm

2010-03-06T02:12:00.000-08:00

my mother bore a fickle little sent of cucumber and apricot. a small, incessant scent of form and frugality. this was the way it was. always and without warning. and though i wrote without hindrance or regret, still the numbering of forgetful thought made the madness stick with each passing dream. softly and violently, all at the same, like waves shifting upon forming beams of passing matter and distance. i loved her, like small, tiny pieces of me, never existing without the minute sense of her, though still, i loved her. always and always. no fading blackness could take that. never would there be a challenge that could raise up against our love.

free

2010-02-26T01:51:00.001-08:00

colin thought about this before. thought it a few times, but mostly that was all it was. a thought. then it’d disappear like so many other things in, what he now described as, “his aborted, afterthought of a life”. that’s really all it ever was. no one agreed with him. there was the all-knowing, life-loving chorus of supporters and wretched self-servers that funneled into colin’s little brain compliment after undeserved compliment. a self-satisfaction the unholy choir of no-nothings that spoke to colin only as if their “kind” words earned them some small, little accolade that they would later, hopefully collect in what, colin assumed, was their sad idea of an afterlife. afterbirth. really it was all the same. the only person that saw it the same way colin did, or at least found his notion of the matter somewhat entertaining enough to humor him, was simon. simon had been around long enough, around this world mind you, not colin, that he possessed the same shit-sniffing, “fraudulaic” (simon’s word, not colin’s. he always had the capacity for creative expression though being around simon he never really had the need to use it) power that allowed the two of them to hone in on those other pathetic excuses for “rational thought” and single them out for the phonies they truly were. “excise them from the world, the whole lot of ‘em!” he’d often say, or something to the same effect. with simon you could always count on his mettle, even if he showed it in a different manner every time.

i wrote to remember

2010-01-12T03:10:00.000-08:00

the morning reflected it, and i certainly remember dreaming it, that the outsides of the spheres were like miniature globes floating in space, though confined like a bedroom, but with stars around the walls and on the ceiling and the floor, everywhere you could see. and the television screens hung down from nothing. the professors and news people talked about the problems they were having, the issues that arose from trying to understand and control “metaquasars” and “hypnogravity” and “dynamic range ballistics” - the ideas that they had in regards to hyper-space travel, intersecting wormholes and the like - i couldn’t quite comprehend. my attention was focused on the immediate problem of keeping the two halves of the sphere from connecting to each other. that problem, of course, became an immediate disaster, however inevitable, and the two pieces game together. the faux ceilings and earth faded into the space and where there was matter was nothing but space. a metallic rectangle floated out ahead of me but trying to “fly” toward it proved to be a greater problem than keeping the two halves apart. it’s very near impossible to get any sort of grip or traction or sense of direction towards anything in deep space. will is your only weapon, your only means of doing. it took all i had to make it to the platform and still maintain my grip on the orb. meanwhile i had figured the solution to this problem - destroy the orb and reset space back to a normal environment, maybe return the earth to where it belongs, at least anything to resemble that. but i had made it to the platform. that was a start. and so i tried to stand on the wobbling piece of substance, trying to steady myself under the weightlessness of an empty void, position myself in a way to give me the best opportunity to destroy the orb. and then there was another metal thing, a shelf that had grown out from a wall in the side of the original piece of metal. things becoming more things. getting bigger. so i took the opportunity. smashed the metal sphere with my hand. shattered it into tiny molecules. the earth came back. the lights came back. the monitors came back. as if nothing ever happened. all reset. and in the inside of the sphere, a tiny wire, like a plug, with a light on the end. i pulled it out from its place and swung it above my head, lassoed a metal railing on the opposite side of the field, and swung down to the stars below me.

we're working toward something here...

2010-01-11T00:01:00.000-08:00

Matthew T. Jenson died in his sleep on Christmas morning. His remains lay wrapped in Egyptian cloth and silk upon a rosewood divan. The doctor, upon examining his limp frame, would later conclude that his passing was the result of “severe bronchial hemorrhaging brought upon by a globular roving blood clot,” though none of us really knew what that meant. Up until his sudden death Matthew’s medical records were seldom visited – he had made it of utmost priority that his health be top notch, his physical condition be of a “most superior upkeep”. The fact that Matthew was, at least to us, in peak physical condition made the circumstances of his demise that much more peculiar. We all had our own theories on the matter - Timothy believed his death to be the cause of excessive and blunt force trauma, though there were no bruises or other indications to support this (Timothy was always slightly behind the rest of us as far as smarts went, or as Margaret put it, he seemed to have “one foot off the merry-go-round,” however most of us were convinced she never really had the proper grasp of that saying) but mostly we left the speculation to the physician.

I was in the downstairs dining room when the doctor first approached me regarding Matthew. He had with him a leather briefcase which carried his tools and other items a doctor would employ. It rested against makeshift hand-cart, fashioned out of rusted metal and designed specifically for him. The disruptive clanking of the crude thing coming down the staircase preceded his aberrance. The doctor himself was dressed to toe in a peach colored lab coat, a stethoscope around his neck being the only conventional thing about him. As he entered the dining room to greet me he set his case against an antique dresser beside the table and checked the watch in his side pocket. He sneezed quite rapidly, three times, as if out of no where and I said, bless you.
“My dear boy,” he said, “my thanks to you.” I nodded and told him he was welcome. “Your manners, I must say, in a time of great dismay catch my heart with a warmth and generosity. Though surely this must be, for you, a trying thing, take comfort that it is the way of living things.”
“I appreciate your concern, doctor,” I stumbled, caught off guard at the melodic manner in which he spoke.

re: st. patrick's day, 2008, and the man i told you i wish i was

2009-12-29T18:31:00.000-08:00

to whom it may concern...but mainly to audry,

Let’s face facts: this isn’t working. This- this entire…thing, whatever it really is. It’s done. And I don’t mean just us. Understand that that’s not what I’m saying. This is bigger. It’s bigger than us. For me, it’s everything. They’re not working. We’re not working and they’re not working. None of this feels like anything anymore. And I can’t keep doing this. This is the truth. This is everything I’ve ever wanted to say. It’s everything anyone’s ever wanted to say. I just want to feel something again. I haven’t felt anything with any worth for so fucking long. I’ve been waiting, and waiting, and waiting for just something to come along and make me feel. But now, fuck, now I’m just fucking tired of it. I’m tired of waiting. I’m tired of…of being scared. This is all there is and I’m so fucking terrified of it. I’m afraid of getting the wrong read, or giving the wrong look, or just feeling like I’m living in some place where eventually it all works out but, really, it never does. It never fucking does. But that’s on me. And that’s why I’m here. Because I can’t do it anymore. No one should have to. Ever. But no one has the guts to do that. Or maybe no one really cares as much as they like to think they do. Like maybe it’s all one giant façade where the only objective is to look the part enough to get by so that other people believe you well enough to not question your disinterest in them. I don’t care enough to want to know. I’m tired of presuming to know the inner workings of those I care about. Like I said, they never turn out how you expect them to. But you: I pegged you. At least I thought I did. I thought a lot of things, I guess. Now, I don’t know, now I guess I just don’t think, period. But that’s okay with me. I see that know. It’s okay. Everything, in the end, turns out okay. Because there’s no special plan, see? All there ever is is all you ever make. Of what’s around you and what’s inside you. There’s no grand secret. My whole life I’ve been waiting for the answer to some grand, unifying notion that there’s more to this then what there is. And then I woke up one morning and realized that this is it. And I’m okay with that. That’s why I’m okay with this. Because it’s not really the end. It’s just life. And if you believe it will be okay then it will be okay. You can’t go far on negativity and doubt and heartache. But can go far on hope and happiness and love. You can go all the way to the moon. But you just have to believe it. That may sound shitty and cheesy and lame as hell, but it’s the truth. And I’m trying real hard to be true here. I am. But this is all there is. So let’s be okay with that and I think that will be okay.

2009-12-29T00:08:00.000-08:00

usually we'd go ahead and get a few words down, maybe even a sentence or two. but that was about as far as it'd get before a hard line would find its way in between the letters. nothing ever really stuck when it came right down to it. i could almost guarantee you that this entire thing up to this point has been written before. more than once, in fact. i'll find you the page. it's no doubt folded up somewhere in between two pages just like this one. somewhere deep in the closet, i'm guessing. that's where most of these digressive, incoherent abortions more than often end up. when it comes right down to it, down to the reasoning behind the discarding of thoughts, well, i think it mostly had to do with whether or not there was any honesty in it all. at least that's what i think. i can't speak for him anymore. i wouldn't want to, anyway. i suppose that if i had to submit a guess i think that, when it came right down to it, he was afraid. i mean, let's be perfectly honest, it takes a little extra something for someone to put themselves out there for everyone to see. and by "see" i, of course, mean "judge". or better yet, "tear to shreds from inside to out". am i wrong? the "vast majority" of human beings love nothing more than to lob gigantic, venomous boulders of judgment towards anyone and everyone. even themselves. it's sad, yeah, but it's the truth. digression, shit. see? this is what happens. in his case, however, we wouldn't have even made it to "hard line". and now i'm using too many quotes. judgment onto oneself. i told you. there's no ending. but him, well, he was the worst. actually, that's probably a bit too harsh. completely harsh, truth be told. but, there it is. the truth. that's what this is all about. truth. and being true. right? shit, i don't even know myself anymore. ~~well, take a chisel to the rock, i suppose.~~ no, i really don't.

2009-12-22T02:30:00.000-08:00

this is you in your winter overcoat, huddled in a bus station corner under the bright lights and muffled sounds of passing travelers. the soft strands of your blond hair cover your eyes as you try to remain hidden in the little world of you. no one knows you, but all that are see you. there is no fear in your face, no worry in your brow. you are exactly where you want to be.
this is your polariod camera, underused and rarely moved, sitting on a chair by the foot of your bed. its pictures are warm and filled with everyone. they collect in a drawer, on a pinboard near a lamp, across your desk and in a secret place under the mattress. they keep well enough and you dream of them when asleep.
this is a document not being written. its letters are fake and more like a cliche, massaged and poorly fashioned for the benefit of us. this is a love letter to those who'll never know. this is fleeting thought, bereft of anything original or pure, stymied by the dreary hands that create it. this is-

100

2009-12-15T19:52:00.000-08:00

I logged in tonight. Blogspot told me this would be my 100th post. I thought about that for a few moments. 100 posts starting with number 1, as I check, almost two years ago to this day. Part of me is surprised to still be using this things. Another part of me thinks about how many broken thoughts or unfinished entries I've registered in this half-journal/half-confessional. What is this thing to me? A place to share what I've created? Is it sharing when you don't even know if people are reading? Only recently have I been able to answer that question, or have felt validated by asking it. I suppose, to me, this is a place where I can externalize my own fears, my own personal desires (secret or not), or a brief dream, the components of which fly faster than my ability to take them down. Or maybe it's just a place for me to put myself up in front of it all, to be the center of attention. "Lay upon me all your critiques, be they of pillory or praise." I suppose none of that really matters if there is nothing here to read, right? So maybe I'll start there. With a fresh credo: To write more. Period. Were you expecting something more? Well, yeah, maybe I was, too. But that's okay. It's a good start. It's A start, no? And then from there we can expand to greater ambitions, stimulate the creative juices that have come down to a simmer. Let's boil that sucker back up! Or maybe we can just start first. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Yeah, I think that will be better. Finish some of these deserted shorts. Flesh them out, so to speak. That's a good start, a second place to start. Look: options already! This is great. This is an adventure. "Go forth into the unknown, young creator, for this life is an adventure."

2009-12-09T23:36:00.000-08:00

dear adelaide,

i wrote you a letter just the other night. in it i explained the reasoning behind certain events that have recently occurred, as well as my feelings on said instances. my thoughts on the matter are quite precise, yet still without direction. my initial thought was to express this, among other things, to you in person but circumstances have yet to relieve themselves and allow me proper permission to carry this out. i feel you, at the least, deserve an honest, face to face, explanation for my actions. instead i wrote the aforementioned letter. it is my heart, adelaide, poured onto paper by the frail, wounded hands of a man longing for its chance. yet with each passing day, as my want grows stronger my opportunities become more fleeting, though the emotion never fades.

but yet i still have the note. it is heavy with love. it is all i have ever wanted to say. i stored it away, in a drawer beneath the clock. i think i will deliver it today. i'll address it to you, adelaide, place a stamp in the corner, and send it on its way. by the time it reaches you i, god willing, will be halfway to the atlantic, on a locomotive bound for the east coast. i've arrangements with a captain there to board a cargo ship destined for the indian ocean. i hope i'm well received.

this is the end for now. i feel there is nothing left to lose. if nothing more, adelaide, remember us as friends. until then...

your friend,
connor mcginn

there were these two men

2009-12-02T04:07:00.001-08:00

there are no more dreams.
no? how come?
i don't know.
you have no idea?
it's just...i don't know. i think there's no hope in it. in dreaming.
that's a heavy notion, don't you think?
not really. i mean, look around us. i don't think people dream like they used to.
and why do you say that?
because you can see the hopelessness in their eyes. in their movements. in their sad faces. i think they go to sleep with the intention of not dreaming.
i see.
because you always wake up in the end, and then you're back to the real.
and that's why you don't dream anymore?
it's not that i don't dream.
no?
no. it's like there's an open space and when i close my eyes i see this vast plane. it's dark, or sometimes it's just light. but there's nothing there. no castles. no stars. no people. just space. i dream in an empty void.
because?
because i don't know. hell!
let's work at it.
maybe it's because my dreams stopped coming true.
is that it?
i don't know. i don't know why i said that. it's not like they ever really did, you know. as a kid, though, i think there was a greater possibility for them to, you know?
and now?
and now, well, i guess those hopes and dreams are fleeting faster and faster the older i get. i see the doors closing. the missed opportunities. the chances that were never taken.
but you're not that old, you know. people live a long time now, these days.
but i feel old. i feel...wasted.
like how?
like i missed out on something. and my mind knows it. and my dreams, or lack of, reflect it.
you know, there's always a chance to take a chance. so long as you can breathe, you can gamble. you can do that which you dream of, or maybe used to, in your case. you can still do that.
i guess i just feel i've already overplayed my hand, you know.
frankly, that's bullshit. i am here. you see me, no?
yeah.
so what's to stop you from, say, going outside and doing something you've never done before?
my job, for one.
you know, you only have one life. but in that one precious shot at living you have an endless amount of opportunities to make something happen. to go out and learn to sail, to talk to a beautiful girl, to carve your name into a statue, to be something, to be happy, to take chances. to dream.

112909

2009-11-29T23:59:00.001-08:00

they were gathered in groups of three: mother, father, child. mother, father, child. if a new batch had more than three to it then the smallest ones would be sent to the "refuse" pile, thus fulfilling the "rule". if incoming subjects were a third piece short then the admitting officer would assign one of the rejected from the refuse pile to an incoming couplet, once again fulfilling the "rule".

2009-11-20T00:41:00.001-08:00

dream of love. the unbreakable kind. the kind you wish could never be returned, because you want so bad to believe that yours is the strongest kind, that nobody else can feel about someone the way you feel about someone. you want that for yourself. to give of yourself. to receive upon yourself. dream of that love. the kind that never came. because you did feel that way, so much, so strong, so long. but he never came. love to stand on two feet. love to knock you out cold. prize fighters never knew such strength as your love. your love never knew such pain. dream of love. the kind that spreads. every drop of water is your love. every wisp of hair. every clasped hand. every blinking eye. every wanton smile. your love is your love.

110509

2009-11-06T01:11:00.001-08:00

Giorgio Contreras Romero cut him self from hip to hip, along the waist, and back around the lower part of his neck, just below the bone. He sat in a hut at the edge of the bluff and waited for forty-two days. During that time he bled into a ceramic bowl for twenty-three days and twenty-three nights and on the twenty-forth day his wife came to him.
“Where have you been, my darling?” she asked, a relieved tremble carrying her words.
“It’s been twenty-four days, twenty-four days that I’ve been here in this hut, sitting and bleeding. Where have you been?” he responded, looking only at the marble slab resting before him. The palms of his hands were coarse and pale, flaking away like dry paint. His wife stood in the doorway of the wood hut, eyes sunken, and said, “My darling, I’ve been to here and there looking for you.”
There was a pause. Slowly, Romero stood up from his spot. He bent low to lift the marble slab from the ground, leaving only dead skin in its place. His wife watched anxiously as Romero shifted his the wafer that was his body and began to carefully walk toward her.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” he spoke, shaking as he stood in front of her, “but this is what I have seen.”
“Darling?” was the last thing the wife of Giorgio Contreras Romero spoke before being crushed under the weight of the marble slab. Satisfied with his work, Romero returned to his spot on the floor and once more took up his ceramic bowl.
Eleven days would pass before anything would happen once again in the tiny hut at the edge of the bluff. Romero lay motionless underneath the wooden beams as they shifted from brown to cold steel, mutating into something not quite whole, converting five thousand years worth of memory into a single moment. What once was dirt and stone was now cement and metal, industrious and uniform. Romero curled in the remains of his shelter. The bluff begat paved road, the wood hut spawned something of a garage, and people sat all about this new and peculiar place.

I need a new start. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my entire life.
This is something of a predicament.
No one says, “Predicament”.
Pass me another one of those.
Yeah, well that may be true, but honestly, what do you think will really happen?
This is the way those things work.
You wait and see, man.
I’ve heard it all before, okay? We’ve all heard it before.
People say that. People say a lot of things.
What? Open your mouth when you talk.
Shhh. Do you see that?
I’m telling you to shut the Hell up right now.
I’ve practiced this before. Trust me. It’s okay.
No, he’s not coming. He just called and told me.
You’re seeing this, right?
There should be some more over there.
Yeah, I think I’ve seen this all before.

enter in to occular appraisal - section two: version seven - "drunkard on the withering bank"

2009-09-30T01:45:00.001-07:00

on a mound of black dust
is the keeper who must
be of duty and goodwill divine
though his courage is clear
his fictitious veneer
is preceded by holy combine
though in separate tunes
the lioness fumes
o'er cavorting and lamenting loons
while her partner will sleep
under whispering trees
dreaming of dead and dying cocoons
their shells hardly made
in wallowing shade
while the underside melts in the sun
and the lives of the dead
never living an age
have no value to prides of the youth
they are timid and breathless today
they are silent and ne'er the astray
they are loners in god's holy day

these are melancholy times, you said. i didn't understand what the former had meant in reference to the conversation at hand. we had only been discussing the day to day, trivial in its nature. but you came out of no where with such melodramatic verse. i told you i didn't understand. no one does, you said. no one does. though the spirits begged to be taken more seriously than yourself, that much is true.

dear god what are you even saying? let's be perfectly plain here: what is it that happens to us when we die? i have the feeling that my mind tells me it's something grand, that i'll be living my life in a subconscious state, thinking and feeling freely that which i've always wanted. a neverending dream. though there's the slight chance i may spend the rest of all eternity burning unmercifully in the bowels of hell for all time. though with the latter i find myself not as worried as the normal, god-fearing man may be. for one, i know that won't be the case. it's impossible. and for two, if it is the case, well, i know i'll be spending it there with you. right? did you really think you'd get off that easily? luckily we won't have to worry about that. but what if, on the off chance, nothing happens? then what? who's the winner in this cosmic game of eternal roulette? who's the one to say, well, i told you so? does it really matter? there's been a levity in my step since accepting what i've come to believe. and, like i said, if i'm wrong, well, i know you'll be right there with me.

part one: all hands on deck (a summoning of great import)

2009-09-28T23:07:00.001-07:00

sir walter mcgown
was a father and clown
and a writer in '73
he lived on a boat
with a pigeon and goat
and a half-hearted love of the sea
for 42 years
he hadn't a tear
or a reason for leaving the dock
until on the morn
of april 24
came word that began with a knock
at the steps of his door
walt stood on the floor
a horror awake in his head
as the messanger spoke
with a crack in his throat
"my dear sir your poor boy is dead"
said walter mcgown
collapsed to the grown
"how could something so grim come to be?"
"your boy had gone mad,"
he spoke, cold and flat,
"and hung himself from an oak tree"
and the messanger left
with mcgown now bereft
mustering only a half-hearted tear
as he lay on his back
slipping into the black
of a peace only dreams can hear.

