Monday, December 29, 2008

Who needs a drink

He reached in, clenched my few creative thoughts, and yanked them from my head. He proceeded to carry out said thoughts as his own. I didn't even know. He must've taken that too.

Friday, December 19, 2008


Great post by thepensblog today.
it involved this quote:

An 82-game season is what is used to weed out jobber hockey fans;
hockey fans who don't realize why the Pens were in a slump,
hockey fans who don't care about the minor-league system,
hockey fans who like hockey 'cause some girl does.

Eat it, new wave crosby lovers.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

Slow motion...

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

The Velvet Underground

Sitting on a rickety wooden folding chair in an empty room with a wooden floor painted thirty years prior a lovely shagbark brown, I stare out into the fields. Nothing is happening but I stare. Tiny veins of ice creep along the corners of the glass, trying desperately to recreate the beauty of a snowflake but instead reminding one of the unfinished web of a house spider. But even so, I stare beyond. I stare at snow covered plains and skeletons of trees which shed their leaves in exchange for blankets of white on their arms. Oddly, the stillness of the scene reminds me of a song by The Velvet Underground and I decide it would make a good soundtrack. In the distance, a few cars attempt to navigate the windswept roads. The entire scenario fades in and out of focus mostly from the steam of my breath hitting the window and maybe a bit from my lack of sleep of late. Days of silence pays off. As the deer grazed unknowingly, a mere 85 yards from my post, I eased open the pane of glass, spilling cold air into the already not-so-warm arena I had been sitting. I lowered my M1903A4 Springfield rifle, my companion, my friend, the only thing I trusted anymore, and peered through the Weaver Model 330C 2.2x telescopic sight and followed the crosshairs directly behind the shoulder of the beast. My lungs stopped filling with air and my finger started to squeeze lightly. I held both my eyes open and soon a crack filled the air. My target dropped instantly. Its two companions began shouting in a language I would never understand and quickly hid behind blockades. I quickly backed away from the frozen window and realized what had actually taken place. I shuffled to relocate to two windows over, taking aim with the nose of my rifle a full yard behind the window frame. I knew I would have to drop the remaining animals before I could collect dogtags.

Today's color, yet again, brought by randominityTM

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

Not Quite

Thirty-five miles per hour. Headlights reflected off wet asphalt so I accelerated. Forty-five miles per hour and more headlights reflected off melted snow on the windshield. So I accelerated again. Sixty-five miles per hour, still no one in front of me so I accelerate. "Lights in the Sky" and everything slows down. The road blurs but the car continues. One speaker blown but the music resonates in both ears. Through my body. I notice things along the side of the road I've never noticed before. Seeing everything but the road. Headlights fade out and life reflects on me. I probably still accelerate. Nothing else matters but this. A life beyond the road, beside the road, besides the road. But soon, somehow, I'm in a driveway. I blink some, then quiet the engine and step out of the car.

Another color sponsored by randominity. Is that a word? My word?

Monday, December 15, 2008


way overdue to be...real

nine inch nails
nuff said.
trent reznor makes me feel good inside.
by-album basis.
by-song basis.
there's a difference.
otros ejemplos:
where blood and fire bring rest
dark side of the moon
wish you were here
liberate te ex inferis
in rainbows
find the evolution

la mer. the fragile(left). unreal. legend.

today's color brought to you by randominity.

Friday, December 12, 2008

My, my

The general gave the order and almost immediately the brightest of brights filled the horizon. Even behind my opaque glasses I felt sick from the blinding flash of death followed by a deafening boom, seconds later. A horrible cloud rose into the air and a wave of disaster swept across the deserted land. Even several miles away I felt the Evil rise into the sky with pillars of vile fumes and heartless flame. I envisioned the untold terrors that would become reality as a direct result of this detonation. I saw innocent lives consumed and countless other lives ruined. I saw the annihilation of God's given land and the infection of radiation. Nothing would survive. No good can come of this.

The general gave the order and almost immediately the brightest of brights filled the horizon. Even behind my opaque glasses I felt fulfillment from the glorious flash of life followed by a victorious boom, seconds later. A beautiful cloud rose into the air and a wave of redemption swept across the empty field. Even several miles away I felt the Greater Good rise into the sky with an obelisk of mist and glowing embers. I envisioned the parades of success that would become reality as a direct result of this detonation. I saw innocent lives saved and countless others relieved. I saw the recovery of God's given land and the triumphant return of order. We will survive. Only good can come of this.

Thursday, December 11, 2008

in the in the in the hole

Often people ask me what I'm feeling.
Then they have trouble understanding why I have trouble understanding what they want from me.
I think. I think its because feelings aren't words.
They're Intangibles. Colors.
I can see them in my mind, but they're indescribable.
Constantly shifting within their state of being.
Never changing, ever changing.
An indescribable mess of not-words, color and raw emotion.
Maybe that's why I can't describe it.
Or maybe I'm crazy. Maybe feelings are words.
Often people ask me what I'm feeling.
Then they have trouble understanding why I have trouble understanding what they want from me.
I think. I think its because feelings aren't words.
They're Intangibles. Colors.
I can see them in my mind, but they're indescribable.
Constantly shifting within their state of being.
Never changing, ever changing.
An indescribable mess of not-words, color and raw emotion.
Maybe that's why I can't describe it.
Or maybe I'm crazy. Maybe feelings are words.

Tuesday, December 9, 2008

I wonder if footnotes ever need socks...