"excerpt"

2009-09-28T23:05:00.003-07:00

EXT. DINER - DAY

A quaint, Chicago-style diner on the corner of two cross
streets. The lunch rush is just beginning to die down.

SAM (O.S.)
I think I’m dying.

EXT. DINER - PATIO - DAY

Sitting at a table on the patio is a 24 year old man,
skinny, black hair, and wearing a plain white t-shirt and
camouflage shorts. This is SAM. Across from his is ERIC, 24,
same build but dirty-blond hair, wearing Ray Bans and a
short-sleeved button shirt and jeans. Sam sits, distracted,
watching people walk by while Eric scans the menu.

ERIC
(Hearing this before)
You’re not dying.

SAM
What?

ERIC
What?

Sam glances toward Eric then quickly returns his attention
to the passerby’s.

ERIC (CONT’D)
I said you’re not dying.

Shuffling in his chair Sam shifts his attention back to
Eric. He is now focused on the conversation.

SAM
I am. Look at this.

He holds up his hand. It shakes like a tiny tremor as he
holds it over the table. Eric puts down the menu and
examines his hand. He grabs it, pulls down his sunglasses,
puts them back on, then picks up the menu again.

SAM (CONT’D)
See?

ERIC
No.

A young, dark haired waitress wearing blue jeans and a polo
style shirt approaches their table. Her name-tag says KELLY.

SAM
You didn’t just see that?

KELLY
Hi. I’m Kelly, your waitress.

ERIC
I saw it. It’s nothing.
(to Kelly)
Hi, Kelly.

SAM
You don’t know.
(to Kelly)
Hi.
(to Eric)
You don’t know anything.

Sam looks away from the table and fixes his focus across the
street. Kelly stands there, confused, but aware she’s just
walked in on something. Eric notices this.

ERIC KELLY
I apologize. No, no it’s I hope I’m not
okay. interrupting. I can come
back.

SAM (CONT’D)
It’s not okay. I’m dying.

KELLY
I’m sorry.

ERIC
You’re not dying.
(to Kelly)
He’s not dying. He’s just having an
off day.

SAM
It’s not an off day.

KELLY
People can have off days.

ERIC SAM
Thank you. It’s not an off day!

Sam, irritated, lifts his arm to show Kelly his shaking
hand.

SAM
Look.

KELLY
You’re shaking.

SAM
See? I’m not doing that.

KELLY
You’re shaking. Shaking’s not
dying.

ERIC
Thank you.

Sam shoots a looks in Eric’s direction who is now grinning
semi-victoriously. Kelly also smirks.

SAM
I’ll have the club sandwich.

Kelly is caught off-guard. Sam, not making eye contact, is
silent.

KELLY
Did you want something to drink?

SAM
No.

She makes a gesture towards Eric who makes a "sorry" face at
her.

ERIC
I’ll just have a cheeseburger and
water. Thanks.

KELLY
(awkwardly)
Okay then. Thanks.

She takes the menus from the two men and exits toward the
inside of the diner. Beat.

ERIC
You embarrass us, man.

SAM
LOOK AT THIS!

He shoves his arm right into Eric’s face. Eric grabs it and
slaps him with his own hand then removes his sunglasses.

ERIC
You’re not dying!

The outburst draws the attention of the other patrons. A
small child walking by with his mother stops and stars at
the scene. Sam takes notice.

SAM
What do you want, asshole?

The mother, unknowing, pulls her child’s arm and they cross
the street.

ERIC
Unbelievable.

Kelly returns with their drinks. She places both at the
table.

SAM ERIC
(not looking) Thanks, Kelly.
Thanks.

KELLY
Anything I can get you two while
you wait?

ERIC
I think we’re good for now. Sam?

Kelly looks at Sam who is still staring off. His oddness
intrigues her. She waits for his response, hoping he’ll look
at her.

SAM
No.

Letdown. Eric notices this.

KELLY
Alright. Your food should be here
shortly.

Kelly leaves the two men.

ERIC
She’s cute.

Sam, who is staring at an older, heavy-set woman sitting on
respondsowith:ch across the street when Eric says this

SAM
Seriously? She’s pretty beat up.
(turning to Eric)
You’re always into the weird,
messed up ones? What’s up with
that?

Eric realizes what Sam is referring to and quickly cuts him
off.

ERIC
I mean Kelly, idiot.

SAM
Who?

ERIC
(pointing to inside)
Kelly.

SAM
The waitress?

ERIC
The waitress. Kelly. Yes.

SAM
She’s kind of an asshole.

ERIC
No, she’s not.

SAM
No, yeah, she is. Thinks she knows
everything.

ERIC
Because she said you weren’t dying?

SAM
She doesn’t know my body.

ERIC
She wants to. She gave you a look
when you were off in space, staring
at strangers.

SAM
(doubtful)
That a fact?

ERIC
That’s a fact. I saw it.

SAM
Yeah, but you are wearing
sunglasses.

ERIC
And?

SAM
And you’re an idiot so-

Kelly returns carrying to plates, the guys’ food.

KELLY
(setting the food down)
Cheeseburger...and a club sandwich.

As she sets down the latter she and Sam make eye contact.

KELLY (CONT’D)
Anything else I can do for the two
of you?

ERIC SAM
I think we’re good. No, thanks.

KELLY
Alright then. Enjoy! Smiling, she
leaves.

ERIC
See?

Sam looks up from his food, acknowledging his comment, but
says nothing. They continue to eat.

CUT TO:

EXT. DINER - PATIO - LATER

The two men are wrapping up their meals. Sam sits, leaned
back, with his napkin on the plate. Eric is in the same
position. Quickly:

ERIC
I gotta use the bathroom.

He takes off. Sam sits there, unfazed. He holds out his arm.
It’s no longer shaking. Kelly suddenly approaches, chipper.

KELLY
How was it?

SAM
(hiding arm)
Good. Thanks.

KELLY
You’re not shaking anymore?

SAM
Appears so.

KELLY
At least you’re not dying anymore.
She smiles, signifying a joke.

SAM
I don’t know. Maybe.

KELLY
(smiling)
I think you’ll be just fine.

SAM
Thanks.

They exchange smiles. There’s a pause.

SAM (CONT’D)
So, I, um, I think we’re about done
here.

KELLY
Oh, okay.
(removing the check)
Here’s your check. I’ll be back
around to pick it up.

SAM
Thanks.

Kelly exits. Eric comes around right as she’s leaving. They
trade smiles and he winks at Sam as he sits down.

EXT. DINER - DAY

Sam and Eric walk out the front door of the diner and on to
the boulevard. They stroll down the street to the meter
where Eric’s car is parked.

ERIC
Listen, I’m not gonna be able to
make it to the game tonight.

SAM
What? You’re kidding me? It’s
finals. Chicago’s two wins away
from the cup and you’re gonna miss
it?

ERIC
I’ve got an interview in the
morning. Some firm downtown.

SAM
Some firm downtown? Are you even
gonna enjoy the Summer, excuse me,
the last Summer of your life?

ERIC
Hadn’t planned on it.

SAM
(unconvinced)
Hadn’t pl- great. That’s good. Blow
off the game. But if they lose
tonight man, just know it’s your
fault.

They arrive at Eric’s car, a nicer looking ’96 Camry. He
opens his door as Sam continues his rant.

SAM (CONT’D)
I hope you can live with that.

ERIC
Hey man, it was bound to happen
sooner or later.

SAM
They haven’t been to the finals in
years! You act like it’s just-

ERIC
I mean this. Growing up. College is
over. As much of a drag as it is, I
don’t want to be serving coffee the
rest of my life.

Sam stands there, letting the words sink in. Eric, getting
into his car, waves a goodbye. As he starts the car and
pulls away Sam looks across the street to see the small kid
from before, eating an ice cream cone and staring right at
him.

SAM
(to himself)
Mother fucker.

INT. BOOKSTORE - DAY

Sam walks up and down the aisles of the bookstore. He
peruses the short fiction section, followed by the graphic
novel section. In between looking at books he glances up and
around for other people, particularly other women, to notice
him. He finds a book, sits down at a table, and pretends to
read when, in actuality, he’s watching for any one girl to
glance at him.

INT. BOOKSTORE - DAY

Later: Still sitting at the table, and empty coffee cup and
magazines, Sam finally gives up and leaves.

INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY

The afternoon. Sam stands in line at the shop, keeping one
eye on the few people sitting and drinking coffee. He spots
an attractive GIRL, a little shorter than he, with long
brown hair. He approaches the counter and gives his order.

SAM
Just a small coffee.

CUT TO:

INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY

Sam, coffee in hand, spies an empty seat next to the girl.
She’s reading a textbook, "Assessing Market Flow". He sits
down next to her, a separate table but still close. She sees
him sit down, he smiles, and she goes back to studying.

CUT TO:

INT. CAR - NIGHT

Sam drives down the boulevard. Lights are just coming on in
preparation for the night. He is indifferent.

EXT. CAR - SAM’S APARTMENT - NIGHT

Sam parks his car. Two neighbors are out walking their dog.
He waves, then heads into the complex.

EXT. SAM’S APARTMENT - CONTINUOUS

Sam approaches his apartment marked 776. The paint is
peeling on the door and the handle is rusted. He unlocks the
door and moves into-

INT. SAM’S APARTMENT - NIGHT

The living room of his one bedroom apartment. It is scarcely
decorated. A couch borders the opposite wall and a t.v. and
stand sit across from that. A sliding glass door to the
patio is a adjacent to the couch, the kitchen across from
that. Sam throws his keys down on the kitchen table and
walks into his bedroom

INT. SAM’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Same as the living room. A bed, some clothes, and a desk
with a computer accompany empty space. On the desk are
several books, short story anthologies, and magazines. The
closet holds a few boxes of comic books. Nothing special, at
least not to any one but Sam. He sits at the desk, checking
various things online.

CUT TO:

INT. SAM’S APARTMENT - NIGHT

Later: Sam sits on the couch and watches the game, beer in
hand. A couple more bottles line his floor. Score: 3-2
Chicago.

INT. SAM’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Sam sits at his computer desk looking at pornography. He
masturbates.

INT. SAM’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Later: Sam changes clothes. He’s wearing a button-western
style shirt and jeans.

CUT TO:

INT. BAR - NIGHT

Sam sits on the end of the bar, drinking from a mug and
watching highlights from the game and other sports. There’s
only a few other people.

CUT TO:

INT. APARTMENT - NIGHT

Sam sits at the couch, watching "A Goofy Movie" and eating a
fudgesickle.

INT. SAM’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Sam lies in bed. The clock at his nightstand reads 2:27. He
masturbates, falls asleep. Then:

INT. COFFEE SHOP Ð DAY

A dream. Sam sits at the table from earlier, next to the
same attractive girl from earlier. This time though, she
notices him, he smiles, she smiles back. Then:

SAM
(raising his coffee)
Hola.

ATTRACTIVE GIRL
Hi.

SAM
You’re very pretty. Did you know
that?

ATTRACTIVE GIRL
Thank you.

SAM
I like your eyes. Wanna see my
dick?

She nods eagerly. He stands up. WE FOCUS on his face as she
slides down his lower half. We hear her SLURPING as Sam
MOANS and his eyes ROLL in his head. He’s in unparalled
ecstacy, GROANING and BREATHING HEAVILY until:

SAM (CONT’D)
HYUCK!

The attractive girl stops and looks up, eyes wide. Sam is
bright red. Beads of sweat are beginning to form. He looks
back down at the girl. She’s wiping her mouth. Sam goes to
wipe his face only to find his hands resemble Disney
character hands, big, white gloves. Sam lets out a BURST of
a SCREAM. He looks back at the girl, only instead of an
attractive young girl he now sees Bobby Zimmeruski(Pauly
Shore’s character in A Goofy Movie).

BOBBY ZIMMERUSKI
(in the voice)
Groovy!

He then sprays a long pile of can cheese on Sam’s penis as
Sam watches, horrified. The character raises his eyebrows at
Sam right before SMASHING his face into the cheese.

"de los sue?os del pasado y presente..."

2009-09-28T23:05:00.001-07:00

mary made the best of it, but we'd still only gotten so far, enough to make ourselves feel half-decent. and this was only the beginning, but i'd gotten used to not finishing something i'd start. hanging out with mary all the time took its toll. listen, i'm writing this drunk off my ass and half-coherent to my own thoughts. frankly, it's kind of sad. but i'll make this up and force myself to be honest about the situation because it's been far too long since i've put something down on here. most days i'd rather just leave a blank thought and let the rest work for itself, but the subconscious powers within force it upon myself to expose these terrible and heinous truths to open eyes.if only we knew the things we'd speak. if only we knew the things they'd seen. and then there was the forest hill beyond benson's point. we'd only gone there a few times, mostly in the summer, and most of the time it wasn't all that special. the point of even continuing with this charade? haven't the slightest damn clue. you play the sad fool so well. play it and play it again. like jim on the hill. goddamn you. never the spine of you. play it so goddamn well. that's why they turned out the way they did. you could cry, a thousand times over, you could cry, and cry, and cry, but it's just the part. there's no real sense. son of a bitch. but there was a sun that day, and it set like the rest of them, over the hilltop, laying down like bedsheet, bursting with color and hope. this was what we'd always hoped for but never saw. this is what we'd always thought but never showed, never wrote, never said. you sorry piece of trash. these are what's within the will-less, the fearfull. there was nothing ever there to hope for. such a dangerous thing. but those suns returned fresh and beautiful skies, and their stars were something special. but it made no sense, it made no effort, at all...

"the fracturing of conscious thought, further buried and often forgotten..."

2009-09-22T01:48:00.003-07:00

eva dreamed of a terrible crash. middle of the freeway, 90 miles an hour type shit. the kind that you feel in your nerves under miles of sleep. the car in front of her just smashed into a motorcycle. the young man, an asian fellow, was sprayed across the center divider. she watched from the front seat as the driver came up to her side window. oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit. calm down darling. oh shit. calm down. just give me the i.d. cards. the picture of an old high school professor. the asian guy is getting up, dripping all over the pavement. some kind of fucked up dream. she's freaking out. can't move. stumbling for the bedroom door. can't speak. i tell her it's just the paralysis that takes over your mind. but it's so real. yeah, it's real. not moving. not speaking. it's all real, baby. ever got that feeling? sure i have, i say, many times.

when i was seven the master of fiction came to my school to give a speech on the importance of education and self-improvement. i don't remember all he said. i do remember the bartering of fruit roll-ups and gushers and maggie mendoza passing love notes in the back of the classroom. she eventually grew up to have two bastard children. the father spends his nights in a county cell.

the morning we found robbie tankarsky lying face down behind behind the baseball diamond at fallbrook park i remember thinking to myself, "well shit, i guess the kid got what he had coming." i mean, i would have never expected something like this to happen, or even wished it to happen. none of us would have. but i'd have found it hard to believe that none of us weren't thinking that exact thing once we saw him. ziff had flipped him over with his louisville and we all immediately took a step back, covering our faces. the was a hole the size of a softball where his right eye would have been and several deep gashes along the left side of his face, all the way down to his thigh. pieces of clothing were missing and the rest were dyed a deep red. marty was ghost white. we all were. i couldn't believe what i was seeing.

father

2009-09-22T01:48:00.001-07:00

father never wanted to be that kind of man. mother warned him, however, that he would become just that and, within time, we all saw that her words were truth.

mother spent most of her time in the garden, tending to leaves and ferns and the like, most of which she kept hidden in the corner of the backyard. father never cared much for these things or her hobby for that matter, hence the reason for seclusion.

father had better things to do, in his mind at least. one, and probably most important, of which was the tending to his antique guns and pistols. he boasted over one hundred different kinds of firearms, most of which being antiques from the world war two era. these were his prize possessions, often taken priority over his own flesh and blood.

we all saw it coming, albeit in our own twisted and skewed ways. as i said before, mother was the first and, as the priest said, she paid dearly for her foresight. i remember that quite well. it sticks with me to this very day.

white

2009-09-08T21:12:00.001-07:00

dear simon,

i had a dream the other night. in it we were driving down the highway, passing cars at subsonic speeds. the overpass suddenly gave underneath and became a massive piece of wobbling concrete and metal, unhinged from the earth itself. but we stuck to it. we kept flying past the other cars. we drove, upside down and everything in between, like riding a giant snake. i don't know where we were trying to get to, but we certainly had a purpose.

and then i was in a bar somewhere. you weren't there anymore but there were several other people in the bar and we were all listening to some broadcast on the radio. there was a trailer somewhere in the desert, the kind that you see people living in sometimes. anyway, underneath this trailer, the radio said, was some kind of alien sack. there was a team there trying to disarm it or disable it. no one really knew. what we did know what that if the device, as they were calling it, went off then that was it for us. for everything. forever. so we all sat there and listened to the radio as it narrated what was quickly becoming the last few minutes of our lives. then it went white. fast. and then back. and we all sat in the bar still. a man next to me asked if this was it. i didn't know, i said. and then the dream ended. that's all i really remember.

so that's that. i'm gonna try to finish the rest of it tonight, the dream i mean, but in all likelihood i'll probably end up dreaming about those giant fish again. talk to you soon.

-c.k.

wisconsin

2009-09-03T19:16:00.001-07:00

When Thomas left Wisconsin it wasn’t because he was forced out. Far be it from me to speculate on the reasons behind his departure, the reasoning behind their decision to send him away. Only Thomas and the elders can answer that. But he wasn’t forced out. At least that’s what Thomas told us. He made quite the point of it actually, to make sure we understood that it wasn’t that way. “Understand when I say there are no hard feelings,” he had told me. I suppose at that moment I understood, albeit somewhat confusingly. It seemed odd though, and the more I thought about it the more it made less sense.