It started as a hole in the wall, one quarter of a centimeter wide. The problem was, it was directly in my line of vision.1 I took the tip of a mechanical pencil2 and penetrated the plaster, using the pencil as a lever,3 forcing more plaster from the wall. To my surprise, making the [w]hole bigger simply put more absence4 in my view. My only solution was to remove more plaster. I found a small claw hammer5 and it clawed itself between plaster and frame.6 It wasn't long before I had removed all plaster between my desk8 and my dresser7. Feeling quite content with my (anti)decorations, I sat down to enjoy a nice cup of absence. It was then that I saw a shadow.9 I grabbed my dresser10 and tossed it to the floor. I gripped the edges of the hole-in-the-wall and peeked my head around the tattered drywall11 corner. Inside, I saw something intriguing, so I stepped in to take a closer look.12

1. Not directly, but peripherally.
2. (Blue BiC MatiC grip, 0.7mm #2)
3. F1D1 = F2D2
4. absinthe
5. tucked betwixt a Bible and box of KleenexTM
6. Funny story about a frame, once I was at a friend's house, one that I had known for years, and I noticed none of the people in the pictures on his mantle resembled him or any of his family. I'd seen this before, but I decided to ask anyway. "Who are these people? Did you forget to take the display photos out?" He replied suspiciously, "No. That is my family." Closer examination revealed he was right.
7. Desk should be listed first.
8. Dresser should be listed first.
9. A [w]hole.
10. My desk.
11. plaster
12. What I hadn't counted on was the landlord13 arriving to repair a hole some idiot apparently punched into the wall.
13. A carpenter by trade.

Monday, December 8, 2008

From The Valley You Can Only Go Up.

but you may stay awhile...

Sunday, December 7, 2008

From Wikipedia:

A drabble is an extremely short work of fiction exactly one hundred words in length, although the term is often misused to indicate a short story of fewer than 1000 words. The purpose of the drabble is brevity and to test the author's ability to express interesting and meaningful ideas in an extremely confined space.

The Time Traveller: Unbelievably a Drabble, By Chance

I woke up one friday morning at 7:30am and hit snooze, fully expecting to wake 9 minutes later. I, instead, woke one hour and 45 minutes earlier. Doing the math in my head as I stared at a clock reading 5:45am, I quickly realized what I had done. I leapt from my bed, anxious to tell my friends that I had gained the ability to travel backwards through time. I imagined the press, the fame, the glory, the possibilities. I just needed to harness this new found power. Soon, however, I came to understand that it was now Saturday morning.

Street Lamp

When the sun began to rise, I realized with a terribly alert mind that tomorrow is today and yesterday's tomorrow will have to be postponed until later this evening.


I was watching television one day and I flipped to the channel where the war was being broadcast. I watched in serenity, commenting on the deaths of individual soldiers driving forward across trench and barbed wire. I booed the theatrics of dramatic deaths and cheered the marksmanship of those who hit their targets with accuracy and precision. When bombs went off I became impatient waiting for the smoke to settle. I applauded the arrival of reinforcements for both sides because it meant pushing back the scheduled programming in favor of viewing the conclusion of the battle. Then I realized that the television was a window, and the battlefield, my front yard.

Shut Up, I'm Tired

My home is set up so that directly across the short hallway outside my door which leads down the stairs, an open door peeks into an empty room, perpetually dark and used primarily for storage. Ordinarily, I'll exit my bedroom, glance into the oversized storage closet and upon seeing the normal stillness, turn my attention to the stairs and make my descent. This day was different. My timely glance caught a flash of movement, ducking from view just as my eyes focused in the dark. Curiosity perked, I cautiously crossed the hall to the cracked door at the rarely traversed far side. I nudged my hand against the door, intending on a slow and stealthy breach but instead sounding the telling trumpets of creaking hinges. Wincing at the sudden noise, I peeked around the door frame into the abysmal room. The room was the largest in the house, why hadn't I used this as my bedroom and the other for storage? In any case, the room was still. Turning to leave, I heard the crash of an overturned packing crate filled with old Rolling Stone magazines. Jerking my head back into the room I saw the culprit. Rather, I saw the back end of the culprit. Rushing over, I grabbed the perpetrator by the ankle, lifting it high into the air, in front of my face. What I held was a short creature, who stood no more than knee high, with skinny appendages and knobby knees and elbows. His (and I reluctantly admit that I do in fact know for certain it was a he) ribs shown clearly and his belly was indented greatly. His faced resembled that of a reptile but with a more pronounced beak with sharp features. His skin was a burnt crimson shade and almost crisp to the touch. Two tiny horns protruded from his cranium and small beady eyes stared at me in contempt. As I held the demon upside down by the ankle, he crossed his arms and turned his head away in disgust.
Not being a man explicitly trained in the exorcism of demons, I resorted to a good old-fashioned tongue lashing.
"What are you doing here demon?!" I shouted.
-I came here-
"And don't you give me that shifty language I know you use," I interrupted.
-I'm here for your soul.
"MY SOUL?! Demon you are in the wrong place for soul searching."
-My name is-
"I don't care for your name demon, I'll call you as I please. As I was saying. My soul is not for sale."
-My business is not in trade, sir, but in collection. Your soul has already been purchased.
"Impossible, demon, a soul can only be purchased from its owner and as I had never sold it in the first place, I can assure you, the ownership is still my own."
-If you would just free me, I can present you with the contract to be carried out.
Now being a man of law, the demon's proposition rang with an idea in my own mind. I began speaking more softly to the creature of Hell.
"Show me the contract now, demon, and I'll ensure it of its authenticity, for as you may know, I am an authorized notary."
-If you free me-
"Show me the contract, demon, and I will release you to carry out your duty."
The demon pointed to the wall behind me and I turned, and in a flash of fire and smoke, a written contract appeared pinned to the wall. Holding the demon behind my back, I drew a pen and scribbled across the bottom of the smoldering paper.
"Uh huh, yep, indeed," I mumbled to myself, though mostly in theatrics for the benefit of the demon. "Alright, I suppose you are correct, demon. I apologize for my reluctance."
Dropping the demon to the floor, he scurried in front of me, quickly snatching the parchment from the wall.
-Now then, if you'll kindly-
"Just one moment demon, I just realized a flaw in your protocol," I snapped back, "if you'll please refer to Part III of the very contract in your hand under Clause IV, part ii, paragraph one, you'll see that this contract is nullified in the oddly specific event that the collectee is apprehended by the left ankle in an act of clumsiness on his own part. According to paragraph two, upon release of said collectee, the collected is pronounced free and the collectee and all associated are barred from further contact with the party freed without question."
The demon uttered a few sounds of disbelief and traced the contract with his finger several times over. As he did so, thin lines of smoke began rising from his joints.
-Impossible he said. As he read on, dust and ash began falling from his body. The ash collected in a pile on the floor as the demon disintegrated in front of my eyes. Soon, the contract caught fire and burned into ash, along with the demon.
Pleased, I collected a broom and dustpan, swept up the remaining ash, and tossed it from my window. I went back to my room, shut the door, and went to sleep.