We had talked the night before he left. I went over to his place in the evening and we spent some time together while he packed his things. He lived in a small, one bedroom apartment on Lane Lane across from the elementary school. I always thought it was funny that the city named it Lane Lane when they could have just as easily named it Lane Street or Lane Boulevard or even Lane Court. Thomas would tell people he lived on Lane Squared, as in exponents, but then he’d always have to explain the reasoning behind it. “You see, because there’s two Lane’s so it’s like it’s being multiplied be itself. Lane Squared. Get it?” He found it funny. Most people didn’t. That was just Thomas’s sense of humor, I guess.

I sat in the corner of his room, watching as he packed his things into a duffle bag no bigger than a corgi. “Seems awful small, don’t you think?” I asked him. He stopped for a moment and I could tell he was gathering his thoughts, trying to think of the right thing to say, as if to give nothing away.
“I suppose so, yeah.”
“Well don’t you think you’ll need a bigger bag? A suitcase at least?”
“This should do,” he said with a heavy sigh, and I could tell he didn’t want to discuss it any further. So I stopped.

homonyms

2009-09-01T23:45:00.001-07:00

you wake up from a dream, sweating and gasping, reaching for the nightstand, swatting at flashing reds in the dark, landing on a switch, lighting the fear, thinking, rubbing, sobbing, dripping, kicking at the covers, wiping your face, swimming but not, unknowing, breathing deeply, looking, seeing, watching - a spider on the wall, spinning his web in a corner, and realizing this has meant nothing.

dear caroline,

i was in love with you five or so years ago. just about five years. maybe a few more. in secret as a matter of fact. you didn't know then. none of them knew, actually. i loved a lot of people back then, you see. in secret. all of them didn't know. at least i don't think they knew. maybe you were the one to come closest. to finding out, i mean. maybe one other, but i'm not entirely sure. well, that's about it really. i'm not sending this. they'll find it long after i'm gone. so long, caroline.

regards,
j.c. beckwith
18.7.1932

...
...
...
...
we haven't a coherent, concrete thought in days. days!
i'm aware of that.
are you? because fro-
yes!
...
i'm aware.
...
what?
what?
what?
what?!
i don't know. you tell me.
no.
c'mon.
no.
tell me.
no.
tell me!
...
...
fine.
go on.
i was just think-
*yawn*
see?! see that?!
see what?
that, asshole. that right there!
whhaaaatttt?
god damn you.
i'm tired.
god. damn. you.
i just-
no. no! you just what?
i just-
what?!
...
okay man.
okay what?
okay.
okay?
yup.
okay what?
...
...
...
huh.
yep.
...
...
so listen, about earlier.
what about it?
well, i was just tired you know.
so.
so i was tired.
so.
so i'm telling you now.
i don't care now.
of course.
of course.
that's convenient.
i know.
god damn you.
you started this.
me? you!
you!
you, you slick bastard.
*finger*
alright, man.
alright.
alright.
alright!!
...
...
...
...

Wake up, Charles.
Who-what is this?
It?s time to start over. We?re starting over.
What?
It?s time.
Who is this?
Who do you think, Charles? This is God.
Where am I? That?s impossible.
It?s not, Charles.
I don?t believe in God.
I know. But that will change. It all will.
What the Hell are you talking about? Where am I?!
I?m talking about the Universe, Charles. Life.
What about it?
It?s going to end. We?re going to end it all?

[Some time ago?]

words

2009-08-04T22:52:00.001-07:00

this is a summer adventure: a trip through under-explored woodland areas, rafting in toxic waters, a night or two spent in over-heated garages, swimming in alcohol and liquids not yet known to most 4th graders. this is forced, let's make no qualms about it. fact is it's been clear near a month of fractured thought, the most of which, at this present time, gets scribbled down in a forgotten notebook on years old paper next to doodles of fish and coral and an unfinished self-portrait of a cow next to a windowsill. to be perfectly frank, and tim will agree with this to the limit, nothing comes near the apex of what is motivating to a man with little-to-no self worth nor appreciation for the misgivings around him than the feel of a cool hand against his own. to be perfectly honest, as i mentioned before and, again, tim can attest to the true severity and honesty in these words, this is forced, straight away. nothing in a nutshell save for that slight hint of warm spirits and methane mixing in the fluorescent light of this place. we had to put it down to paper - the trips to the moon, our concerns about what may and what could have been, that unsettling aroma between the sofa and the fern, a matchstick's duration in a vacuum, what i had said on january thirteenth, piano keys and what the strokes meant to not only you, but the older gentleman we purchased it from, single-syllable words strung together to make beautifully awful poems about past misfortune. we put it all down. to remember. to preserve.

i recall sitting near the back of the room. it gave off a sort of normalizing feeling, the walls, the ceiling, the armchairs and the table towards the center. this is where it took place. i sat there, coffee in the left hand, a book, the illegitimate fowl meets mother self-depreciating goat, clutched in the right. this was something else, i thought. sitting in the leather chair, it's arms coming up higher than a normal chair would, nearly as high as my shoulders. i feel like a child, i said...i thought. did i say it? the older fellow to the left seemed to hear me say something. his reading glasses removed, he shot me a curious look, as if to say, don't you dare think about even thinking about fucking my daughter. he wasn't even with anyone. crazy old coot. he turned away just as quickly as he began. for the best, i thought, i'd be a shame if i'd have to make another example out of a foolish old man. but that's what i get. i suppose that's what we all get.

gigawatt

2009-07-14T01:29:00.001-07:00

i dreamed my finger landed on cookeville, tennessee.
"this is where i'm going," i said, dragging the syllables through the thick of disappointment.
"i don't know where that's at."
"consider yourself lucky."
"why are you going there?"
"because i have to."
"because why?"
"because that's where the finger landed."
he paused and studied the globe, the great decider resting reluctantly still on my new found destiny. i watched him as he placed his tiny hand upon the deep blues and dark greens, tracing the lines of the rolling mountains with such precision, a skill uncommonly familiar to this three-year old soul, like some master craftsman creating and molding a fine piece of art, or even something more magnificent, something beyond this young child's imagination, infinite and pure as it may be.

dear fran,

you were right. this isn't going to work. why i thought it might, shit, i really don't know. i mean, it seemed to be a good idea, in theory at least. right? it was simple enough. but i don't know. i'm just tired i guess. tired of trying to come up with different ways, different answers, different...

i woke up this morning and there was a rat in my bed. a goddamn rat under my goddamn sheets with me. what kind of shit is that? well, it was the last kind of shit i'll tell you that much.

you understand right? it was doomed from the onset. i see that now. but what does it matter, right? i mean, somewhere someone is sitting down and writing or typing or whatever the fuck, painting, these same exact words in some same exact self-deprecating, fucked up tone like what the fuck is so wrong with my life? right?

kip says not to send this letter. but that asshole took my last beer so screw him. the fuck does he know anyway, right? so...well, heh. adios then.

-den

i read a line in a book today. something to the effect of the best love letters being encoded for the one and not the many. something like that. you think that's true? but what if you don't know that it's meant for you?

varnish

2009-07-11T01:42:00.001-07:00

i started five lines and then stopped, then took an eraser to them a moment later started again, this time only four, and again i took up that eraser.
we stopped believing
in all things
in man
in brother
in neighbor
these were the unwritten words. four more, as i had mentioned.
paul abbott stopped believing in god.
he recalled his initial feelings in a
letter to his sister annette who was
backpacking through the swiss alps.
there was a lack of rhythm, i thought. or maybe just a lack of emotion. so again to the paper i took.
the sun came out today.
for that i am thankful.
as i write this there is
if your mother could see you now what would she say? there she is on the porch, sitting in the wooden rocking chair your father built for her years before. he had sanded it down and gave it a varnish finish. it fades now in the morning sunlight but that doesn't stop your mother from using it. she loves that chair, just like she loved your father. but your father was a man tempted, wasn't he. you remember. the whole god damn block certainly remembers.
she was never that way.
none of it was ever that way.
none of it was ever true.
it was all just a
dream.
what does it feel like to dream of fear? in your worst nightmares are you dying? is something terribly, terribly awful happening to you? to your family? to your friends? is that the fear you feel? or is it a different kind? ~~we'll see in the end that there is no end at all.~~ a far more dreadful fear? a fear of the end? a fear of there not being an end? does it haunt you to know there is none? do you dream in truth? is that the fear far too horrible to dream?
we see you
in.
the.
ground.
six
feet
below
your family

is
~~not~~
there.
with you.
in the ground.

superball

2009-07-07T02:14:00.001-07:00

at first i didn't really know what it was i was looking for. but i had this feeling, this urge to find it, something!, but what? it was strong, too, the urge i mean. like a powerful, invisible force that came from nowhere and forced me to look. to just look. so i started looking. i began under my bed. i pulled out everything from beneath that rickety, worn-down twin frame, an old pair of tennis shoes, the box for that old pair of tennis shoes which was actually one of those diorama-like constructions i think i remembered making back in the first grade. there was a man, small and brown and made of clay, sitting at a table made of popsicle sticks with a single candle on top and in the corner it looked like there may have been another clay figure, i couldn't tell, only guess by the two, faded oil spots across from the man and the candle. this isn't what i'm looking for though, i thought. i don't know why i thought that. how could i have known! but it didn't feel right, that much was certain. so i kept looking. an old binder filled with baseball cards, a superball, a couple stranded socks. i pulled out everything, but what i was looking for wasn't there. dammit. but i couldn't stop. there was a nudge, a soft, little push, forcing me to continue. keep looking. why? because you have to find it. okay, so i kept trying. i don't know why. i really don't know why...(i really hope to finish this one)

balls

2009-07-07T02:00:00.001-07:00

aaron fucked up once. fucked up real good. never really was the kind of person to go and do stupid shit and get himself into a situation, but i guess they do say 'go big or go home' right? the perfect summation to a terrible experience. it's funny to think about now, for me at least, looking back on it as the two of us split another pitcher. never the hard stuff, he always says. and then what does he go and do? you guessed it.
no, this time i mean it, don't let me fucking do it again, he says. sure, i say as i watch him suck down the last of another beer. i know it won't last and next time we'll be sitting here looking back on something that hopefully doesn't involve aaron in another police car. well 'wish in one hand and shit in the other' right? that's another thing they do say. come to think of it i never really explained what in the sphincter hell actually happened to him.
it started with a shot, that much was certain, although it could have started much sooner than that. of that i'm not really sure. could of started weeks earlier come to think of it. shit, well anyway, for me and him and that night it started with a shot. aaron's situation was straightforward, really nothing much to it, just enjoying the life. but one can only do so much, you know, before it all comes crashing back down. 'burning the candle at both ends' well there's another fucking thing (speaking of which, i always found it a bit condescending to always be using the same goddamn cliches all the goddamn time. patronizing assholes. but then i realized, well shit, they're cliches because it always happens! obviously. can't begin to tell you how long it took me to come to that realization but fuck me if i don't use them all the time now. and balls to the people who think otherwise. sorry, something of a sidenote) sums up perfectly what aaron got himself into that night.

some are better than others

2009-06-26T01:13:00.001-07:00

i read a short story, and then another, and then decided i didn't much like quotation marks anymore.
why? someone said.
i like the way it looks.
really?
i think it flows better, too.
i suppose.
you don't think?
makes it kind of hard to tell.
tell what?
who's talking.
seriously?
yeah.
you really believe that?
yeah, sure.
that's a load of bullshit. i'll tell you right now any thinking person, any person with a sense of perception can tell the difference between two people talking. besides, i told them, why should i be creatively confined by some stupid rule, if it really is a rule, when one could argue that operating "outside the rules" (notice the quotation marks. what a goddamn hypocrite!) is definition of writing creatively?

for the record, that sort of thinking is a load of shit spewed by some would-be writer who's nothing more than some hack who read a few good stories by a few good contemporary writers suggested to him by a few not-so-good writers subscribing to the same hack writer's philosophy and decided that he'd do right by the rest of them to best replicate whatever goddamn story some pretentious asshole in borders said he saw in the latest issue of the new yorker because that'd be the best place to start. honestly though, i've no fucking clue what i'm talking about.

the beginning though is all true. i can, and prefer to, function without quotation marks. i do like the way the words look, out in the open, floating in the white space of unused paper or, in this case, word document? those single words forming ideas, the beginnings of thought unrefined, free flowing, unedited. the things we truly mean to say before we rethink and reload and tiptoe around the unspoken barriers that too often prevent any one from truly communicating with another. the things we want to say and the things we never speak. just words. thoughts. emotions. secrets. desires. admissions. reflections. the truth spilling out into the open.

"just a one minute messiah..."

2009-06-24T01:39:00.001-07:00

when scott and the rest of them left for the mountains and they left you sitting on the floor of your room, leaning back against an old, metal fold out chair, and the tears began building up in the corners of your eyes because they didn't invite you, it wasn't the fact that none of them really cared to extend any kind of olive branch your way, and it wasn't because scott went with tanya, that girl from the grinder shop who wore her hair up every day you and he went their for lunch after bible study, with those glasses that trapped the little wispy strands of brown behind her perfect ears, it was because you realized that no one really, truly liked you. period. that was it. was it because you would never close your mouth every time you ate that cold cut sandwich? was it because your nose arched in a funny, unnatural way that made your eyes look like sunken treasure chests in mounds of sand? was it because sometimes you laughed when you weren't suppose to laugh, at the fucked up things that certain people cherish with a passion that you could never comprehend? you were cold, like that chair. it was sad for people to see. for people to be around you it was more of a chore than a joy. sweetie, it's okay, she says. no one is more important than you. no one is more special than you. god has a plan for you. you're in good hands. her words are soft and soothing. they envelope you and hold you and warm you. this is good, you think, this is okay, and you start to believe it too. you share a prayer with her and she says, god give her the strength, give her beauty, it is your will, lord, it is your plan, god, we are in your hands lord. and again her words hold you up and cover your face and wipe your eyes and you feel clear and quiet and motionless in the blanket of her words.

first time

2009-06-24T01:23:00.001-07:00

step out of the car now.
okay, just let me-
don't touch that!
sorry, i jus-
step out of the car!
fuck
three hours ago i was swimming in alcohol. bottles of vodka poured into shot glasses like running water after a hard rain. who could remember when it began? we all knew where it'd end. and even then no one was ready for how it did. but i remember most of it now. it's funny imagining it all happening again, thinking that there's no way in hell you're going to remember this the next morning. but then again there's something mystically powerful in the way a handcuff smashes against the bones of your wrist in such a way that every memory, every detail up to that point comes rushing back to you in waves of guilt and pain and you suddenly realize that, holy fuck, you're in it and you're in it deep.
side note - they should really bottle that feeling, sell it as a sort of morning after hangover medication for the disillusioned and disheartened minds and bodies that wake up, stumbling forth from such a disruptive and unsettling event. i can imagine vendors parading the outsides of fraternity houses and nightclubs, peddling some fictional drug to the lifeless, ragged people that spill out into the streets like zombies.
but things like that don't exist, and if they do then i haven't heard of them and even if i had it wouldn't have changed much of anything.
can you touch your nose?
sure.
do it.
recite the alphabet while touching your nose.
they really say that shit? fuck, did i just say that out loud?
what?
what?! nothing. um, a. b. c...
i don't know what the hell we were thinking. there's a party down the street, i remember brandon saying. let's go then! but we had to wait for a friend of his. jenny was her name, or something like that. i stopped caring after that first hour. we put them away pretty quickly. i was surprised myself that we were even still coherent. i mean, everything was happening at a normal speed. maybe coherent isn't the right word. conscious, maybe. i was surprised we were still conscious. like i said, i stopped caring after the first hour. but jenny finally showed up. her fake, black rimmed glasses could see right through our facade of sobriety. let's do this, someone had said, and we all cheered, like a battle cry towards something even more idiotic than what we began with. and so with that we piled into brandon's car and headed for the party.
okay, see that line?
yeah.
i want you to walk, heel to toe, along the line.
just like cops
i just want to cooperate. that's all.
can you do that?
sure. just gimme a second.
we pulled up to the house where this party was supposed to be. a "going away" party, i think. as it turned out it was for a mutual friend of brandon and mine's. that alone was more reason to celebrate and with what else? more alcohol. we made it to the door and i remember someone greeting with an overly-happy hello. it sounded fake, but really, who gives a shit. the house itself was pretty nice. simple and straightforward, the kind of stuff i tend to gravitate to. it wasn't trying to be more than it was and i liked that. so we found our mutual friend. sean was his name. sean something. and by the way, fuck spelling sean with an s, e, to begin with. since when does that make a shhh sound? i don't know. regardless, i suppose sean was more of an acquaintance than anything else, but any reason is a good reason to have a party, right? right. that's exactly what we did. looking back now i remember the exact moment i hit that over-the-limit point. we were all in the kitchen, me, brandon, jenny, sean, and a few other people i didn't know and really wasn't in the mindset to meet. sean said, drink this. it was a shot of something. jager or jack or something that had no business being inside me with the rest of the fucked up shit that already resided there. but i drank it anyway. it's a celebration, a going away, he said. that was more than enough reason for me. i couldn't just leave him hanging. what kind of person would that make me? a smart one most likely, but that's easier said now than before.

halifax

2009-06-19T21:03:00.001-07:00

Alli, a sculptor, small and smart, who is my younger sister, loved a man from Halifax once.
I thought to myself, What kind of fucked up sentence is that? No one writes like that. No one. I could have just as easily wrote,
Alli, my younger sister, is a sculptor. She is small and smart and once loved a man from Halifax.
See how much better that reads? How much better it sounds? It rolls of the tongue as they say. The first sentence is short and strong and states the point of it all. The subject. Alli. She is my sister, my younger sister obviously, and she is a sculptor. A fantastic sculptor. She had made me this amazing miniature statue for my 25th birthday. But you know what, we?ll come back to that.
She is small and smart and once loved a man from Halifax.
This is not entirely true. I mean, to her maybe she thought she loved him. Maybe she even had this perfect idea of loving him. But most of us knew that it wasn?t real. I knew. Marilyn, her best friend, knew as well. There were little hints when we first met him, hints that set us off to his beguiling ways. For one, he didn't open the door for her. Any door. Car door. House door. Building door. I suppose for some maybe that's not the biggest deal. We seemed to think so, me and Marilyn. He's bad news, she'd say, bad news bears. Actually, I didn't even know that was the name of a movie until 5 months later when Gail, this girl I had been seeing, mentioned it to me in the video store. Bad news bears, she said. But I reacted unknowingly, drawing myself to the first thing I thought her to be talking about - two large, black men who had just walked through the motion sensor slide doors. Jesus, I said to her, that's kind of fucked up.

someday i'll finish these...