Saturday, December 6, 2008

A Review? Not Yet

Only Revolutions.

House of Leaves.

Stairs 2 then? Idk

My feet never had a firm grip with the time dirtied floor of the Landing. My second foot never left the top step, in fact. As soon as that first foot hit the tiles and my heart was squeezed and adrenaline shot through my veins, I was gone. But I wasn't. In the time it took for me to lift my foot from that Landing, the mere milliseconds between sole contacting ceramic and lifting in gut-wrenching fear, days had passed. Immediately, my vision tunneled and I witnessed the death of a thousand deaths. Not just witnessed. Experienced. I felt my own death. I felt my soul being wrenched from my body and I promise you, it isn't the vision you see in cartoons. There is no soft ascension of the spirit from a still body. No, death is much more violent. At least a dozen demons tore my spirit from me, reaching into my chest and clawing open my mouth, holding my body to the ground, motionless. My soul wasn't motionless. It grasped and begged for life, tears streaming from my ghastly cheeks. As I was pulled from my body, I looked upon my own lifeless face, one not of comfort and peace, but the face of someone in the middle of a horrible nightmare yet unable to wake up. I felt as if I was the one being pulled from my body, yet I could feel it. I felt my very essence being sliced apart from my physical being. Spirit, torn from tendons; everything in my ethereal being trying desperately to hold on to what is real, but unable. The demons ripped me from the world I knew, pulling me through tile and concrete, thirty floors below and thousands of floors below that. Every foot I was pulled, I experienced more. I felt the deaths of my family, of my friends. I felt the deaths of people I hadn't known, but had seen, on streets, in buildings. At work, in school, on television or heard on radios. I didn't just witness their deaths, though I did. I watched them die, each of them horrible, HORRIBLE deaths, but I also felt it. I felt it in body, as if their deaths had happened to me, and I felt it as I would as someone close. I felt their separation and the knowledge of the impossibility of their return. Even those I hadn't known I felt as if I had known them all my life, as if they were family. I felt all these deaths at once, including my own. The death of a thousand deaths means. Just. That. Each foot I was dragged below, I fell victim to another death. Each inch. Each millimeter. Tortures were bestowed upon me in terms of witness and victim. All at once. Omnipresence inflicted solely on presences of torture and failure to exist. And, oh, how I felt the failure to exist. Common knowledge presents the fact that the failure to exist is the failure to feel, but I assure you otherwise. The failure to exist is without a doubt beyond anything you have ever experienced and I promise you it is not something you wish to. I felt each death separately and on its own and I felt them all together as well. Time stood no resistance. If one thing in life will rule over time, it is death and it is this single fact that I learned of my experience. I felt Hell. I felt feelings beyond Hell. In Hell you can only experience the pain of your own existence. I, on the other hand, felt the Hellish experiences of thousands. All at once. One at a time. Time stood idly by as I was born witness to and fell victim to the tortures of the most anti-divine creatures ever birthed into mankind. I watched as people undeserving were swallowed in darkness. I heard the screams of the innocents. Terrible screams. Helpless, godless, unanswered screams of banshees. What had I done to deserve this? I wondered.
With less detail, my foot peeled itself from cold clay and fled from that awful place. I fell down two flights of steel fire escape stairs on my way down, cracking a rib and catching my left ring finger on a rail, twisting it until it touched the back of my wrist. Still I fled. I reached the third floor and failed to swing the swingaway ladder, opting to jump instead. This is how I fractured my jaw, as the impact of thirty feet of gravity brought my knees to my chin. The doctors called me lucky. I call myself damned. Now I only lie awake at night, wide eyed in the black, heart pounding and hands gripping sheets, wondering when the darkness will be hiding the tortures promised me. Contemplating the day when those dozen demons grasp my motionless body and tear me from myself with the most horrific pain that I can only long for because it is pleasurable when compared to the terrible sensations I will feel mere moments later. As I said, my family feels it too. This evil, this physical black, this contagious cancer, infected me, the volunteer, and has spread its vicious tentacles to those around me. They don't know why. Their shrinks can't explain the conditions but I can. But I can't. How do I tell them that they experience dread in every moment because of me? Their paranoia and depression, phobias and illness. How can one experience be so utterly horrific that it affects my closest? I pray you heed this warning. Do NOT be curious. Do NOT seek The Hotel. Do NOT seek the Landing. I admit my lack of ability to accurately portray the horror of horrors. DO NOT take my inability in vocabulary and literacy as an invitation to a makeshift thrill ride. I ask you for your own safety and sanity. Mine is forfeited. I sacrifice my own for you. For your sake, forget this ever happened. Martyrdom is my future. My today.

Friday, December 5, 2008

Stairs, I Guess

You haven't truly seen horror until you've seen the Landing. And not many people have seen it. Well...not many people discuss it in open forum. The only cases of which I've ever seen haven't resulted in public discussion but upon mention, result in a horrified expression and a quick whisper 'Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Don't.' or something along the lines. Actually...quite often that exact expression. Not many have written on the subject either, but I assure you, there's a reason I'm not writing aloud.
The place is an ordinary place, though oddly enormous for its location, placed conspicuously around the faded borders of the midwest and the northeast. The Hotel is thirty-two stories high in a town with a population of less than three thousand. It finds its business though. Granted, the top twenty-two stories have been closed off. All stairwells are sealed with steel bars and the elevator buttons above floor ten are riveted from view with a brass plate over them. Luckily, for lore's sake, there is an alternative method for thrill seekers and dares. The fire escape which has a swingaway ladder on a platform at the third floor can be reached by laddering yourself to the platform and then walking the rest of the way. Although the top floors are banished quite efficiently from wandering eye, state mandates a healthy fire escape from every floor. God forbid a lone soul be trapped on the 31st floor of a building that posts very clearly that anything above floor 10 is considered trespassing and subject to the full extent of the law supposing they aren't shot on site as a suspected vandal or robber. All for the sake of the thrill.
After hearing the stories, very few people, even thrill seekers dare to live it themselves. That may give you a measure to the horror elicited by the Landing. Even the greatest ghost stories or horror tales give throngs of macabre fans and self-glorifying nobodies the desire to say they've "been there." But there is a significant amount of nobody that even says the words "I want to go," in any form of the phrase after listening to the tales behind the Landing. There are an incredibly select few, of course, who refuse to heed warnings, and I mean incredibly select. Nine times out of ten, (and I have not met even nine people who have been to the Landing, in nearly three years of research) the Horrified admit to not having been explained the terror thoroughly enough, plagued by vague images and ghost stories of a small patch of tile sitting between the thirtieth and thirty-first floor of a large Pennsylvania hotel in a small Pennsylvania town.
That's how I was explained it. That's how I decided to attend. That's how I never slept again. This is not a ghost story. If only the Landing could be explained by spirits of the dead. That would settle in my stomach. In my mind. In my eyes every night as I lie awake in terror of the sole possibility of returning to the Landing. Or of the possibility of its cancer spreading to other parts of The Hotel. Or beyond.
No, ghosts can not explain it. Nor demons or goblins or Halloween props. No, the Landing is explained only by an unmatched evil, concentrated onto a twenty or so square foot patch of concrete and tile, forever sealed from the world, forgotten. An evil which can not be contained, no matter how many steel bolts you lock on doors and brass plates you put on elevators. And that is what scares me the most. I only remember climbing up the fire escape, reaching the thirtieth floor at around 12:15. Noonish, not midnight. I was sliding back down the escape at roughly 12:16. My watch told me it was seconds but God, I felt like it had been days. As my rubber sole hit the decorated tile floor of the Landing I felt an awful squeeze on my heart. I could feel my adrenal glands pump an unreal amount of adrenaline into my blood stream telling my body "Don't you dare fight. This is flight." I obeyed. But not before experiencing the absolute horror that haunts me today. A horror so vile, it even haunts my family, though they can't explain their dread, and I can't bring myself to tell them. It permeates my life and I can't rid myself of it. I can't imagine myself without it. Normality doesn't equate tolerance, however. And nothing in my life fails to remind me of the evil I saw that day.


-Sorry, no more headphones.
-Can't I wait for more?
-Might be awhile.
-I got nothing to do.
-You're funeral...

-Why's that?
-No se.
-Sabes lo que si?
-Now you're just muttering nonsense.
-If only you knew.
-I do know. It's you who only knew if.
-What's that I don't know?
-How much time you've wasted here.
-Who's wastin?
-On what?
-You're business is mine.
-You're mine is my business.
-I'll lend you mine mind for two.
-What'll I do with that?
-Land a mine or two.
-Been there, done that.
-Been who?
-I don't know you.
I told you nothing to see here, hear here.
Go away.
-Nothin to do, go or stay.
-That makes one of you.
-Make my day.
-Don't need to.
-Then I'll be here...
-I'll be away.
-Safe trip, Godspeed.
-Thick skull, eh?
-Now wait here.
-No, you need to wait over there.
-Hearmuffs yet?
-Never again. Leave.
-I think the corner store just got a shipment.
-You mean the RadioShak?
-At Fifth and Center, yes.
-Don't they run along?
-Good luck. Au revoir. Adios. Ciao.
Sayonara, veiche, auf wiedersehen,
-Aren't you forgetting something?
-Told you once, nothing available.
-I'll be back for more

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

The man they called The Professional was just that. Though they pronounced it prohf-yess-ion-ahl. To be precise, it was pronounced проф-есс-ион-ал. No one in the business had ever seen him. No one knew him. No one knew his face. No one knew where he lived. No one knew what his voice sounded like. No one had even. Seen. His shadow. But they had all heard of him. And they all feared him.

81 Words

"You have forgotten what is important in life. You have neglected your family, focusing instead on your work and your money. You have chosen a life of greed and power rather than of love and friendship. It is thereby your fate to wander alone for eternity, forever separated by those people whom you took for granted and forever longing for them, without any possession and with hunger and thirst which will never be satisfied. The decision had been yours all along."

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

Unintended Direction...Again

In the stillness of a thousand books, the printer fires up. I know now why libraries are so quiet. The books consume the sound, the acoustics of the room hopelessly muffled by the bindings and hundreds of thousands of porous pages of pulped timber. The same effect is applied to moisture.
Thus, for every book dropped, every page turned, every chair slid, every key typed, every in-flu-enced cough or sneeze, every rustle of coats and backpacks, every whisper, every too-loud iPod, every barcode beep; for every beverage gulped and every cookie chewed, for every zipper undone, for every zipper redone, every scrap paper crumpled and every pencil thrown; I watch as soundwaves accost the endless shelves, efforting to tip the walls. Dreams of falling towers of flammable brick, ceasing years of silence and chokingly dry air, of ending a tyranny of technique and tuition, favoring instead an empire of euphony, of echo; such dreams are defeated as the rows stand fast against the assault, deadening the attackants and soaking up vibration. I watch constantly as the would-be sounds of seconds become the melody of mere moments in a dictatorship of diction while freequencies dance just outside through countless concrete corridors, uninhibited.