2009-06-18T18:35:00.001-07:00

On some afternoons Dee and I would sit out in front of the house, on our old lawn chairs that we?d taken with us to the river every summer, the kind that fold up and click to lock into place. You could fold them half way and sit at the edge of the water, or open them wide and lay out under the sun. We don?t go much anymore these days, partly because neither of us really have the time, but mostly because Dee can?t handle the sun like she used to, at least not for extended periods. But it was a particularly nice day and we were both tired of sitting inside.
Marty, our pet terrier, sat belly-down in the grass next to us. I named him Marty after Marty McFly, you know, from Back To The Future. I remember Dee arguing with me the day we got her.
Marty?!
Yeah. Like Back To The-
I know!
So what's the problem?
She's a girl, Sam!
And?
It turned into a pretty big fight and we ended up not speaking for almost five hours after that. I went out later that night and bought her this bouquet of roses. They were a deep red color, fresh, and in that sort of mid-bloom phase that, I guess, is supposed to be the ideal phase when buying flowers. I don't know, say what you want about them. I don't care how cliche it is, flowers will win a girl over any and every time. And they did...

maybe

2009-06-11T17:45:00.001-07:00

if a man
comes up to you and says,
i think that if this
were another time
maybe
i could have known
you a little better,
and you've never met
this man before
never ever
what do you think you would say?
maybe,
excuse me,
maybe,
who are you?
maybe,
i'm sorry?
and then maybe he says,
oh, what?
or maybe,
don't you remember
that time in cleveland,
or maybe,
for what?
do you think you would walk away?
or maybe you stand there
and talk to this man
this stranger
because you're interested
because he's interesting
after all
he came and said this to you
but you don't remember
or maybe you don't recognize
and so you say,
have we met before?
and he answers
but you get distracted
because daisy, your little pug,
is tugging at the leash
and you turn your head
just as he answers
and miss what he said
but maybe you hear
just a piece
a tiny part
and you remember for a moment
that maybe
you have met
that maybe
you shared a seat on the bus
or a seat at the bar
or a bench at the lake
or a wave at the beach
or a step at the park
and maybe you say,
oh, now i remember,
and he says,
oh, well, i'm glad,
and you think back
while daisy tugs a bit
while the man rubs his head
and maybe
you say,
but i knew you okay,
and the man blinks
once
twice
and smiles
and maybe
he says,
no.
you didn't know me at all,
and he smiles
and turns
and walks away
and maybe you say,
wait,
or
i don't understand,
or
maybe
you say nothing at all
and a train goes by
or a bird flies past
or a dog barks twice
and you forget
just as fast
as you remembered
that maybe
you didn't know
all along

a write to write, if only a little something...

2009-06-08T00:05:00.001-07:00

scottie hadn't written anything. it'd been 17 days and he hadn't written a word. not a line. his notebook lay barren on the floor, collecting dust, carving a permanent shadow into the cold, hard tile beneath it. they only want you when you're had, he wrote, they only want you when you're up to the test. it was the last scribbled line in over two weeks. now it was just a remnant, a ghost of a long lost feeling that he knew never really existed in the first place. he sat against the heater, eyes closed, facing the oven that loomed over his lonely notebook. he wanted to write. he wanted to stretch out with all his emotion and pour into the very fibers of that notebook, empty his heart onto the pages with a great ferocity. but he couldn't. instead he just sat there, arms folded around bent legs, cradling his own unhinged longing. he shifted in his spot. quietly. it was there for the taking, he knew, but the pressure now was too great for him to overcome. he blinked twice and stood up. they only want you when you're had, he recalled. some cosmic game of chicken. the phone rang a shrill, unnerving tone and scottie reached for the door. it rang twice before he closed it all behinfd him.

idle-thinker

2009-06-03T00:34:00.001-07:00

there are billions upon billions of galaxies in the universe.
there are even more stars within those galaxies.
and we are one.
one planet to one star.
one star to one solar system.
to one galaxy.
one galaxy in billions of billions.
in a cosmic blanket of matter and mass and celestial stardust.
so what does that make us?
what does that make this sentence?
this word?
this letter?
these hands?
these fingers?
this body?
this mind?
this heart?
this life?
what makes me me and you you?
what makes this?
what makes that?
a grain of sand on a beach
of billions of grains of sand.
i'd like to know
what it's like
to feel the electric charge of thought
before it's being thought
to peer into black holes
to swim in synaptic gaps
to see the end
and know that we were right all along
because it was a beach all along
and we were okay with that
because we loved
we laughed
we lived
like tiny stars in a galaxy
in a universe of tiny galaxies.

6.30

2009-06-01T09:30:00.000-07:00

6.30
wake up.

6.32
your mother's on the phone. gunner's dead.

6.43
lie in bed. roll over. just more bed. a cold pillow. gotta make arrangements. roll back.

6.55
phone rings. ring. ring. answer. "yeah, this is-" hello. hang- "not here but le-" no. no, i'm here. hang on. "back when i can-" hello...

7.02
the pot bubbles. fills the air. smells like death. didn't change the filter. old grounds. shit.

7.07
out of bed. phone again. at the edge. let it ring.

7.08
gotta piss. can't. he's dead. and i can't piss. maybe i'll drink some coffee.

7.11
paper. why read it? dead this. dying that. poor this. killed that. this coffee fucking blows.

7.15
shower. look down at my dick. god that's depressing. grab it. tug it. nothing. off to a great start.

7.24
knock at the door. cheryl. needs sugar. fuck you, lady. clean your dog's shit off my front lawn and we'll talk. sure, one second.

7.33
dad calls. gunner's dead. i know. well, get a new one. don't really care. stop by later? sure, why not?

7.41
piss again. barely. turn on the faucet. no help. broken cock at 26. r.i.p.

7.48
out the door. hey, tom. hey. no, didn't see. sure. yeah, your wife is pretty hot. she wants it? sure. send her over. okay. see you later.

7.52
school bus. school bus with a pop-out stop sign. cars telling me what to do. that's good. that's just...

7.55
freeway. 63mph. 74mph. 78mph. 85mph. 89mph. swing it into the divider. flick of the wrist. 3. 2. 1. go.

8.09
late. thanks for the reminder, asshole. so far up his own ass. need a new job. 4 hours 'til lunch...

"summer is coming," exclaimed the rabbit, "it's coming to wash us away."

2009-05-27T01:39:00.001-07:00

"there's a ledge not far from the quarry, past stevens point and the running spring, where simon and the others played freeze-tag with the kids from mansfield, where jenny and sean hurled rocks at the stars like comets in reverse, and where stacy, dressed in blue jeans and a shirt with an armadillo on it that she bought from the thrift store on 2nd, the one with the mannequin in a tuxedo, threw herself into the morning sun."

andy and i had known each other for almost five years, since homecoming senior year, and we were friends. we would get together with the rest of the group every now and again and talk about what it was that we expected to happen after high school and compare those answers to the reality of it all. we'd talk and reminisce about what we called the "good times", even though the times we considered "bad", the ones we used to validate our "good" ones, never held up to their label. but it wasn't until the last few months that we became, what she would call, good friends.

april 15, 1957 - a scribbled note on magazine cover

2009-05-06T00:51:00.001-07:00

"caroline left to today. packed up without a sound. without a note. nothing to punctuate the end of eight months of, well, what was it really? i don't know. i let her go, like most everything else, without a fight. without word or worry. what that must have been like for her? to give and give and give and get fractions in return. to put it all out there and never reel anything back in. made of unequal parts, caroline and me. i haven't been able to feel that for some time now. since high school. maybe. to care for something, to love something, to want to be apart of something. of someone. of a greater whole. instead we're just fractions. i don't want that anymore. i want to feel something, care for something, know something, share something. love something enough to not let it walk out the door. "

regarding the last few months, or, an open letter to those who apologies apply to

2009-05-05T12:22:00.001-07:00

i'm not very good at things of this sort, but that's probably already obvious. i'm not the right kind of man to be the kind of man that you may need. not now, at least. things happen. people happen. events happen. i've never been one to handle any of this or that with any sort of grace or compassion, at least not at the right levels. passivity and disregard are the tools of communication that i employ. for that i am sorry. sorry because of what this has led to. sorry because i can't handle such situations like a normal person, or, at least, like how i think a person should handle them. sorry because i never wanted to be that kind of person. sorry because i just never cared enough. and therein lies the issue. because i did care. i just couldn't express it. a fear of commiting, of admitting, of realizing that i care.

things never plan out the way you want them to or think them to. the way you see them in your head. in the theater of the subconscious. i would live there, if i could. i would function there. we would function there. and it would be, like it should have been, good.

part one

2009-05-03T18:58:00.001-07:00

sam and i were pretty good friends. in the summer that followed what had been our 12th, and ultimately our last, year of school we took a trip to lake carlson. we wanted to hike mt. sherman. i had mentioned the idea to sam before, months prior to our adventure, while she was on holiday with her family in alaska. "the only way to start off the most epic summer ever!" i had written on plain white paper, scribbling little stick figures of the two of us atop the mountain. she came back before having the chance to write me in return. but the feeling stayed. and throughout the coming months until just recently we planned our adventure.

barry

2009-04-27T02:42:00.000-07:00

barry got shot. down 5th street. we read it in the paper the next morning. at school word was he got between some shady people. got in over his head, as they say. had extra counselors for the grieving. i remember sean and casey being sad. most of the people were. i wasn't. couldn't figure out why. barry was dead and i couldn't care less. summers of camp. pond fishing and rock skipping. me and barry walking the riverbed. but now i couldn't muster a tear for him. couldn't shake a fist. couldn't do nothing. barry got shot. but what about me?

"i figure it's more like dreaming..."

2009-04-24T23:59:00.000-07:00

"...slipping away for a spell. being someplace not in the current. truth be told, i'm in no hurry to be saddled with such knowledge. it's not quite priority one. no, sir. but that's not to say we don't think about it. gamble it's something most not care to admit, figure it's more of the private nature. personal. but we do it. 'cause maybe sometimes it's easier, or hastier, or something of the sort. or maybe just too mysterious to leave be. every one person has their own conviction. myself, like i said, i figure it's something like dreaming. and i stir about, keep on going, like maybe nothing really happened. but it's all up here, playing out, the way you conjure it does. but i fancy it a secret, best saved for the end."

simulacrum

2009-03-25T19:25:00.001-07:00

cosmically, almost on a whim, we split through the crowd just behind "mccullough's" but still in front of the beach. it was wonderful. inviting and beautiful. "i want to live this forever," she said, the one roller skate squeaking under her good leg.
it was the feeling of joy. it was the feeling of relief.
of being able to sing. of being able to laugh.
of that rush at the end of a tunnel.
of that singular tear sledding down the space between your nose and your cheek.
of a never-ending roller-coaster, the clicks of the tracks the only reference in time.
of that next breath. and of that last one, too.
"i want to live this forever," i said. and the sun rushed up as if it needed to keep pace with the crashing waves. i readjusted my eye patch and took her fingers in my hand. but i hadn't realized it.

there was a change

2009-02-24T22:49:00.000-08:00

stop.
what?
stop.
stop what?
this. you're different. you need to stop.
i don't understand.
don't be stupid. you're not the same.
i'm not the same?
no, asshole. you're not.
i don't get it.
what happened?
what do you mean?
there was a change. you stopped being you. you started being something else.
you're being ridiculous.
i'm not. i can tell. you're not the same person.
you're not making sense.
you're an act. you're a character.
you're insane.
you're too cool for yourself. you're not yourself. what happened?
i'm still myself.
no. you're not. go back to being you. go back to being you.
i don't understand.
you're doing it right now. you're someone else. it's not you. you're something else.
fuck you.
see. you're more asshole now than ever.
no i'm not.
yeah. you are. you were more fun back then. more of a goof. more of a sweetheart. more of you.
i still am.
no. you're not! are you hearing me?
are you hearing me? i'm still the same.
no...but i wish you were.

coma, coma, coma.

2009-02-14T22:50:00.000-08:00

there are fractal planes at the edge of space, at the very tip of the hands that creation bore. wormhole fragments split into semicircle tubes, conscious pieces of past and present, locked into each other like venus flytraps. correlated, symmetrical, and perfect in shape. they speak softly, nomads and nuns, in the corners of our mouths. they tell us the truths, like nebulas on their death beds, born to pass without ever knowing purpose or pleasure. there are million, billions, currently swimming through empty black, through empty dreams - spilling into the fabrics of dark, unreachable accents. i've no longer the power, nor the desire, to unfold the mysteries of their being. at the edge of space we'll wait for their signs.

"i love you, cavraletta"

2009-02-14T22:49:00.000-08:00

i love you like the sun.

we spoke aloud, embedded in the ether, like fireflies in the mist, violent and obscene, shaking the trees to the ground.

i love you like orion.

a collapsing, a folly, defined by the unexperienced, movements not becoming of what we truly were.

i love you.

creatively speaking, behind shadows and moonlight, making the most of inevitables, making the least out of what never was.

cavraletta, in the moon. cavraletta, in the light. cavraletta, dream of day. cavraletta, dream of night.

-Cameron Bordwell (1872)

"we know far less than led to believe..."

2009-02-10T22:50:00.000-08:00

...and then his eyes shifted and settled into recess, his words trailing off, as if to become yet another fleeting fact, fading to fiction in the autumn air. I watched him, fixated on his gaze, as he immersed himself in whatever was unfolding, materializing, in his mind. I worried, albeit briefly, that everything was finally catching up to him, that maybe somehow this man, this indestructible being, the epitome of strength and selflessness I'd come to idolize, to emulate, to cherish, to love, had finally broken under the weight of it all. We sat there for a few minutes more. I let the moment envelope me like sunlight, hoping that it wouldn't be the last.

in the hole, two years gone

2009-02-04T22:51:00.000-08:00

timothy sicretta spent most of his time like the rest of them, tucked away in that hole on the outskirts, on the edge of space, waiting for someone to find him, to recover him, to dig him out of the shell he fabricated for himself. secretly, though, he enjoyed it. he enjoyed the solitude. the reclusiveness. it was him, whether he care to admit it or not, it fit him. he wrote this, quietly, in his sleep one night. it goes:

I couldn't tell you 'bout my lovers,
Nor 'bout the time of day
Or things that glow in murky swamps,
And things that fade away
Or those who come and stay a while
And share all that they know
Or those who see the gloom in men,
And simply choose to go
The facts remain, however trite,
That we are simple beings
Whose place in life is smaller than,
A token in the sea

i never understood it. i never tried to comprehend what might have been going through his head. it'd been too long anyway for me to even begin to realize what may have been going on in his mind. "it's in the dreams," he'd say, and i'd believe him. he did have quite peculiar dreams.

"fabricated responses"

2009-01-22T22:52:00.001-08:00

i may return.
may?
yeah. hopefully not, though.
why's that?
because.
because why?
because if i don't then it'll have all worked out.
what?
everything.
everything?
yeah. everything. the plan, the stakes, everything i set up. everything i gambled on. everything.
but what if it doesn't?
then i'll come back. we've already established that.
oh.
yeah.
well, i hope you come back.
why?
i mean, well, not because i don't want it to work out for you. just because i think if you don't then that'll be then end of that. the end of us.
i'm going away. wouldn't that be the end of us?
i guess. maybe not.
well what good is it staying around here?
i don't know.
exactly.
so...
so?
so, i don't know.
well, neither do i. but this is better that staying around here.
why?
there's nothing for me here.
oh.
not anymore, at least.
well, good luck, i guess.
thanks.

seagulls'

2009-01-22T22:52:00.000-08:00

"think about scandal. think about a mother's love." the time when his father passed out on the couch, unknowingly locking us out of the house until his mother came home, spent from an unsupportive job, hours after the neighborhood went to sleep, and took what might be considered illegal to some people. "shit happens" says the tacked up calender hanging inside the glass of a hollow garage. "think about a tree house. a tea party. a fort." i never had the privilege of a tree house. i feel like somehow, maybe, i missed out on a crucial part of childhood. like not reading "where the wild things are" or playing tee-ball. what kind of person would that have made me? "think about a death. a tear." is it possible to have one without the other? i can't. i'm emotional. i'm concerning. concerned with the what/who/why. what kind of person does that make you? to have one without the other. "and what the aurora looks like in the arctic." it shifts, like a tumbling rock, or a withering tree, from one life to another. i imagine it to look like heaven on psychedelics, if such a thing exists.

"love it would be much better"

2009-01-19T22:53:00.000-08:00

"i've known for a few weeks now," he started, bringing a cigarette to his lips, igniting the tip with a quick flip of his finger. "the fact that it's true really doesn't make any difference."
her body shifted, a subtle, uncomfortable movement linking the past to a present awkwardness. "so you don't care?" she asked.
"well, i care. how can i not? but really, what is there i can do about it?" he spoke calmly. assured. convincing only to himself. a slight breeze blew though, shuffling the papers on the table. she shuffled again, purposely distracted by the noise.
"i don't know. it's not like i really had a choice," she said.
"no. you did. and you made it, albeit the wrong one," he countered, taking a deep drag from his cigarette.
"how can you say that?" her emotion poured from the ends of her sentences like broken dams. "you're such an asshole, you know?"
"yeah, well, don't act so surprised. it's not like it's anything new."
a silence grew, slow but heavy. the two sat for a moment, soaking in their forced discomfort.

hexafractal spermwhales

2009-01-19T22:52:00.000-08:00

two minutes into the future a bomb goes off south of tel aviv in a market square at the break of dawn and children scream for their parents and the fathers beg and pray and bargain for their daughters to be safe while half way across creation a mother drowns her son in the frigid cuyahoga. her prints are latent and the smell of christmas is fresh in the air. newspapers scoop it up like dogshit while the priest puts the silent to rest. five minutes ago a young child loves his neighbor in the vein of every television show he's ever saw. a dispicable act is concieved and carried out and the paper beneath his dresser describes it as "holy" and "destined". in a day or two it all blows over but the tastes still swim in the synapses. my mother said once that the truth is the only thing that will set you free but i think it was all bull shit because i heard that, years later, in a rundown movie theater.

prologue

2009-01-19T19:26:00.000-08:00

Lately my brother sleeps in the living room on a brown corduroy sofa that our mother inherited when Grandad passed on. It was the only thing he left her, the only thing she has of his. But it's more of my brother's now, I suppose. He started sleeping there about a month ago. "I can't stay there. I can't do it anymore," he'd say of his room, a small spare space tucked away in the corner of our house, no larger than one of those walk-in closets you'd see on the television. The mattress was pushed up against the wall, leaving only a couple feet for his legs to hang of the end. Stacks of clothes outlined the remaining border punctuated by a single window above his shoes.

i needed one more

2009-01-08T22:46:00.001-08:00

cause that's the pattern of late. but this is made up. the others, well, they were real. i knew a kid named albert. i knew a girl named stella. actually, i didn't. or don't. i don't know anybody by those names. i did know a kid named nathaniel. he ate the stucko off the sides of houses. we made fun of him for it. he had one kidney. and one time his bladder exploded. this is true. nathaniel and the kidney. but i don't know what happened to him. and i can't write something honest without an intermediary. it's just not possible. if you filter it though it becomes less of yours and more of something else. and i don't want this to be mine. not really, at least.

albert navarro

2009-01-08T22:46:00.000-08:00

albert navarro was a kid who lived on my street, back when i was more of a kid then a man. he liked birds and trains. his mother would always make him breakfast before class. he'd say, "did your mom make you breakfast?" and i'd say, "i don't have a mom, asshole." and he'd go on about his mother's breakfast and i'd just walk away. i found a notebook of his a few days after he died. i didn't know he kept one, but he did. i found this in it:

i love you, little hands, you keep my face safe
i love you, tiny feet, you send me quick to escape
i love you, skinny arms, you let me wrap the cold
i love you, clumsy legs, you give me control
i love you, and want to love you

i could never write like that. but he was that kind of kid, i guess.

stella bradford

2009-01-08T22:45:00.001-08:00

stella bradford jacks you up. she jacks you up three times over and while you're reeling in confusion she jacks you up again. she's good at that. she jacks you up while you're walking down the street in your skinny jeans and moccasins and you don't know it but she's jacking you up something good. stella bradford will jack you up without even knowing she's jacking you up. that's her way. and, to her defense, it's not really her fault. she's unknowing. she's just her. she's just stella bradford. but she jacks you up in the morning. she jacks you up in class when you're trying to make something of yourself. and she jacks you up when you're trying to forget about her. but that's stella bradford. and you can't forget about her. cause she's always jacking you up. she jacks you up when you're with your friends, when you're drinking and smoking and talking about getting jacked up. she's doing it then. but can you blame her? cause maybe you should have learned by now. stella bradford. she just jacks you up.

cellafloriskidsamorean terrahaupt

2009-01-03T22:48:00.000-08:00

burned bridges for seven ninety-five an hour and one and a half on holidays. says it's good money. no one wants that job. most people, he says, most people, they get too attached to them. cant carry out the job. but me, i just do it. get it done and dont look back. i figure things gonna burn down anyway. why not do it now? do it and get paid. thats the best part. getting paid for the inevitable.