A work in without progress.

Monday, December 1, 2008

People Hurt

I'm realizing more and more
that they always will...

A Study

the rain was small, but frequent. it pattered on the windshield with tiny footprints of splashes, but they were everywhere. bombardment. attack. ambush. no. the assault wasn't hostile. it was calm. it made no sound; the only sound heard was that of the tires wisping across pavement. and the cars buzzing past. on account of our [lack of] speed. mostly due to the tractor trailer in our lead. but the rain isn't letting up. it picks up frequency at the expense of volume. smaller footprints landed across the windshield with even more minuscule spaces between. windshield wipers can't keep up. they are too busy keeping their 4/4 time, though it isn't quite the same tempo as the music blasting. Dogs. by Pink Floyd. the wipers are keeping a good meter, but their tempo is terrible...probably around 10 beats per minute too slow. it makes for terrible synchronicity. and they cant keep up with the footprints. expelled droplets ripple out from beyond the reach of the wiper arms. waltzing gracefully along the constant forty-five mile per hour winds scraping across the glass. dancing in waves. a ballroom of footprints, racing each other to the end of time. taking their time. tires cross yellow. more yellow. such a soft ballet of carelessness, of freedom. so much in fact, i neglect my own duties. the droplets expand in bright white. their dances lit up in the night sky with such radiance, a spotlight. a headlight. this isn't a dance. this is an assault. i close my eyes and rest my head on the pavement.

Saturday, November 29, 2008


Q: What is more menacing than the undead dying to consume your flesh?

A: Thousands of undead dying to consume your flesh.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

An Important Thing to Know

I could survive for 1 minute, 22 seconds chained to a bunk bed with a velociraptor

One minute and twenty-two seconds. I am freakin proud of that. Velociraptors are wicked.
I guess the real question long could I survive chained to a bunk bed with something truly fierce?

Monday, November 24, 2008

A Fortune Cookie

A person with a determined heart
frightens problems away.

Saturday, November 22, 2008


The world is a messy place. It's terrible. Why can't it be so much simpler? Like it used to be. Back in the days where you didn't have to worry about walking out your front door. When you didn't have to be trained to shoot a gun to feel secure. In those days, we could go to school without being attacked. We could go to work. We could live in a world whose primary concern was global warming. Yeah right. I suppose I was young then. That probably added to my feeling of security. The innocence of youth. Those days are over.

Now I'll check my peephole before I walk out onto my porch. I'll ensure the steel plates are bolted securely to the windows. I'll cautiously step into the winter cold, gripping tightly my M16A4 with 3-16x50mm adjustable scope attachment and M203 grenade launcher undercarriage and scan the streets. I'll slink along the middle of the street to avoid being ambushed, making my way to the office building 3 blocks down and 2 to the right. The process takes a little over 20 minutes; in the old days, it would have taken 6. I make it safely and without incident and as I climb the stairs to the third floor, I lower my guard. I cross the hallway, greeting my co-workers cheerily. I stop cold several feet from my office door and glance at the secretary. "Hey Sheila," I half whisper, and Sheila looks up from her lunch, blood smearing her teeth. I raise my rifle and fire a single 5.56x45mm round through Sheila's forehead.


I have a gift. Well, that's what I call it anyway. I guess I wouldn't really describe it as a gift but there's not many words you could use to describe a circumstance like this. Ability, maybe. And it's not like nobody else has an ability like this, I mean, I think not, at least. That must be true because I certainly don't offer quarter to all of them. Just those within city limits. Offer is another poor word choice. It suggests that I give them an invitation to reside in my head. I don't. It is they who take residence there, whether I want them to or not. Like a run down motel. I guess I don't mind that much, but I used to. Well, then I didn't really understand what they meant to do there. It wasn't until I was thumbing through the newspaper and stumbled across the obituaries that I realized that John Lattermore, age 65, had died the night before by means of a heart attack. I had never met him before. I had never heard of the man. But the fact that he had been living in my head was what kept me on that page. I learned of 17 other deaths that day, 17 of which also lived in my head. That's all of them for those keeping track. They don't seem to cause any trouble, apparently they are waiting for something. I don't know for what, they won't tell me...they say I'll find out soon enough. They simply occupy their time by describing the stories of their lives to each other in vivid detail, leaving nothing to imagination. They, after all, have all the time in the world to provide such minute detail. I don't. There is where the problem lies. All they do is talk and talk and talk. All I want to do is to not listen anymore. I go to work listening to their stories. I eat listening to their stories. I go on dates and to movies...listening to their stories. There's never a shortage of tenants either. Once, the queue had diminished to 0 and I had around 3 minutes and 36 seconds of peace. After that, though, a 96 year old woman died of natural causes 17 miles to the north in her bed. Ninety six years old. Do you have any idea how long it takes to sit through the brutal details of ninety six years of existence?
Naturally, I thought I was crazy. I would shout at them, telling them to please be quiet. Especially at night, when I'm trying to sleep. The dead never sleep. But they do talk. Sometimes more than one talk at once. Often, in fact. I long for those moments. They may be louder but there get to be so many that it creates a kind of buzz, rather than words. Similar to a cafeteria or crowded mall. That way, at least, I'm not forced to listen to one set of words. That gets distracting.
One day at work, it got especially frustrating. As I shuffled through the hallway, delivering a very important document to my supervisor, they all began laughing at once. ALL of them. It was the last straw. "WOULD YOU BE QUIET?!" I yelled at them all. I sat straight up and two very burly orderlies burst into my room to ensure my safety.

Friday, November 21, 2008


The room was dark. I guess it was at least. The corners were dark. I don't remember much about the center of the room. Just those corners. Shadows lurking where the walls met. Even more so where those walls met with the floor. Such perfect symmetry, ninety degree angles. Obscured completely. A pity, such art disguised by such black. Such horrible black. Shadows lurked in those corners. He lurked in those corners. I saw him there. Many times. I think. I actually haven't seen him. I've never seen him but I know he's there. In the corners. Lurking. Watching me. He studies me and my routine. Waiting for the moment to strike. I assume he's waiting for me to be at my most vulnerable...sleep. That's what I would do. Oh, but I have the upper hand. I'll just never sleep. I'll change my routine. Now I just stare back at him. Waiting. Waiting for him to give up. To move on. He hasn't yet. He will.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Part X: Read Part VII Or Don't Read At All

Completely free now from any inhibition or setbacks, the man walked at a faster pace than ever. He walked for miles. Days. Nights. Soon he completely forgot about the strange happenings and his ex-companion who never really brought anything useful to the journey anyhow. He only held the man back from true progress. Every 1760 steps the man took, he scooped up a handful of sand, spit in it, and tossed it over his shoulder. This happened at a pace of approximately every 24 minutes. In this way, the man completely forgot about the 24 minutes before him and the thoughts he thought during that time. In this way also, the man had no way of knowing how many times he repeated this action but anyone who happened to observe him would have easily been able to establish that he had taken a total of 43,826,728 steps since the death of his comrade. Each of these steps had been in perfect alignment with any two of his other steps (with the same foot of course, as one foot is approximately 10 inches to the side of the other) making it quite clear that the direction the man was headed was indeed straight. Simple math would prove indubitably that the man had been walking for well over 3 days. WELL over. However, during this part of the journey the sun never rose. The moon shone high in the sky, sometimes full, sometimes new. Sometimes it waned, and sometimes it waxed. Sometimes it even set. Never, however, did dawn arrive. The man didn't notice. How could he? He had forgotten everything before his last toss of sand and therefore he didn't know how long he had known this darkness. It all seemed quite normal. Of course, it would be. Besides, without the blistering heat of a desert sun, who could mind a little darkness. Near the poles, there are seasons of total darkness as the earth tilts away from the sun on its axis, but those people don't seem to move away. Though some do. But the fact is that it is proven that some don't and therefore it is possible not to mind the absence of the sun. In any case the man never tired during this part of his journey and one who hadn't forgotten the events of past would only be able to conclude that the presence of a certain cold-blooded comrade were the sole reason for his numerous pauses and rests he had previously taken. The man no longer felt lost, though how lost could a man who at most can remember the previous 24 minutes of his life feel? He no longer felt hungry or thirsty, though for all he knew he had just eaten and drank less than half an hour ago. He concentrated only on two things. One: He must finish this journey. And two: How many steps he had taken.

Though to this point he had no idea how many steps he had taken altogether, it was upon his 43,826,728th step that the man stopped.

With impeccable posture, the man stood straight, staring at the ever evasive horizon. He took a deep breath. He blinked 3 times. And with that, he sat in the sand, which was no longer mounded in dunes but straight on a plane, to the last grain, though such detail was imperceptible to the man. Setting the briefcase in front of him, the man crossed his legs. He snapped open the latches and lifted his case open. Pulling out the unopened letter which lay beneath everything else the man had once had stored safely and in perfect order, the man closed the briefcase and set the envelope on top. For almost half the time it took him to walk 14,080 steps, the man stared at the envelope. Finally, he exhaled quickly and snatched the envelope from the top of the briefcase. Tearing it open quickly, but oh so carefully, the man pulled from the envelope a single sheet of paper folded into thirds. Opening the stationary, the man begin to read the first of 81 words centered on the sheet, written in courier new font, size 10, in gold letters. The letter was signed but the man couldn't even force his eyes to move onto the author's name. Upon finishing reading, the man's memory flooded back. All of it. He felt hungry and thirsty for the first time in God knows how long. Again, the man began to feel lost. Carefully folding the letter, he looked to the heavens and began to weep.


Wednesday, November 19, 2008

...and i readily accept that

lifeSong23 (7:34:47 PM): you are a complicated person
quemesGuitarras (7:34:52 PM): i know that

i guess its just never been a problem before...

not entirely parallel

i guess i was waiting. i guess i still am. maybe i missed you altogether. even more probable; i didn't.

i wish i could create a labyrinth

the way radiohead has. i'd like to start writing like that. perhaps thats my next project. a jack of all trades i guess. never in the same place twice. lightning. frustrating at times, but at least there's always something to talk about, right? yes a labrynth. i've considered it for some time. it probably wouldn't be too terribly difficult. if i never wanted to escape. but what good is a labrynth if i could? once you get past the possibility (probability) that things that were meant for people to see will never be seen. and possibly (probably) things that were never meant to be seen will be seen.

i guess this is how daedalus felt. maybe thom too.

Intermission II: The Horizon

is there anybody really out there?
does it matter what happens next?
is there anybody really
is there anybody
out there?
is there

Inside was everything that was xxxxxxxxx.