"the spilling out and tumbling of words..."

2009-01-03T22:47:00.001-08:00

jim tenenbaum, gentle jimmy t they called him, he lived off of larson and smith just outside of terrence, indiana. he spent most of his time at home with his mother, his sick mother who never really got out of bed save for when she had to do the dirty deeds and jimmy would have to come upstairs and see if mother needed a hand but usually she didnt because she didnt like jim seeing her the way she was anyway but jim didnt mind he just spent his time in his room reading and listening to his songs and writing and he was a good writer and his teacher told him he was a good writer but jim never really thought much about it but i guess it was because he liked reading more than writing maybe he thought the writers he read were better than him so he never really had the confidence. i guess you could say that. but he'd write anyway and he'd write about heroes and he'd write about girls but mostly he'd read and he'd usually read the same kind of books his father read even though he had left a long time ago but he left behind most of the books he had, books about wars and about mysteries and about things like that and he never really read anything else but that unless his teachers made him but that was only for class.

astronaut/cosmonaut

2009-01-03T22:47:00.000-08:00

i'd like to find out, sometime in the future, when i die or maybe just through a psychic reading, that i was the reincarnation of yuri gagarin. i think i'd like that very much.

"his blood was fused with turnip juice and sunlight"

2008-12-29T22:49:00.000-08:00

thomas edward britton wakes up from a coma and stumbles down the stairs, iv's in tow. "what the mother fuck is this?" he says, dragging rusted pipe and tubing behind him. his legs give in in halfway down the spines of the building and he collapses in on himself like an accordion. "where are my keys. where are my goddamn keys." he exclaims, gripping what remains of his left arm. "you mother fuckers." he spits into a cylinder at the base of the steps and waits for the ping sound of saliva on metal to judge just how far up he really is. thomas edward crawls along the floor, shuffling as best he can, hoping to find someone to scream at. "asshole," he says into reflective tiles. a roar comes from the south end of the building. thomas edward spins around, the force of it tearing needle from arm, a dark liquid cascading down the floor. "what is the time? what is the time?" he spews. once. twice. and slips back into a coma.

my neighbor has a son who sleeps in a drawer

2008-12-29T22:48:00.001-08:00

i have a car that runs on shredded wheat
and in the morning i fuel with two percent
to get the wheels moving
i have a toadstool to sit on at night
and i sing "coral. the breadwinner." to put it to bed
in a glossy, yellow glow
i have a neighbor down two houses from me
whose son sleeps in a drawer below socks
to keep warm when moonlight travels far
and i have two hands and eight fingers
but i only really use the five
because it's much easier when i make my mother's cupcakes

caroline stevens

2008-12-29T22:48:00.000-08:00

my partner in crime, her name was caroline stevens. she lived next door to me. she was nice. she was pretty. in the 3rd grade when we were on spring break we snuck into mr. mccuphrey's backyard. he didn't know we were there. we just wanted to climb the giant tree in his backyard. we always wished one of us had a tree like that of our own. we wanted to build a treehouse. scott tanner had a treehouse and we were jealous. but he was a dumb kid anyway.

i remember when we went to the drive in theater one month. we stayed in the back of my moms car. she pulled up in reverse so we could lay back and watch the movie and eat snacks. i remember one of the people there got into a fight with another because his car was too big and his kids couldn't see the movie. it was kind of scary. caroline was worried but it turned out okay.

caroline and i, we were good friends, but then one day she went to another school and i didn't hear from her as much. but then we started talking again, but it wasn't the same. i remember that pretty well.

daydream deposit boxes

2008-12-26T22:49:00.000-08:00

10:15 - I think my tooth is falling out. I think it’s been falling out for a while. I can feel it in there. Wiggling. Writhing. Forcing its way out. It’s separating from the gum. I can feel it every time I smile. Every time I bite down on a carrot or a piece of meat. This isn’t good. I like steak. I like apples. It’s chipped. That’s a start. Shit. I really don’t want to lose another tooth.

10:57 – Ginger came in. I think she’s on speed. She’s definitely on something. I don’t think her daughters realize their mothers’ problem. They run around the lobby. Ginger talks far too loudly. The other people look around. Look at her. I don’t think she knows what she’s saying.

1:21 – I’m tired. Just flat out drained. I don’t know why. Haven’t slept well. Not in a while but that’s really no surprise. Had a cup of coffee this morning. Need another one. Drink too much coffee now. Never really liked it before but now I can’t operate without it. I need another cup.

1:54 – That’s about five people in a row that have said “Merry Christmas”. It’s nice. Pleasant and depressing at the same time. How many of those people will be this considerate, this caring come January? How much more difficult is it for people to be this happy, this forgiving more than once a year? Yeah, we’ve all heard it before. It’s an unfortunate thing.

2:31 – She breaks down. Shit. Just like that. “Is everything okay?” “I’m so sorry. I’m- I’m sorry.” For what? She mouths. “My husband died.” Oh, man. She cries. That’s why she’s taking all her money out. Heartbreaking. And days before Christmas. Stop apologizing. “I’m sorry.” Don’t be. “Is there anything I can do for you?” “No, no I’m sorry.”Dammit.

the tale of jack

2008-12-22T22:30:00.001-08:00

jack lives a good life. he does. honest. his parents had him early on in their lives. so early that instead of drinking champagne at their wedding they drank apple cider. on jack's first birthday, one year after they said they didn't want anything to do with him, jack's grandparents threw him a luau, a spectacular party with hula dancers and drums and a roast pig, and all the family came over and enjoyed themselves and jack parents were grateful for the help.

and on christmas jack's parents bought him a ghostbusters proton pack and ghost trap and jack was the happiest boy in the world. they celebrated and played super mario in his grandma's living room where jack and his family lived for the first few years until jack's parents had another child. jack got a brother.

and so jack and his brother grew up and jack became more of a ham, year after year, trying more and more to stand out from his newborn brother. he loved attention. and he loved ninja turtles.

and a few years passed. jack grew up and so did his brother and the whole family moved to a new house and jack started school and although he was quite outgoing he was, by far, the shyest in the class.

but he grew up. and then one day jack's mom and dad brought him and his brother into their room and told them that things weren't working out. jack was confused and angry and upset and frustrated and jack lashed out and had a hard time. but then things worked out. they always seem to work out for jack.

and then jack jumped forward in time and saw himself growing up and getting hair in places he never had hair and noticing girls when he never noticed girls. but he was still jack.

frankly speaking, jack lives a normal life. the cory matthews life. and it doesn't suffice for jack anymore. jack drinks too often and curses too frequent and smokes on occasion to balance out the buzz. jack hides his secrets like a dog hides his shame and waits and wishes for someone to notice, never revealing outright and getting off on the prospect of everyone knowing. jack is an asshole and a heartbreaker who decided to give up on getting close because the inevitable outcome it too much to handle any more. jack is cold and jealous and loses a little more of himself each time he sees something similar to himself on the television or in a book and jack realizes that his identity, who he truly is, is nothing more than an emulation of some last encounter.

and jack daydreams more and more. he falls into an alternate dimension where actions have no consequence, where he lives out the fantasy of being immune, of a future where it all plays out like some movie script. he has it down. like the part where he plans to leave for a year, plans out everything he'll do before hand: the telling off of some secret nemesis, the confession of affection to some unrequited secret love, the "never look back moment". and then the hour or so in the movie where jack "finds himself" through a series of adventures and spiritual moments. and then the big finale when jack returns home after a year or so and is welcomed warmly ends up getting the girl and everyone lives happily ever after. he's seen it a million times. knows it line for line. plays out in his alternate dimension.

but some things are better left to the dreamers. and, after all, jack really does have a good life.

"effectively speaking on behalf of no one..."

2008-12-15T02:31:00.000-08:00

past the pharmacy, past the signs, past the ill-lit dive bars, drunks, and bastards swimming in the gin and neon, semi-coated pink and green, past stretch 313 and the abandoned sullivan house with the cracks and the smells and the cats who chase mice through the stench of a basement buried beneath wrecked lamps and picture frames, into the darkness of the wood where poor peter carson lays upon driftwood singing so quietly, "johnny boy, a will-to-do, oh johnny boy, oh johnny boy. dear johnny boy, oh what-to-do, come creeping through the moonshine," like a hollow, sterile man beneath wretched memories.

"do you see me in the morning as i'm waking up the world? with a pitchfork and a shovel and a heavy shoulder or two."

the writings have stalled, a little more each day, spilling slowly out of a once full head. put a pen to paper and wait for the ink to bleed. put a finger to key and listen for the taps of fresh ideas. but the blood doesn't pump. the mind sits in a stale, sluggish state, with a predilection towards mediocrity.

"My Close Call"

2008-12-12T01:03:00.000-08:00

The events herein take place three summers ago on a gorgeous, serene day in July in a lake under a waterfall just outside of Kapa'a, Hawaii. It is wholly factual, down to the fibers, and reprocessed for the first time since its occurrence. It goes as such:

We drove for an hour or so down the only main street on the island. Poipu's beach was as beautiful as any other but we were looking for a new adventure. Something like from a movie. So we drove. Farther and longer until we saw the sign. "Wailua Falls".

"Let's go," she said with excitement. I obliged. After all, how do you turn down a waterfall? Especially if you've never seen one before.

So we turned and drove down the street that would lead us to the falls. We drove for twenty minutes before finally reaching Wailua Falls. Nothing I'd ever witnessed before had come close to being so magical, so peaceful and fierce, all at the same time.

"It's amazing," she said.

"Seriously."

I parked the 1992 Toyota truck my grandfather had let us borrow earlier in the day at the lookout point to the falls. We were at least 100 yards away over looking the raging water poor 80 feet into the lake below us.

"There are people down there," she said, a hint of curiosity slipping through the syllables.

"How do you think they got down there? There's no boats or anything," I replied, just as interested.

Below us were about 15 people, all swimming and lounging around the lakeside, taking in the beauty of the falls.

"You want to go down there?" A woman said to us. Why wouldn't we? So she led us away from the lookout point, along a fence line, directly to an opening in the fence.

"Go down there," she said, pointing to the man-made trail that seemed to drop off like the end of the world.

So we did. I mean, it was vacation. Plus there were ropes so what could go wrong.

We navigated our way down the damp, muddy trail like amateur explorers, slipping of a branch or slope ever ten seconds. Rope held in place by branches and makeshift weights kept us from falling of the edge. The sound of rushing water grew with every misstep until we finally reached the base of the trail.

Wailua Falls.

I stood there at the lakeside for a moment, soaking in the size, the sheer magnificence of it all. Something that you never forget. People played near the edges. We could see a few people swimming out in the distance, making a run for the waterfall.

"Let's go," I said, pointing to the waterfall across the lake. It was a good 80 yards or so across the water.

"Okay," she replied without hesitation.

So we did. We took of our clothes, save for the swimsuits we already had on and our shoes because of the rocks, and dove in to the cool, refreshing water.

I recall thinking how awesome it all was. The lake, the waterfall, the island in general. It was all so surreal.

We swam nearly three-fourths of the way to the falls when it happened. I remember feeling scared. Worried, but not yet aware of what was actually happening. So I kept swimming. At least I tried to. I moved my arms, front to back, kicking my legs with every stroke, yet I went no where.

"Katie," I slurred, "Katie, help."

She turned. I remember her turning, coming back, seeing me fight to stay up.

"Kevin," she yelled, panic suffocating her voice. "Kevin."

And I sank. Like dead weight. Like a marble in a cup. I sank. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how badly I struggled, I just kept sinking. She did her best to keep me up, to keep my head above water. She tried so hard. But I kept going under.

I had never been so terrified in my entire life.

Lifetimes past before I felt an arm come under and around my chest. I don't remember it clearly. A man and his son noticed us from the shore. They swam out to help. I remember sitting for a long time afterward, throwing up water, head spinning, trying to comprehend what had just happened, and thanking the two men for being there.

The rest of the day came and went. We went home, returned the truck to my grandfather, and had dinner with the entire family like we'd done every night before.

"Do anything exciting today, CK?" my grandfather asked.

"Not really," I said sheepishly, "just went to the beach."

I speak slower now, to seem more like an old soul

2008-12-08T11:29:00.000-08:00

Preface
We spent the majority of our weekends hiking the paths along the riverside in Northern California, the frisk autumn weather refreshing us with every new trail. Massive redwood trees rose towards the azure ceiling, lining the tranquil stream, reaching for the nebulas above. The waters effervescence collected where rock met dirt, splashing softly, glistening in the morning sun. Magnificent earthy colors enveloped us as we strode along through Mother Nature’s beauty.

process and archive for later disposal

2008-10-07T21:02:00.000-07:00

Monday, September 29, 2008

admission: take one

we were far too short
in the timing
in the feeling
in the sense
that i'm far too
senseless
to release

Thursday, September 25, 2008

sunrise. sunrise.

in the meadows,
in the wind,
in the colorless. caption. below.

bottomless sounds.

souls. souls in the ether. e p h e m e r a l
and
sweet and silent.

in the sun. in the sun. in the moon.
in the glow
and the gloom
and the white and blue.
in the
sunrise.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

"no, i'd rather have that one..."

we hadn't the slightest idea of what to say. no one did. no one ever does.

no. no, i see. i understand completely. the fact of the matter is that it's over. plain and simple. fun while it lasted. not in the cards. pin a cliche to it. however you want. but it's over.

i met him one night, in the thickets and the shrubs near the riverbed just outside Portland, the darkness illuminated by the passing headlights. he offered his support among other things. those things being the pathways to a higher or, as he said, "transcended plane". i thought for a moment while moss grew in slow motion on the logs beneath the water. i saw in there, in the light, suppressed by crashing ferns. my secrets buried me there in the drink.

i'm not the humanoid you thought i was.

cyclical and sterile and credulous, all the same

2008-07-29T18:31:00.000-07:00

i gutted fish in kathmandu, drinking wine and sunlight, listening to the wind make love to the ocean. higher than the stepchild of everest and k2, slipping between the past and present and future and everything between. yes, even between that. lights never more brilliant. sounds never more lucid. dreams never more real. i tell you it was something feral. that's for certain.

beggars find themselves drooling at the sight of oncoming traffic, listening for the sound of music or mouths pouring through a cracked window, staring blank, clean and empty as a new chalkboard, towards that opening which serves no further purpose beyound false hope for those who've slept where most have spewed, for those who weep while others wine, for those who dream greater than the lot of us all.

a squid. there was a squid and i remember kicking and splashing and yelling but i couldn't yell because of the water and i just remember seeing it in the back of my head. i saw it swimming fast and the tentacles reaching for me and the suckers grabbing my legs and i was scared. i was terrified. but i wasn't yelling. i couldn't yell. i don't know why i thought of it or what it really meant. i mean, people usually don't think of squid when they're about to die.

Ephemeral, but not quite so. This is the product of the incomprehensible.

2008-07-12T02:59:00.000-07:00

Your father found you on the boulevard three nights ago, lying in a pool of your own madness. You drifted not too far from home after your sister caught you sleeping in the attic. "You can't be here," she said, her voice stern and solid like a drill instructor. "He'll find you in the middle of the night. He'll kick you to the curb and take what's left of you." So you woke up from the dream, the one where you are flying through the star lines and you make your stumbled way towards the ladder. "Don't come back," she says, turning away before even finishing the sentence, leaving you to climb back down the way you came in.

Aqua(velva)phobia and how you dream in supply and demand

2008-07-09T02:27:00.000-07:00

i dreamed this once. i remember it now. we spent five days on the southern tip, dipping ourselves now and again into the drink. sunlight met the shore, met the air, met the pore. in and then back and then in again. managing not the time of day but the time it'd take to ruin it. either me or her. i would bet her, secretly in my head, on the outcome. because even though there were no winners in the end of it all i still wanted to feel like maybe it were me. i almost died there. in the drink. the bubbles. the glassy abyss. swimming out to meet the falling waters. only made it half way. i think now that it felt like what being apart of the mob must feel like, only when you've screwed the mob and they encase your feet in cement and tell you your "swimmin' with the fishes tonight, saul." only my name's not saul. and i know nothing about the mob. but i know something of almost dying. of drowning. of struggling to breath. air: never a more precious commodity so terrifyingly scarce. sweating under water. yeah, it's possible. but i couldn't tell you how it ended. last thing i thought about was the bet. and then the dream ended.

In Memory

2008-07-06T14:26:00.000-07:00

My grandfather died one month ago. June 8th, 2008. He was 66 years old. His name was Esteban Raleigh Largusa. To us, me and the younger generation, the grandkids, we called him "papa". He lived in Hawaii, on the island of Kauai, for the last few years. He was born in Kilauea, near the north shore.

For the last few weeks I've wanted to write something to him. Something that would express my feelings of him. My thoughts about him. My love for him. But I've found it to be more difficult that I could have imagined.

I can't express how much I miss him, how much I wish he were still here, and how upset and angry it makes me that he's not.

I went golfing a couple weeks ago. I never golf. But I went to the driving range with a friend and we bought some balls and hit the turf.

My grandfather was an avid golfer. He spent the better part of his time golfing. Always going to the club, to the driving range, meeting with friends, getting in that 18 hole round of golf before it got too hot (although, let me say, the heat would never stop him). He loved to golf. He took me and my brother and my cousin one time, years ago, to the driving range with him. I remember watching him drive the ball hundreds of yards every time. He'd say to us, "Choke down on the club," and, "Eye on the ball, and keep that arm straight." The only thing I could remember thinking was, "What is the appeal?"

But then there I was, two weeks ago, standing under a wooden awning at a driving range in Riverside hoping somehow that would bring us closer. That maybe, just maybe, if I could hit the ball hard enough my grandfather would, by some mythical act, reappear and tell me how great of a drive that was and then proceed to do it a thousand times better. How many times I looked toward the entrance hoping, wishing, praying, fooling myself that he would be there.

I saw him for the last time in February. We were having a Superbowl party at the house. Food and friends and talk of hockey filled the rooms. I remember standing behind our leather sofa near the table eating chips and salsa when he walked into the room. His smile, his charm, his charisma shone and radiated throughout. I remember thinking, "What the hell are you doing here?" and then actually saying it to him as we embraced. I hadn't expected to see him that day. He made his rounds, greeted everybody, and settled into his home away from home away from the golf course: the kitchen.

My grandfather loved to cook. I couldn't help but smile when, 5 minutes after he showed up, he was already helping my mom with cleaning or cooking the salmon she had bought the day before. He was a fantastic cook. If I had to pick his specialty it would be Pork Adobo, a Filipino dish. But that day it was salmon.

Today is July 6th. One month ago my grandfather passed away. One month ago I was sitting at the table, talking with family, about how, in Hawaii at the Marine Wildlife Observatory, he would pull the Opihi shells of the sides of the walls in the tanks and eat them right there. One month ago we were watching the Food Network as chef Sam Choy would win the Luau Cookout Challenge from Hawaii. One month ago I was among friends, at our hockey game, resting on a bench in Riverside, thinking about how I should call him and catch him up on things. One month ago, when we finally found out what had happened, I remember grieving in a chair by the door, trying to rationalize all the things that had happened that day, trying to comprehend why it all happened that day, and trying to understand why things like these do happen.

Here's to you, Papa.

Nothing special ever happened

2008-06-21T00:42:00.000-07:00

Nothing special ever happened. There was never a specific event or family trauma that occurred to me when I was younger. Nothing that affected me in any unique way to shape the way I am or how I write. I can't say that my father died rescuing fellow soldiers in the Vietnam War or that my mother drank her weight in red wine and, on occasion, found herself in the thralls of a neighborhood man or that my siblings boasted a variety of narcotics that they took and shared and made me ingest against my will. My family was the quintessential cookie cutter household. My mother served the church. My father paid the bills. My grandparents lived normal, God loving lives, surviving the Great Depression, President Nixon, and the hippie movement. They served their country, obeyed the law, and loved their children. Nothing special ever happened.

Sailors And Cavemen(Revised)

2008-05-19T06:46:00.000-07:00

Sailors And Cavemen

A silver flask sits at the edge of a nightstand in a stylish, high-end hotel near the east side of Orlando. Gideon Nebuls slumps in a brown chair on his balcony. Lean arms drape over the leather armrests. His room is on the 4th floor. It’s late afternoon, and the sun has just begun its nighttime routine while the rain continues to fall from the mottled sky. Gideon listens to droplets beat away at the balcony overhang as he watches the people below move about like ants in a farm.
He tries to relax.
The phone rings from across the room. Gideon, legs full of anxiety, forces himself out of his chair to answer it. It rings two more times before he finally picks up the receiver.
“Good evening, Mr. Nebuls,” says the concierge at the 1st floor front-desk, his tone placid. “I hope you are enjoying your stay.”
“I am, yes. Thank you,” Gideon replies. His voice is low and coarse.
“Very good, sir. I just wanted to check in. There is a Mr. Conners on the line. Shall I put him through?”
Gideon thinks for a moment. Mr. Conners? He can’t recall the name. He’s never been one to take the call of someone whose name or number he doesn’t recognize and, yet, at the same time he always hates when people leave voice messages. But what does it matter? It is, after all, his last night on Earth.
“Go ahead. Put him through,” he tells the concierge.
“Very good, sir. Have a good night.” There is a brief pause while the lines switch between the front desk and Mr. Conners. Gideon loosens his vocal chords with a melodious series of grunts and coughs. Mr. Conners? He tries one last time to place the name in his memory before speaking into the receiver.
“Hello?”

“Gideon.”
The back yard of the Nebuls residence was busy with celebration. Picnic tables were set up in rows toward the far end of the yard. There was a barbeque, coolers full of beer, and a table with an assortment of chips and dips near the patio. Sunlight blanketed the guests as they talked and drank and took turns congratulating the new Commander of the space shuttle Discovery.
“Gideon, come here a moment. I want you to meet someone.”
Gideon sprang up from his seat at the far end of the picnic table and made his way to his father’s side at the opposite end of the bench. His father was sitting with a man roughly the same build as him, strong and sturdy and sharp in the face. Together, they were like a superhero and his sidekick.
“Hey, champ. I want you to meet John Douglas,” Walter began, “John is going to be going up in the shuttle with me.”

Gideon sat down across from the man. His eyes lit up underneath his charcoal hair. “Really?” he asked.
“Yep,” John started. “We’re going up to the space station to fix some panels. Ever seen the space station?”
“Yeah. Dad showed me some pictures from the last time he went up there.”
John swirled his drink in his hand, “Pretty neat, huh?”
“John has been a friend of your father’s since I started in the program,” Walter said. “We’re finally getting a mission in together.”
John laughed, “Yeah. After how long? Better late than never, huh?”
“That’s true,” Walter replied. His face was red in the sunlight. “Gideon,” he began, “Go get your pop another drink, will you?”
Gideon pulled his gaze away from the two men and rushed to get Walter another beer. He reached the cooler, sunk his hand into the icy waters, and pulled out a fresh brew. He moved through the little pockets of people talking and found his father sitting in the same spot as when he left.
“Thanks, champ,” Walter said, giving him a wink as he opened the beer.
Gideon stayed next to his father and listened to the two men talk about past missions. They went on about how fun it was going to be and how excited they were. Gideon’s eyes remained fixed on his father. He sat there and listened to every word until John got up and left.
“Pleasure to meet you, son,” he said. “And don’t worry, I’ll make sure your pop doesn’t screw anything up over there.” John pointed toward the sky and then left.
* * *
“Hello?” Gideon asks again.
“Mr. Nebuls?” says a man, his voice deep and quick.
“Who is this?” Gideon responds, tone shifting from tired to curious.
“Mr. Nebuls, this is Captain Gregory Connors. How are you doing this evening?”
Gideon is still caught off guard. “I’m well. Yourself?”
“I’m well, Mr. Nebuls. Thank you. I understand you will be apart of the Omega mission tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, sir. That’s correct.”
“I recognized your name in the papers. The first manned mission to Mars. That’s no easy feat, son. Quite the challenge.”
Gideon tenses upon hearing this. It is no easy feat. The mission will take years. He knows that. They all do. But how can he pass up this opportunity. How can anyone? Beads of sweat begin forming on Gideon’s brow.
“Gideon, are you there, son?”
Gideon speaks. “Yes, sir. Sorry, I was a million miles away.”
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Connors begins, “You’ll get there soon enough. I’m calling because I worked for NASA some years ago. I knew your father.”
“You did, sir?” Gideon’s voice grows curious.
“I did. Fine man, he was. We went on a few missions together, into orbit, fixing or installing satellites. We never made it to the moon. Buzz and Neil, they beat us to the punch. Your father and me would have gotten there but well, you know. Things happen.” There is a brief pause. “Top class astronaut. One of a kind.”
“Thank you, sir,” Gideon says, trying to relax. The splattering of rain fills a brief pause across the line.
“Was there something I could help you with, sir?” Gideon says.
“No, no. Nothing too pressing. I understand you must be under a significant amount of stress. This is your first flight, is it not?”
“It is, sir.”
“I suppose I just wanted to tell you ‘Good Luck’. Like I said, your father was a class act. I knew him well and it’s good to know his son is following in his footsteps.”
“Well thank you, sir.” Gideon breathes deeply. “If you don’t mind, sir, I do have a big day tomorrow and I think it’s best I get some rest now.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you for taking my call, son. Good luck tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll make your father proud.”
Gideon hesitates. “Thank you, sir. Good night.”
He hangs up the phone. The words of the Captain echo in his head. He feels tired and weak and upset all at the same time. Gideon walks over to the nightstand and picks up the silver flask. He shakes it once or twice. Walking towards the balcony, he twists the cap off the flask and takes a quick drink. His body warms as he pours himself into the chair beneath the balcony cover. Rain splashes at his feet as cars pass in dimming light below.
He tries to relax.

“Gideon. Gideon. Wake up. You’re going to be late for school.”
Gideon sat up straight in his bed on the morning after his father’s party. Sunlight had seeped in through the window on the opposite side of his room, cascading onto the posters and bookshelves that lined the walls. Gideon pushed his hair from away from his forehead, rubbing the last remnants of sleep from his eyes. He stretched, reaching for the stars.
“Hey, champ. Time to get up. Big day, huh?” His father stood at the foot of his bed. “So, do I wear my uniform or not?”
Gideon tried not to let his yawn interfere with his answer. “Yeah. Wear it,” he responded. Sunlight had finally reached his eyes.
“Alright. Well, get up then. Big day.”
Gideon smiled as his father left the bedroom, a scent of last night’s festivities following close behind. He kicked the covers to the edge of the bed and swung his feet around to rest on the floor. “Big day,” he said.

“Okay, class,” Ms. Pumphrey said to her 2nd grade class, erasing the chalkboard. “Up next we’ve got Gideon Nebuls.” She looked towards the back of the room. Gideon was already getting out of his desk. “All right, well I guess you’re ready,” she said. Ms. Pumphrey moved to her desk at the side of the classroom and sat down. “The floor is yours, Gideon.”
Gideon made his way to the front of the class. “Hi, everyone,” he began. “Today I brought my dad to class.” He pointed to the back of the classroom where his father stood. The man smiled and waived to the students.
“Dad, come up here,” Gideon instructed.
His father carefully navigated the rows of desks – using several for support at some moments – and met his son at the front of the class.
“My dad is an astronaut. He flies the space shuttles you see on TV up into space, and works on the space station and does experiments and stuff.” Gideon took a moment to compose himself. “He gets to go into space and fix things and he even gets to float out in space. Right, Dad?”
His father chuckled. “That’s right, Gideon.”
The students were in awe.
Ms. Pumphrey added from her desk, “Gideon, maybe you could have your father talk to the class about being an astronaut.”
“Yeah, okay,” he said. Gideon looked up at his dad, giving him the floor.
“Alright, well. Hello, class. My name is Walter Nebuls. I’m the Commander of the space shuttle Discovery. I’ve been an astronaut for about 15 years. I love doing what I do and, actually, I’ll be going up into space in a couple of weeks here.” Walter paused. The students sat quietly, hanging on every word. “Does anyone have any questions?”
Gideon looked at his friends, then back to his father. His big smile caught the eye of his father, who reached out and tousled the boys’ hair. The class was silent for a moment more. One boy finally raised his hand.
“Yes,” Walter said, pointing to the child. “What can I answer for you?”
A stout, round boy lowered his arm to his desk. His face was small and his head was too tiny for his body. “Why did you become an astronaut?” he asked.
“Well,” Walter started, “since I was your age it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. I dreamed about going into space, seeing other planets and stars, floating in space. I thought, ‘What a cool job to have’. I never found anything I wanted to do more.”
Ms. Pumphrey stood up in her place. “Very good, Charlie. Gideon, is there anything you want to add before we say goodbye to Mr. Nebuls?”
He looked up at his father. “Just that my dad has the best job in the world and someday I want to be just like him.” Walter smiled. He gave Gideon a subtle wink.
“Very good. Okay, class, say goodbye to Mr. Nebuls.” The students said goodbye to Walter in unison. He waved to the class and said goodbye as he walked to the door with Gideon.
“Thanks, Dad,” Gideon said.
“No problem, champ,” he responded. “Have a good rest of the day. I’ll see you at home.” Walter waved goodbye and turned to leave the room.
“Love you, dad.”

There is no rain. There is no sound. There is no light and for a brief moment Gideon loses himself in the surrealism of it all. He lies on the bed facing the ceiling in the high-end hotel and thinks about tomorrow, sliver flask at his right side. Is this the way to spend your last night, he wonders. The red planet waits for his answer.
On a clear day in Florida Gideon drives with the top down. The southern wind rips through his jet-black hair as he speeds down the 405 towards the space center. The sun shines bright and greets awakening wildlife. Banana Creek glistens as it catches rays. Gideon thinks to himself as he races towards the space center, this is the day. This is the big day.
* * *
“So, are you pretty excited?” asked Officer Hillman, looking onto the shuttle.
“Yeah,” Gideon responded, eyes fixed on the massive rocket boosters.
Mission control was making final preparations for the launch of space shuttle Discovery. Walter had arranged for Gideon to watch the launch from inside, under the supervision of Officer Hillman. He had never gotten to see one of his father’s launches. He had been too young before, but this time Gideon couldn’t stop talking about it so Walter surprised him with a spot inside mission control.
“Now, don’t get in the way,” he had said. “Okay? And make sure you listen to Officer Hillman. Otherwise I’m going to shoot you into space myself. Without the suit!” He grabbed Gideon under his arm and messed his hair. Gideon gave him a big hug.
“Love you, Dad.”
“Love you, too. I’ll see you soon.”
Walter was now on the space shuttle. Men buzzed about, flipping switches, talking into headsets to unknown people in unknown places. Gideon gazed over the giant electronic screen that served as an all-seeing eye for the control crew. Everything from shuttle status to up-to-the minute weather reports was displayed on the big screen. Gideon was amazed.
“Gideon,” Officer Hillman said, “Stand here. We don’t want anyone tripping over you.” He moved the both of them against the back wall. Gideon made himself flat. “I think they’re about to begin the countdown.”
A man’s voice came across the intercom in mission control. “Alright we are clear for ‘go’ by weather, booster, eagle. ACO, GCO, and station flight tells me we are still at a ‘go,’ so that puts us in a good config. Let’s roll then with auto sequence start.”
Lights flash on the big screen. Gideon watched at the countdown begins.
“25,” said the man at the desk.
“Pretty exciting, huh?” said Officer Hillman.
“Yeah,” Gideon exclaimed.
“20.”
Sharp static comes over the intercom. Gideon’s eyes flash about the big screen.
“15.”
Gideon put his hands in his pockets to try and combat his growing restlessness.
“10. We are ‘go’ for main engine start.”
“This is it,” said Hillman.
Gideon remained fix on the big screen.
“5.” Men of various sizes and sweat marks glared at their respective screens.
“4.” Gideon’s hands picked at the lint in his jean pockets.
“3. 2. 1. We have liftoff,” the man on the intercom said. Light applauses followed the success. Gideon watched the screen as Discover shot into the azure; it’s thick, red tail scarring the sky.
“There it is, Gideon. What do you think?” asked Hillman.
“That was awesome. Can they hear my dad on their headsets?” he asked.
“Yeah. They’re connected the entire time the shuttle is in space.”
“Do you think they would let me say hi to him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe once he gets into space. I’m sure they would.”
Gideon beamed with excitement. “Cool.”
The shuttle rose higher and higher into the sky. He turned briefly to look for Officer Hillman. Then he heard someone say, “Dear God, no.”
Gideon spun back around and faced the big screen once more. His eyes grew big and began to glisten beneath a raining inferno. “Dad. Dad!” he cried. Gideon rushed toward the big screen. His legs were heavy and strained and his chest heaved as if someone just pulled him from the deep end of the swimming pool. Officer Hillman snatched the boy before he could make it to the front of the room. Gideon looked up through glossy eyes and watched as pieces of fuselage and paneling fell down to Earth. He heard people repeating the words ‘God’ and ‘no’ in various configurations, sprinkled occasionally with curse words. Part of the main rocket broke up under the pressure and split into smaller pieces that plummeted like meteors under the intense sun. Officer Hillman carried Gideon from the room. He wept and screamed while fire plunged to the ground.

“25.”
“Gideon, this is it, brother,” says Jamison, and English man strapped into the seat next to Gideon. “Blast off. Up to the stars we go, aye mate?”
“Up to the stars we go,” Gideon says, vocal chords seizing under the nervousness.
“20.” The countdown clocks ticks downs to liftoff.
Gideon begins to sweat. “My father died on a spaceship, you know. Exploded in liftoff when I was seven,” Gideon says, working loose the sound from his throat.
“Dear God, brother. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“15.” The rocket engines roar to power.
Gideon adjusts the volume of his voice. “It’s okay,” he says. “I think it’s finally okay.”
“10.”
“Oi,” the man begins, “You ever wondered if there’s life on Mars?”
“Only when I listen to Bowie,” Gideon shoots back.
The man snickers. “Aye, saw that one coming a mile away.”
Gideon thinks for a moment as the rockets roar to deafening volumes. The countdown clock ticks away.
“Here we go, brother,” the English man screams.
“Here we go.” The clock hits “1”. Gideon relaxes.

“Gideon, would you like to share what you wrote?” Mrs. Wilson asked.
“Okay,” Gideon said. He stood up at the board in his 4th grade class and began.
"I want to be an astronaut. I want to go into space for a year and live on the space station up there with the other astronauts. We would do experiments like seeing if fungus can grow in outer space or if plants could survive or things like that. I don't really know yet. I would sleep right side up in a beanbag like you see them do in the movies. And after a year was over, I would come back down to earth and tell all of my friends about what it was like living in outer space and they would all be amazed by it. And maybe after I got settled back in I could go and give speeches to school children about being an astronaut and how fun it is. Maybe I would marry an astronaut woman and maybe we could get married in space. But that would probably be impossible to get married in space. And then when I got even older I could go back into space one more time. Not for a year like before but maybe just to see the earth again from above. It could be like my, my swan something."
"You mean 'swan song'?" Ms. Wilson asked.
"Yeah. My swan song. That’s what it could be like," Gideon said.
"Where did you hear that?"
"I don't know. I think my dad said it once when I was younger. Back when he was still around. Does it make sense, the way I used it?"
"Yes,” Ms. Wilson sighed. “I suppose it does."