Part IX: What You Read First is None of My Business

For the first time on his journey the man was overwhelmed by the events that had taken place. His head spun and he sat down hard in the sand. Holding his head in his hands, the man took a few deep breaths while the gila looked on in bewilderment. "I'm lost," he said, "I'm lost and I've nowhere else to go." The gila had nothing to say. The man had never shown such vulnerability in the months they had been in the desert. Nor had he veered from his straight path or paused to gather his bearings before. If he was lost now, it was either his original intention on losing himself or he had been lost the entire time. Perhaps it didn't matter which was the case.
The man took one last breath, stood up, dusted his jacket, and picked up his briefcase. With a swift crack of the neck, he took a bold step forward. The gila simply fell in step.
The skies were again clear, but it was no longer day. The full moon cast brilliant shadows against the white sands. The man's pace was unmatched. He moved with a purpose. The gila could hardly keep up, besides, he had just eaten more than his share. After all, he had no idea when the next time he would eat would be. But now he realized his mistake as the exquisite speed was beginning to churn his stomach. The monster tried to put it out of his mind and, lowering his head, pushed forward to keep up with the man's lengthy stride. The man was nearly running. The gila was. No strange event, no apparition, no weather would stop the man from fulfilling his journey, lost or not. Eventually the man slowed, cooling his head from the anger he had had just moments before. The gila looked into his eyes, and knew the end was near. The man, perhaps, did not. He did, however, know the gila was looking at him and turned to face the creature.
No sooner did the man lay eyes on the reptile than a great flash of sand and feathers impede his view. Choked by the dust, the man rubbed his eyes and knelt to the ground only to find the gila was missing. He looked to the sky and saw his companion, gripped tightly in the talons of a large black eagle. It wasn't an eagle at all. It was a crow. But one of unseen size. Nevertheless, there was a bird. And it had captured the gila monster. The crow carried its prey high into the sky, leaving behind nothing but the distinct sound of a loud 'kaww'. Or was it more of a 'screech'. All that was certain was that it had stolen the man's loyal follower from his side. The man watched helplessly as the bird circled high overhead and landed in the distance on the dead limb of a leafless tree. It was quite far, but the man was clearly able to see the crow lower its head to its claws, grasp the gila by the head, and jerk its beak quickly up to the sky. Its actions were followed by another loud call, one of victory and fury, as well as sorrow and defeat. The man looked on in astonishment and after an irreverent moment of silence, gave a simple eulogy, "So I guess its just me then..."

With that, he continued on his way.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Meet my philosophy professor

i can only hope when i get older, i will wear that shirt. seriously.

110% chance of books

from my desk, the view outside my window consists of shelves and shelves of books. it has never been an especially fantastic view. perhaps it never will be.

Part VIII: Don't Read Part VII First

The man was still in awe of the sight he had just seen while the gila monster continued to consume the dead flesh. The corpses had been laying in the sun for mere minutes, but a putrid stench emanated from each of them. The gila didn't seem to mind but the man was horribly disgusted. He refused to walk past the fallen creatures. Walking past meant getting closer to that awful smell. The man kneeled in the sand. He opened his briefcase and removed the rest of the cash. He brought it to his nose and took a deep breath, filling his nostrils with the scent of all the bills he brought with him. Exhaling slowly, the man took a few steps toward the rapidly decaying animals. He drew back his fist full of cash and shoved it into the belly of the lion. The smell subsided immediately. The man didn't remove his hand, however, instead opting to push his other hand into the beast, washing his hands in its blood. Pulling them out, the man dug his hands into the sand. He stood up and walked back to his briefcase. With his sand battered hands, the man pulled out some of the documents he had kept and placed them on the ground. Stepping on them, he ground them into the sand, kicking dirt and sand over them until they were covered completely. The gila had long since stopped feasting and watched the man's very peculiar actions. When the man was finished, he cringed slightly, as the smell was beginning to overpower him again. Gagging, the man quickly walked past the animals, briefcase in hand. The gila followed.
The storm seemed to be closing in on every side, though the sky directly above the man was cloudless and blue. Every so often, the gila glanced up at the man and the man took notice. "Just don't ask." said the man and the gila quit glancing. They walked for several miles until the travelers saw a wall of rain all around them, but still, their heads evaded the storm. Within minutes, however, an army of raindrops pounded wave upon wave upon them. The gila tried to shield himself by walking directly behind the man's left leg, the man leaned into the rain with his hand in front of his face and his briefcase still at his side. Lightning flashed and thunder clapped. The sun had disappeared completely in a blanket of cloud. Neither the man nor the gila could tell if it were night or day, all they knew was darkness. The lightning offered glimpses of their surroundings which was always the same. Dunes. Soon however, the lightning had all but subsided and the two were submerged in pitch black, disoriented more by the relentless rain. "Maybe we should take a break." the man shouted to the gila, but I'm not sure he heard him. The rain blasted the sand over and over and the sound was all but deafening. Not knowing a response, the man continued his pursuit, unhinged from his straight path. The lightning had ceased altogether, leaving the pair to stumble through the darkness and wetness of a night of all nights. Thunder still roared overhead but no light would ease the man's eyes as he strained to see ahead. Suddenly a blinding flash of lightning struck the sky and in the blink of sight the man swore he saw something in the sky. Another flash confirmed it. A large bird, like an eagle, navigated the terrible skies of the storm. Each flash of lightning saw the bird circling ahead, closer to the man each time.
Then, without warning, the rain stopped. The clouds cleared. The eagle was nowhere to be found.

it doesnt exist

Part VII.

110% chance of flurries

from my desk, the view outside my window consists of red brick. it has never been an especially fantastic view until it served as the background for a significant number of snowflakes falling. now its an especially fantastic view.

Monday, November 17, 2008



we'll celebrate this one. my birthday post. the 101st. like the dalmatians.