Happy Jack

2008-04-21T10:15:00.001-07:00

“Jackie Davis is a son-of-a-bitch!” Patrick held a golden beer, fresh from the tap, in his one bear claw and sucked heavily from a cigarette in the other. He drew his beer to his mouth and inhaled the frosty brew. “Says to show up at 2:30, won’t get here ‘til God knows when. Arrogant bastard.” He took another deep gulp from the mug and slouched back down to rest his elbows on the bar.
David chuckled. “What do you expect? It’s Jack. Guy’s never been on time in his life. What do they say? ‘He’ll be late to his own funeral.’” They looked at each other in agreement and shared another drink.
The bar they were meeting at was called, “Al’s Corner”. It sat at the corner of 5th and Pontiac, sandwiched on all sides by never-ending urban sprawl, sitting out like a transient at a banquet. The outside of it was worn, painted over and again every few years. Little flakes of paint shown at the corners and along the bottom of the building waiting to be pulled.
The inside of the bar was rather nice in comparison to its outer shell. Half of the room was dominated by the bar area. Semi-rectangular and dimly lit, lined on all sides by leather-clad stools, the bar area is where the regulars resided. Behind the bar was an assortment of different kinds of alcohol, neatly arranged by sizes of bottles, not potency.
The other half of the room was filled booths and pool tables, the kind of things you would expect to see in a bar. Neon signs hung along the walls: Budweiser, Coors, Miller. Typical things.
Patrick and David sat under the dim light of an O’Douls lamp. Queen had just come on the jukebox – “Another One Bites The Dust”.
“One more round.” Patrick said to the bartender, just finishing off the last of his first. He looked toward the door. Still no Jack.
“You know, this asshole really has some nerve. He’s lucky we’re friends or I’d beat the crap out of him.”
Dave glanced at his watch. 2:42. He ran his hand through his long, black hair and sighed. “I told you, man. What did you expect? He never shows up on time. I mean, remember when his brother was getting married. Jack slept ‘til 2 that day, right on through the ceremony. He showed up to the reception, like, 30 minutes late. Steve was pissed, remember? Probably the reason he didn’t ask Jack to be his best man. Knew he’d be late to the whole thing.”
Patrick took a drag of his cigarette and laughed, “I remember hearing about that. Could only imagine the look on Steve’s face. Parents, too.” He took another sip from his beer and looked around at the other patrons. “You know, this place really isn’t that bad, at least not as bad as you’d think it’d be judging from the outside.”
“I was thinking the same thing. I drive by this place all the time and just think how crappy it probably is. And then I think about all the people that live around here and how crappy they think it looks. But then it was here first, you know? These houses, they just popped up around it. So what’s the point of complaining about something you could have easily avoided, right?”
“Who says they’re complaining?”
David thought for a moment. “I don’t know. I just assumed they do. I probably would.”
The bartender came around from the other side of the bar. “You boys good?” she asked.
“Yeah, we’re good for now.” David responded.
“Actually,” Patrick said, “Can I get one more, for now?”
“Sure thing, darlin’.” The bartender left the men for a moment to retrieve Patrick’s beer.
“Hey man,” David began, “we’ve only been here, like, 20 minutes or so. Jack’s not even here yet. Think about slowing down, huh?”
Patrick shifted his gaze from the bartender to David. “Don’t worry, man. It’s cool.” He reassured, and then reverted his eyes to the bartender. She returned with his beer, not noticing Patrick’s stare, and placed it on a napkin in front of him. “Enjoy,” she says, and left once more.
David looked at his watch again. Light from the door caught his eye and he jerked his head to the source. “Where is this guy?” he asked to no one in particular. He followed the person who had just come through the door, a tall man in jeans in a shirt wearing a baseball cap. He walked around the bar towards a booth in the far corner and took a seat. “Hey,” he said to Patrick, “Let’s shoot some pool.”
Patrick snickered, “Seriously? You do know you’re going to get your ass handed to you, right?”
David paused. “Probably, but it’s better than sitting here waiting for Jack and watching you drink your ass to oblivion.”
“Touché. Let’s do this”
The two men picked up their drinks and got up from their stools. There were three pool tables arranged in a row. Hanging ‘Miller’ lights illuminated the individual tables. Two construction workers already occupied the far table. “Let’s use this one,” David said, motioning to the table on the opposite side. “Where the hell are the balls?”
“You gotta go ask for a set from the bartender,” one of the construction workers said.
“I’ll get ‘em,” Patrick offered.
“Yeah, don’t take too long, eh? Try and keep it in your pants.” David placed his beer on the shelf near the wall and walks over to the jukebox. Jimi Hendrix – “Castles Made of Sand”.
Patrick returned to the table, pool balls in one hand, fresh brew in the other. “Let’s go, prick,” he yelled across the bar.
David moved between patrons and pool tables back to the shelf and grabbed his beer. “Damn, must not have been feeling it, eh? It’s okay man, you can’t win them all.”
“Screw you, man. She’s gay.”
“Ah, yeah, that’ll do it. Did you get another beer?”
“Yeah. I had to. Otherwise she would have thought I was creepy for going over there and not getting a beer just to talk to her.”
“But you got the balls.”
“Huh. Yeah, I did. Well, I can’t take it back now.”
“Jesus, man.”
The two men shared a laugh for a moment and then Patrick racked up the balls. “Break?” he asked David.
“No thanks, man. I scratch that shit every time. You do it.”
“Pussy.” Patrick lined up his cue ball with the racked balls at the other end of the table. He took careful aim at the balls, drew back his pool stick, and let out a thunderous break.
“Wow. That was pretty shitty.” David said, looking at the table. No balls in the hole.
“At least I didn’t scratch, ass.”
“Yeah, that’s true. Hey, maybe next time try breaking without four beers in you. Who knows, you may just get one of those striped ones in.”
“Prick.”
The two went back and forth, exchanging shots and scratches. David had a good string of shots and was down to one ball but Patrick fought back. Both were on the last ball.
“Alright, loser buys next round.” Patrick said
“How about loser calls Jack and asks him where the hell he is?”
“And buys the next round?”
“Fine.”
David lined up his shot. The eight ball was along the far wall and his cue ball sat between the side and far pocket on the opposite side. He steadied his hand, pulled back his stick, and tapped the cue ball towards the eight. It struck the eight ball and wall simultaneously and sent the eight ball towards the far corner pocket. “Money,” David said with confidence. The ball rolled toward the pocket, hit the corner, then the other, and ricocheted out towards the middle of the table. “Dammit!”
Laughter bellowed from Patrick. “Man, that sucks. Hey while I’m winning this game you can call Jack and get me another beer, all right? Thanks.” Patrick made the shot with ease and returned to the shelf to wait for his beer.
“I’ll be right back,” David said to him. He set down his pool stick and headed for the door.
“Don’t forget my beer!”
David made it to the entrance and went outside to call Jack. Fresh air and sunlight met him there. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and hit the ‘4’ button. Speed dial – Jack. The phone rang four times before going to voicemail. “Hey Jack, where the hell are you? It’s past 3 already. Patrick and I have been waiting a while now. Call us. Or better yet just get your ass down here.” David hung up the phone and went back inside.
His eyes had to adjust for a moment. He walked over to the bar and called to the bartender. “Can I get another round, please?”
“Sure,” she said, “and you can tell your friend over there to stop looking at me. I already told him I’m not into him.” She turned to get their beers. David looked over to Patrick who was practicing bank shots with a few balls.
“Oh, yeah he had said that because you were, you know…” David shifted his mouth and made a motion with his eyes, hinting at what Patrick had told him earlier.
“’You know’ what?”
“Um, like, not into men, period.”
The bartender narrowed her eyes and looked toward Patrick. “You mean gay.”
“Yeah.”
“Listen, tell your dickhead friend if he looks over here one more time I’m gonna walk over there and shove that cue ball up his ass.” She dropped the beers on the counter and walked away.
David returned to the pool table and set the beers on the shelf. “Gay, huh?”
“What?”
“She’s not gay, dummy. And she said if you keep eyeing her she’s going to come over here and give you a colonic with the cue ball.”
Patrick chuckled. “Whatever, man.”
“No, seriously. That’s what you get for trying to be a bad-ass.”
“Blow me.” Patrick picked up his beer and took a drink. “What’d Jackie say?” He asked.
“Nothing. Couldn’t get him. I had to leave a message.”
Patrick threw his stick on the table. “What the fuck, man! It’s been almost an hour. I got shit to do today, man.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“So what the hell are we still doing here then?”
“Jack wanted to meet us here. Said it was important.”
“Yeah? You know what else is important? My fucking time. Watching the game. Not sitting in this bar all day. Who the hell does he think he is? Call him again.”
“I’m not calling him again. I left a message. You call him.”
“Screw that, man. He’s pissing me off big time.”
David took a sip from his brew and thought for a moment. He offered an idea. “All right. Let’s play another game. If he’s not here by the end of it then we’ll leave. We’ll tell him we had other shit to do today and we couldn’t wait around forever.”
“Screw that. Let’s just leave now. I’m sick of always waiting around for that guy. I mean, I love him to death but sometimes he’s such a prick. An inconsiderate prick.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m his friend too. But let’s just play one more and then we’ll go from there.”
“Fine, but I’m going to beat the shit out of you just so we can end this thing and leave.”
“Whatever. Just break.”
They began their second game. The Who – “Happy Jack” came across the speakers.
“Hey, didn’t Jackie’s parents name him after this song?” Patrick asked before sinking his third ball in a row.
“I couldn’t tell you. I don’t think I’ve even heard this song before.”
“It’s kind of screwed up when you think about the lyrics. I always thought it kind of fit him, though.”
“Like how?”
“Well it’s just about this guy who gets fucked with and stuff like that but he doesn’t care. Hence the ‘Happy’ part of it.”
“Yeah, I guess it does fit. Remember the swing thing back in 4th grade?”
“Aw shit, man. That was pretty brutal. I remember him just taking it from those kids.”
“Yeah, but then he just got back on the next day. Smile from ear to ear”
“Well, it probably wasn’t half as bad as being at home all day. God, his parents were so screwed up.”
“Yeah they were. I remember sleeping over at his house once. We were playing Nintendo in his room when we heard his dad come home and start yelling about God knows what and smashing things. I don’t even remember where his mom was at the time but I remember thinking how insane it was.”
They paused for a minute and took a drink. “It’s surprising Jack didn’t turn out all messed up like some of the kids you see,” David said, finishing off the last of his beer.
“Seriously…but that prick still can’t show up on time to save his life! Eight ball side pocket.” Patrick sunk the shot with defiance. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Fine.”
Patrick downed the last of his beer and the two headed for the door. “Guys,” a voice said from behind them. They turned to see Jack sitting at the bar. He stood up to greet them. “There you are.”
Patrick looked him up and down. “Where the fuck have you been?” he scowled, “And what the fuck happened to your arm?”
“Shit, I’m really sorry, guys. I got held up with an appointment. I tried to get here as soon as I could.”
“Yeah, well we’ve been here over an hour already, Jackie, so you’ll have to excuse of if we’re not sympathetic.”
“I know. I know. I’m sorry. Let me buy you guys a drink.”
David motioned to stop him. “No, thanks man,” he said, “We’ve already had a few. Some more than others.”
“Screw you,” Patrick rebutted, picking up on the hint.
“Look, Jack, what’s going on man? We’ve got things to do, too, so let’s just get on with it.”
Jack looked at the two. He scratched at the bandage on his arm. His forehead scrunched as he tried to begin. “Okay. Okay.” He looked for the right words. Patrick and David were getting restless.
“Get on with it, Jackie boy.” Patrick demanded.
“All right.” Jack took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly. “Here it is. I’ve never done this before so I don’t really know how to say this,” he paused for a moment, “I was late because I was at the doctor’s getting some blood taken.”
“For what? To test your gayness?” Patrick said, amusing only himself.
“Jesus, man,” David scoffed, “don’t be an ass. Jack, what the hell is going on?” A mixture of worry and curiosity filled David’s face.
Jack inhaled, “I’ve got cancer. Leukemia, actually.”
“Fuck you.” Patrick exclaimed. “No fucking way. You’re a real dick, man.” Patrick spun around and headed for the door.
“I’m serious, Pat. This isn’t a fucking joke.”
David looked at Jack. Shock replaced the curiosity.
“No, it is a fucking joke, Jackie. That’s exactly what it is. You stroll in here all late and tell us you’ve got cancer. Who the fuck does that?”
“I do, I guess.”
“No, man, you don’t. You’re full of shit.”
Jack shifted his stare to David. “Dave, what’s up man?”
David tried to shake himself awake. “I don’t even know what to say.”
“I do,” Patrick interrupted, “let’s get the hell out of here. That’s what I say.”
“Patrick, God dammit, shut the hell up! I am not fucking with you. I have leukemia. This is not a joke. You’re my friend God dammit! What the fuck did you want me to do, not tell you? And then when my hair starts falling out and I look like the guy from ‘Powder’ then what? Tell you it’s an early Halloween costume? Or write it in a Hallmark card so that you feel good about the fact that I’ve got cancer? What the fuck, man.” Jack caught his breath. He looked over to David who was still standing in the same spot. “Dave, it’s going to be all right, man.”
David glanced over to Patrick who had taken a seat at the bar and just ordered a drink. He looked back up at Jack. “I’m so sorry, Jack. I don’t even know what to say.”
Jack moved closer to David and put his arms around him. “Dave, don’t worry. It’s going to be all right. It always is.”

This is this. And that is that.

2008-04-07T18:42:00.001-07:00

"This is a hat. It goes on your head, see? And this is a pencil. You use it to write or to draw. This is paper. You use the paper to write on with your pencil. See? This here, this is crayon. It’s like a pencil but with color. Only there are already things like that. They called ’colored pencils’. Crayons are thicker. You can use them to draw, too, or to color in books or on your drawings. See? Try and stay in the lines when you color. Or not. Haha. I guess you can do that, too. Okay, this here, this is a watch. It goes on your wrist. Like this, see? Use this to tell time. This hand, this one tells you the hour. And this one here, it tells you the minutes. So right now it’s 3:42. You’ll learn more about this stuff later on. But just be careful. You don’t want to break it or anything. Well, what else? Oh! This thing is a necklace. You probably won’t want to wear this or anything but maybe you will. It’s pretty amazing. It was your mother’s. She wanted you to have it. This is sapphire in the middle, like your eyes. And hers. Right here. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? She was something else."

"where is your fiber, man?"

2008-03-25T00:54:00.000-07:00

"where is your mind? detached at the synapse, not even the words to speak, to write, to will. where is your passion? purged from you like viral cures though not for the benefit of, not this time ’round. a clean slate. a blank chalkboard. a fresh canvas. but the oils aren’t staying. no, not this time. drip and disappear like falling stars. mate, where is your empathy? closed off road map. take to detour. that caved-in cave. what are you feeling, man, if anything at all? even now these are forced fragments that haven’t the mind/manner/fury/love/loss/longing to drive themselves. forced out, man. cold in the snow. in space. walk in the craters of old men and monsters. automated shutdown sequence: initiated. huh, mate? tell me: where is the love?"

and no direction, too...

2008-02-23T20:27:00.001-08:00

Driving down through the desiccated coast I feel the heat rising off the sunburned ground through the tiny fibers in the indigo canopy. My mind been a wanderin' as I'm passin' this scene like some ephemeratic picture on a moving screen, telling me to keep on movin', they don't stop for no one. Why should you? Beggars and thieves, through and through, mind you. They stop for no one. Why should you? I'm a God-fearin' man, like the lot of these mates, who sit here and sit there and talk of these things and those, and make sense of what's not to make sense of. Reasonable, God-fearin' men, through and through. Comin' through the pass, mountain escort to the end of the road, keepin' myself awake on the Lord's golden brew, a slap in the face here and there, and an assortment of pills that'd make the Easter Bunny cream. Where's your voice, man? Whaddya say 'bout that? Makin' no sense's what you're doin', been fixin' to do, all these days. It's always the same thing. Outta your mind, you've conjured yourself, in the worst possible way. just keep talkin', brotha'. you'll be there soon enough, so says i.

something of an assignment...

2008-02-13T16:42:00.000-08:00

indefinite definition

2008-02-09T16:47:00.001-08:00

Space –

1. The blankets and sheets where stars collide, where life begins and ends, liquid white hot, deep, dark cold; time of all time; where lonesome, lonely lights flicker in and out

2. The place I lose myself in when disillusioned/disinterested/despaired and searching for a hook on the dark side of the moon.

3. The miles between us at the dinner table, looking at each other, at the food, back at eachother, when we’ve run our course and the conversation has lost its life; terrible routine

4. A nook, secret club location, hiding under the bed like soldiers in a battle, children being children, waiting to be found and loving every minute of it.

5. Containing infinite hope and possibility.

a correlated graph of constellations

2008-02-03T21:09:00.000-08:00

he leans up against the wall and surveys the surroundings. people pass in unconscious stream of thought and they don't even know where they're headed. he looks around the square and waits for someone to share a fleeting glance with but it never comes. back at the hotel room he pours himself into a chair by the bedside and sips from his reserve of nostalgic feeling. warmed and inept at picking himself up out of his distress he flips on the television and changes the channel to bars and tone and, in the same way an olympic diver leaps headfirst into the deep, he entrenches himself in his latest identity crisis.

two days from now a young boy will walk into a general store in the midwest. he will ask for a pack of gummy bears and a bottle of pop. the man at the register tells the boy that it will be three seventy-five. the boy offers up four one dollar bills and receives his quarter change just like every other day. outside of the general store a man and a woman argue over directions. they don't know where they're headed. the sun offers no help.

back in the past, before the boy and the commotion, major williams wants to push further into the heart of enemy territory. his soldiers are tired and hungry and the weather has had them wrapped around its finger for days now. but the major insists. thirty minutes later an explosion to the east sounds out like a chorus of elephants. push ahead, cries the major, push ahead.

i write by flylight in deep woods past the river and bridge and the hanging, hollow trees while the wind wonders where the moon hid on this night.

Vacation

2008-01-27T01:34:00.001-08:00

Olympus Mons is located on the planet Mars. It is the largest mountain and volcano in our solar system, standing around 16.7 miles high with a base nearly 342 miles in width. The Valles Marineris is the largest known canyon in the solar system, stretching more than 3,000 miles wide and dropping 4 miles deep. Mars average climate is similar to Earth’s although the temperature variation is drastic with lows in the -220 degrees to highs in the 60’s. There is currently no human occupying the planet.

We spent that summer there, like we always did. We always stayed at the Red Rock Resort and Spa because it sits right at the base of the mountain. That summer was something special though. I was shipping off to the outer system at the end of the year and so it would be the last time we could all get together like that. I remember the look on their faces when I told them I’d be leaving for two years. Shock. Sadness. Curiosity. And excitement for the annual trip.

I remember one day in particular when we went for a hike up and along the mountainside. If you’ve ever seen Mons then you know how massive and daunting it is. Imagine Everest times three. Red and looming like the Rockies on steroids. Red dust collected under our feet and on our and gear and on everything it touched the way smoke sticks to clothing. But we had wanted to get to a spot we were told was perfect for viewing the Valles Marineris. So we continued while the giant watched over us. We moved along the outer rim, watching our footing, battling the wind as it kicked scents of day old pastries and fresh soil into our faces. We were careful not to slip.

One of our friends had asked us if we were nearing the end. We were getting close. He had never been with us on one of our trips so it was special for him to. As we approached our destination giant boulders stood on both sides to let us know we were close. Humongous red basalt formations, like the kind in Yellowstone only bigger, led the way to the plateau we sought. Red dust plumed with ever step, tasting like talcum powder and cornstarch. As we navigated the stones we could see the valley ahead. Our pace grew at the excitement. We quickly found a clearing and set our things down. The valley stretched for days. It was beyond terrific. Imagine a valley so wide that one side knows day while the other welcomes the night. The stinging chill of the cold wouldn’t shake us from the beauty of it all and we had time to spare.

expletive deleted

2008-01-21T01:10:00.000-08:00

down by the river where the sun stays out and the moon waits by the window a black haired man washes his face. knees bent at the shore he looks into the water and sees what he used to be. "where were you when she walked away?" the man in the water asks him. "where were you then?" and he thinks to himself like he does every day at dawn and tries to find the answer to the question. "i don't have the answer to that. not today." he responds. and a breeze picks up, kicking rocks at his self. the water ripples and the man disappears and the black haired one thinks to himself like he does every day at dawn. another voice from the distance, riding the winds like a paper airplane. "where are you going with that heart of yours so dangerously exposed like that?" he says. the man turns and looks for the source but fails to locate it. and he thinks to himself like he does every day at dawn that maybe he thinks too much.

"Sea Dog"

2008-01-12T19:35:00.001-08:00

Colin Beckwith wrote this in a dream in the winter of '89. It goes:

Dear Anne-Marie,

It seems like forever since I last wrote to you. What was it that you always used to say when things got like this? Anyways, I supposed it's irrelevant now.

My mind has been fading, it seems, or drifting but never returning in the same state that it left. Moreso than before. I think the move has had the opposite effect than what I had hoped. I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't know.

I went outside the other day. I took a walk down to the river. It was frozen but it wasn't as cold outside as you think it'd be. I walked a path along the side of the river. I didn't have my camera. I don't know why. I always have my camera and there were so many beautiful shots I could have taken. But I didn't. I saw deer. Two of them. They were under a tree, just enjoying themselves. I turned around and headed back home.

Do you know what I saw the other night? I'll tell you. I was sitting outside on the porch and I saw a shooting star. But it didn't stop, you know? It didn't dissipate half way across the sky. It kept going. I think it may have landed somewhere. Well, not landed so much as maybe just crashed into something. I want to find it. I think it may have crashed a few miles outside of Halifax on the southern side.

Did you know that Cap'n Crunch had a pet? His name was "Sea Dog".

I don't know why I'm still here, Anne-Marie. What I'm looking for. What I'm expecting to find. I don't seem to know much of anything these days. I can't shake that feeling. I'm thinking of coming home, Anne-Marie. I know enough time hasn't passed but I think I may go insane if I stay here alone for much longer. "No man is an island." That's what you would always say! I knew I'd remember.

I should be wrapping this up now. I have to make it into town before dusk. I'll need some supplies if I'm going to track down that star. I think I can find it. I'll make sure to bring my camera to take a picture of it and I'll show it to you when I come back.

Can't wait to see you, Anne-Marie. Until then…

Regards,
Colin Beckwith
January 13th, 1989

eye enn vee eye ess eye bee ell eee ell eye gee aych tee enn eye enn gee

2008-01-10T22:39:00.001-08:00

the lunar eclipse sent him back in time. back and forth. traveler. space/distance. a mass particle. accelerate the beats of the heart, i say, a heart-attack manufacturer. import and export. wrap up your trip. he settled it. settled down at the semi-circle base of the arctic chill zone, nestled in a cottage outside of northern Halifax. couldn't decide. fire made sheep's skin sweat like rain. mind like a puzzle, too hard to solve. haven't the patience to quite yet see the solution. i say, this is quite the sight. front door agape. tell me this is not the sight! what'll you have, today? hmm? lion, snake, lamb, owl, coyote, giraffe. you tell me! is this not the sight to see? king of the day make your choice. they are all quite nice, no? traveler. traveler! pull yourself t.o.g.e.t.h.e.r. madman and men alike no not the struggle, do they? my boy! p-p-p-u-u-u-l-l-l-l-l-l-l on the main lever. ignition. count down from 6. 5. 5.4. 4.3. 3.7. abort? not in this hemisphere. drop the lever and take out the moon! light bulbs flash on and off and on again at the base of an oak tree. is it the snake? no, not again.

"he can’t read people anymore...maybe he never could."

2008-01-07T00:45:00.000-08:00

lights shift from green to red, bouncing off one another within minute droplets of water. a sign points "this way" while the crowd goes the other. amongst the madness a young girl finds herself lost, separated from her mother. the mother battles a falling hydro-arsenal from above as she frantically tries to locate her daughter. more particles of light move between here and there surrounding those that have and those that have not the will to continue. freezing now, the girl pushes a path between never-ending legs to an open spot where she hopes to see her mother. a brief let up in the weather is all it takes for the mother to spy the girl towards the back of the chaos. they say the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, but what do they care?

"you look too hard," she said, "you always have. always trying to find something to save you. always looking for that one thing that'll give you back what you had. you look too hard."

upon hearing her accusation he knew it to be true. but like all stubborn people he would not immediately admit to it.

"you don't know what you say," he responded, defensively. "i don't look too hard. it's just, i don't know. i just don't look too hard." he tried to gather his thoughts. it wasn't his best come-back, but then again he was never one for confrontation.

"you know what i think?" she asked, not expecting an answer. "i think you get your hopes up too easily and every time you do there always ends up being something to disappoint you." she knew she was right by the look that he gave her. "why don't you just stop looking?"

"with words like machetes; they cut to the marrow."

2007-12-26T03:21:00.001-08:00

and everything became clear once more. the sky, the sun, the moon, the desert. all became lucid as the day after a hard rain. i sat on the bench near the park, tossing bread scraps to passing geese, and lifted myself above the mountains, beyond the trees and the woods and the passing birds, high above the clouds that sat, single-file, in the azure, as if nothing held them from becoming one with the hovering space above. i kept climbing, beyond the stars, the coal-colored midnight, past the shooting suns and the motionless mountains of the brightest planets. i came upon the peak of olympus mons and stopped cold in the tracks i'd created. black, black, comets too cold. their tails, they whip and dissolve. and the shining divides, they cast side to side, forfeit patterns of beauty and flair.i stood there, steady and collected, wondering how i'd transcended what i'd believed to be all that was. volcanoes erupted and pyramids rose from the red rock ground all at once. stifle that conscience, bearer of ill-will, make the case for silence. egotism will outshine the sun in the fiercest of battles. cynical cynic. master of minds and mirrors. you have not the slightest idea of what you discuss. farcical. idealistic/idolatry/infidel. a terrible speaker and the children know it, and smell it, seeps off of you like warm sap. technicoloristic and unable to hide it/disguise it. and your rhythm is far-off.

"You've got malaria"

2007-12-24T15:54:00.000-08:00

"Yep," the doctor continued, "that's definitely malaria. You can tell, of course, by looking at your red blood cells underneath this magnifying thing right here." The doctor motions to a microscope sitting on the table next to the patient.

"You mean a 'microscope'?" the patient asked, skeptic of the doctor.

"Is that what you call that thing?" he responded curiously. "Huh," he said, accepting the patients statement as fact, "I always just thought it was kind of a, I don't know, novelty item, you know? Like one of those electricity orbs where you put your hands on them and your hair stands up."

"No," the patient began, "it's nothing like that."

"Well, I always thought it was. Any who, oh yeah, about that malaria," the doctor said, placing a sample underneath the microscope. "See right there? Yeah, you got it pretty bad. Like on a scale of 1 to 10 I would say it's about an 8 and a half. Oh man, look at that one right there. That blood cell looks like it's about to explode. Like John Goodman at Kentucky Fried Chicken or something."

The patient became more worried. Not so much at the fact that he just found out that he has malaria, but more-so at the idea that this 'doctor' could even pass whatever test they make doctors pass to become legitimate physicians.

"Where did you say you went to school?" the patient asked, "I have a son who wants to become a doctor."

"Oh, I didn't," the doctor responded. "Now, about my fee."

Gideon and the Star

2007-12-19T14:36:00.000-08:00

I don't know yet what this will become...

A silver flask sits at the edge of a nightstand in a stylish, high-end hotel near the west side of town. Gideon Nebuls tries to relax in a brown chair on his balcony. His room is on the 4th floor. It's late afternoon and the sun has just begun its nighttime routine while the rain continues to fall from the mottled sky. Gideon listens to droplets beat away at the balcony overhang as he watches the people below move about like ants in a farm.
He tries to relax.
The phone rings from across the room. Gideon, legs full of anxiety, gets up out of his chair to answer it. It rings two more times before he finally picks up the receiver.
"Good evening, Mr. Nebuls," says the concierge at the 1st floor front-desk, "I hope you're enjoying your stay."
"I am, Yes. Thank you." Gideon replies. His voice is low and coarse.
"Very good, sir. I just wanted to check in. There is a Mr. Conners on the line. Shall I put him through?"
Gideon thought for a moment. Mr. Conners? He couldn't recall the name. He was never one to take a call of someone whose name or number he didn't recognize and, yet, at the same time he always hated when people left voice messages. But what did it matter? It was, after all, his last night on Earth.
"Go ahead. Put him through." He told the concierge.
"Very good, sir. Have a good night." There was a brief pause while the line switched between the front desk and Mr. Conners line.
"Hello?" Gideon asked. His tone had now shifted from tired to curious.
"Mr. Nebuls? Hello. My name is Mr. Conners. You don't know me and we've never met, but I know that in approximately 12 hours from now you will be boarding a ship that you will be a passenger on for the next 4 years. I know that to you, however, it will only seem like mere minutes. Mr. Nebuls I am calling to tell you that terrible things are about to happen. Things that have been building and building behind the scenes, behind what you call your world and within everything you see and feel. Things, Mr. Nebuls, things are going to get very bad. I'm calling to warn you, Mr. Nebuls, that the mission you have signed up for, the mission you've been preparing for the past year, is not going to succeed. You will not reach your destination and your entire crew will die. Do you understand this, Mr. Nebuls?"
Gideon tries to adjust himself to the words he's hearing,
"Is this a joke?" he responds, uneasily.
"I can assure you, Mr. Nebuls, that this is no joke. I need you to comprehend what I'm saying. I know this is difficult for you but you need to listen to me. Terrible things will happen whether you're on this planet or not."
"This plane- How do you know this?! I don-" The phone goes to dial tone before he can finish. Gideon looks at the phone, at the receiver, and back again. He hangs up the phone and picks it back up to dial the front desk. The concierge comes across the phone.
"Hi. This is Gideon Nebuls," he began, tense and excited, "I'm in room 1138. Listen, I just received a call from a Mr. Conners. I don't know who this person is but is there any way you can trace that call? You know, find the number he was on?"
The concierge was taken aback. "Um, I'm sorry, sir?" he asked back.
"Can you find the number that just called me?!" Gideon became more heated.
There was a pause. Only the sound of Gideon's breathing came over the phone. "Mr. Nebuls," the concierge began, "Sir I'm looking at your phone records and the last call you received was two nights ago. There have been no new calls today."

A Revisiting (Part VIII) "111307"

2007-12-19T14:33:00.000-08:00

this came about from a dream, actually...

"...i want to be an astronaut. i want to go into space for a year and live on the space station up there with the other astronauts. we would do experiments like seeing if fungus could grow in outer space or if plants could survive or things like that. i don't really know yet. i would sleep right-side up in a bean bag like you see them do in the movies. and after a year was over i would come back down to earth and tell all of my friends about what it was like living in outer space and they would all be amazed by it. and maybe after i got settled back in i could go and give speeches to school children about being an astronaut and how fun it is. maybe i would marry an astronaut woman and maybe we could get married in space! but that would probably be impossible to get married in space. and then when i got even older i could go back into space one more time. not for a year like before but maybe just to see the earth again from above. it could be like my, my duck-duck music. song."
"do you mean 'swan song'?"
"yeah. my 'swan song'. that's what it could be like."
"where did you hear that?"
"i don't know. i think my dad said it once when i was younger. back when he was still around. does it make sense, the way i used it?"
"yes. i suppose it does."

"The silver Swan, who living had no Note,
when Death approached, unlocked her silent throat.
Leaning her breast upon the reedy shore,
thus sang her first and last, and sang no more:
'Farewell, all joys! O Death, come close mine eyes!
'More Geese than Swans now live, more Fools than Wise.'"

-Orlando Gibbon's madrigal "The Silver Swan"

A Revisiting (Part VII) "110807"

2007-12-19T14:31:00.000-08:00

glass of wine/tin-can telephone/clouds never really follow me around/a sunset illusion

"So...what are you doing again?" He asked curiously.
"I'm writing a story, asshole. How many times do I have to tell you?" The other replied.
"Shit i'm sorry, it's just, I dunno, you NEVER write stories. Or anything for that matter. In fact the only time i've actually seen you pick up a writing device that wasn't directly related with taking a test or bubbling in what ethnicity you are was when you drew a ballsac on that one guy's face with permanent marker when he fell asleep on "Pirate's of the Caribbean."
"Well excuse me for wanting to be a little creative. Can't a guy just once try to express himself creatively without his asshole friend pouncing on him like he were a cheap hooker. 'Cheap Hooker'. That's a good one." The man puts his clever choice of dialogue to the paper. He started writing earlier today. Its been about three hours since. He's got about three or four pages done. It's true though, what his friend said about him. He never writes. Never.

what day is it? morning. is is morning? god it must be. the clock at his bedside flashes 11:38. fuck. did the power go out? it had to of. oh fuck. fuck. please let it be morning. i can't miss it again. harvey, his dog, whines in the hallway. oh shit the dog! i don't have time for you man! i'm sorry. i have to go. fuck. i'm done now.

two people sit at a bench in the park. it's half past ten in the morning. winter time. the sun just finished shaking off the sleep. it's brisk, chilly, but comfortable. the two talk about this and that. a family of ducks play on the shore of the lake.
"So, God, has it really been that long?" The man asks of the woman, trying to find his memories.
"Yeah, three years. Three and a half if you count the months I spent in Glasgow." She replies in a warm tone.
"Well, I don't, but I suppose it does help put things in perspective."
they share a quiet moment as the ducks begin crossing the pond.
"I should get going," the woman begins, "I really can't be away from the office too long."
"Oh, um, yeah okay. Well...so will I see you around?" He asks.
"Sure. I'm always around."

A Revisiting (Part VI) "103107"

2007-12-19T14:30:00.000-08:00

counting backwards from ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one...

the heat permeates through the entire structure like lighting strikes. nonstop, failure after failure attack the systems, the controls succumb to the pressure, the flames pour into the circuitry, empty you bottles of wine, they flow like a river of the gods, pressure and fire throughout the entire level. this is it. this is the beginning of the end. trapped in this death case high above the floating sphere, looking down upon the end of the world and he can't escape it. though he can't imagine what is going on below. might as well have it easy.

"i permit the high council to have this report reviewed and analyzed to the most direct effect, scrutinized to the last period. i believe you will come to realize that my findings on the matter are far more severe than we had first imagined. they, as we had first disputed, had it correct the entire time. throughout the research that went into this study they knew all along the outcome of this debacle. what fools they must think of us now and, as you will see, fools are nothing but what we have come to be. i pray that this information finds you in the deepest regard of your being and that you take any and every step needed to rectify the situation thusly. good day, gentlemen"

five minutes from now two men will walk into the convenience store in the southern part of newark and ask for two bottles of vodka and a pack of cigarettes. one man will be wearing a long coat and sandals. the other a tye dye shirt and gym shorts. ten minutes from now they will exit the convenience store, purchases in hand, and continue to the automobile of one of the men. twenty-three seconds ago a fire began in the caspian sea. it spread like wildfire to the outlying borders. a fisherman and his son were killed in the inferno. eleven minutes into the future a bomb goes off. the moon weeps and the sun sets and no one is heard from again.

have you figured it out yet?

A Revisiting (Part V) "102207"

2007-12-19T14:28:00.000-08:00

hunger of a thousand suns

Go. Now. Pack up your bags. Put away your things. Take what you need. Take everything you need. Take only things you need. Take that which you will need. Pack them all away. Remove the posters from the walls of your room. Put away those books on your shelf. Take down the clothes hanging in your closet. Take off the sheets on your bed. Fold them and put them away. Everything that is you: put it away. Your new life begins with the next step you take.

"Faster, God damnit!! I said drive faster! We're never gonna make it in time unless you hit that mother fucking gas!" He floored the car as the bridge continued to shake. The earthquake had come out of no where, and they we stuck in the middle of this bridge. A mile out from solid ground mother earth dangled them above the icy water like a marionette. They were hard pressed for luck and the sun had just begun setting.

A solar flare occurs in the west side of the galaxy while two stars collide in the east. below them a woman gives birth to a newborn prophet and weeps at the sight of her. 200 million light years away i'm getting high on celestial cloud dust and wondering why the lights don't go out at night. near me two kittens toy with a tiny mouse. they tease it with freedom. on this level i can smell the terror on the poor thing. sitting on a piece of asteroid i watch as aliens invade machu picchu. they tear it apart and leave within a matter of minutes although, on this level, it may have been seconds.

"what? what did you say?" one paced back and forth between sunken cities while the other rested his head against the remains of vladimir lenin. "this isn't a game. you know that right?" he speaks over a makeshift radio. its range spans for decades. his receiver is unknown. "tell me again why you're so confident in this. because i keep forgetting." his movements become more hurried. someone really should tell him...

why are you still reading this? it is coming.

A Revisiting (Part IV) "101707"

2007-12-19T14:26:00.001-08:00

i dreamed of blackened sky. i saw reality for what it truly is. i only wished for the best.

breathe! breathe, god dammit! don't you fucking die! don't do it! i swear to god if you fucking die.. the veins on his hands pulse and shake like the wand of a seismograph. he can't believe it. after all these years this is what is has come to. a fucking joke. that's what it is. it's all one big fucking joke.

"no. tell them no. they won't get that from me. i've got half a dozen mouths to feed and they want me to sell for how much?! you can tell them to go straight to hell because they ain't never gettin' that outta me!"

it twitches. like embers in a fire. twitches and twitches. mother earth can see it coming. she's felt it for months now. they time has come. has already come. she knows it. they, however, do not. can one postpone the apocalypse?

"see, here's the thing," he said, "you can't have one without the other. it's simply impossible. for example: there can be no good without the evil. a contradiction must occur. one must balance out the other. only the other leads to the evolution of chaos. things start and begin in order and end in destruction. thermodynamics." he took a moment to reflect on what he had said. "we're all doomed."

they didn't fight as much as they did before. the city was at its end. they all knew it. as if one catastrophic event for one species meant peace and understanding for another. though things like that never last for long...