Thursday, November 13, 2008

If this is me clean...

i would hate to see me on drugs
Please click THIS link for an important announcement.

i read library of babel

it was mind boggling. every single time i think about it i realize about the vastness of the necessary volumes of books needed to be a complete set. it is unreal. not quite infinity, but unreal. for example. moby dick exists (that combination of letters clearly exists by chance) and it exists only once...but so does every possible error. so in another part of the library, there exists a perfect copy of moby dick save one misplaced comma. there also exists another perfect copy with that misplaced comma one space to the right. and another one space to its right. and so on. there also exists a copy with one misplaced letter A. and so on. UNREAL. i cant even comprehend.

i would go insane. knowing that you could find every true fact and the very story of your life...but also find every work of fiction, every lie and thousands of false stories of YOUR life. you could read for eternity and not believe one single fact because chances are, its false. i would go insane. i would go insane.

why is a stupid story about a library universe so unfathomable for me? why is it so enthralling?


borges has a lot more short stories about infinity and such. ill read em sometime.

today is a new day.

that means i can post new stuff without making it 7.
post office

charlotte is in C#
she's silly.

the almighty
beware of bears.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

This is why i get worried

that some blogs get left behind. this is number 6 today.

i went almost a month without posting one. six today.

don't forget what i said about bears.

Jorge Luis Borges

there's a short story i haven't read called Library of Babel. its about a universe that is simply a library that contains books which have every possible combination of letters, spaces, and punctuation. think of the possibilities.

think of the horror.

with every possible permutation of letters in these books...simply by would have every conceived work of literature EVER. just by chance. you would have every biography. every historical fact. accurate predictions of the future. every bit of useful information you could ever desire! think of anything you have ever wondered about. THAT IS WRITTEN IN ONE OF THESE BOOKS!

but chances are you'll never find it.

because even though the random chance that the permutations will create a work of shakespeare, it will also create trillions of combinations of letters and spaces and punctuation that do not make any sense at all.

the people in this universe are hopelessly bound to filtering through literally trillions of books of NOTHING before they even come across one useful fact. let alone a masterpiece. sure there's probably also a book that lists where to find other books. by chance, it would be there. since the letters required to write out where to find other books ARE in fact a plausible combination of letters, spaces, and punctuation. that has got to be brutal for those people.

and you think writing a research paper is bad.

Life as we know it

over. why?
our house owns NHL 09 now.
maybe thats why im stockpiling blog posts today. because i know for the next [insert unreal amount of time] i will be holed up in my room raising the stats of my defenseman. [Andrew Thomas, offensive defenseman, is now rated 64. He has yet to score a point in his NHL career, but he has a +/- of +1, 7 shots on net, and 27 career hits. Coach Therrien also rated him A+ for stats, A+ for teamwork, and A+ for position. He has 2 penalty minutes (a single cross checking call. it was bull.)]

I'll be sure to keep you posted on my stats. ;D

its funny though. i think having the game has had the opposite effect i thought it would. i was actually a half hour EARLY for work today because i was playing NHL. what? yeah. i guess when i was planning my schedule of activities right before playing i was thinking "okay. i work at 4. i stop playing at 3:30. leave the house at 3:40." but apparently, at some point during the game against the senators, my mind translated STOPPING at 3:30 into WORK BEGINS at 3:30. [we won the game against the sens, 6-5. i just couldn't get a look at that empty net...]

so appears to me that NHL 09 is actually IMPROVING my time management skills. what an awesome game. and they say video games are the downfall of society.

Warning: Don't deem the previous post irrelevant due to the posting of this post before you read the previous post. SERIOUSLY. don't mess with bears.


Q: What is more menacing than 600 lbs of muscle and fury?

A: 1500 lbs of muscle and fury.

don't mess with bears.

courier new

i tried changing the font of the blog to courier new. blogger only gives us courier. and it makes the titles courier. i dont want them to be courier. i want the text to be courier. i think it gives it a more classic feel. like a typewriter. everyone loves typewriters. not everyone loves typewriters. i love typewriters. and its the block lettering. every character takes up the same amount of space. its so..............symmetrical.

so i resolved to use html to see if it would give me courier new. granted, i'll have to put in the code each time i blog, but maybe itll just be a welcome change every now and then. ill probably get lazy and stop doing it.

trebuchet isnt that bad anyway. i rather enjoy it...

i hope this worked.

That's not entirely true!!!

haha why did i say i dont really have any projects going on?!

so i saw a man today. i thought he looked like jesus.

then i thought about it a little more...

turns out he looked more like rob zombie.

whats that say about the way jesus looked?
whats that say about the way rob zombie looks?
what does that say about the way THIS guy looks??
is there a correlation??? is it a positive or negative correlation?
too many questions. not enough answers.

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

The Ovechkin Complex

before you say anything, yes i know im a penguins fan and yes, i know this is gonna seem like a fanboy ranting against the arch nemesis of his favorite hero. but hear me out. there's evidence now. we all know about the mind boggling vendetta Alex Ovechkin has against Evgeni Malkin. the NATION knows about it. sports writers across the country have written about how they have NEVER in their careers witnessed a superstar continuously go out of his way to attempt to injure another star player. NEVER. there's a reason ovechkin doesn't score against the penguins. there's probably a few. but one of them is certainly that he constantly leaves his position to chase after malkin and land a punishing hit on him. ALWAYS. EVERY SHIFT. THIS is the player everyone is raving about? the team player? the man who just loves the game of hockey? THIS is the man that is supposed to be equal to if not better than sidney crosby?

i have consistently tried to keep out of the AO/SID debates. i have steered clear because they are both great players. albeit, in different ways. sidney crosby is a playmaker. he has unheard of vision on the ice and can pass a puck through the eye of a needle. ovechkin is a goal scorer. he has a great shot and the selfish, puck hogging brain needed for a 60 goal scorer. he takes countless amounts of shots. but this is where i draw the line. crosby doesn't leave his position to take revenge or set an example or whatever reason. he plays the game. and he plays it well. he plays smart hockey. he knows his position. he is there to feed pucks and create distractions. as a captain he is there to discuss any discrepancies with the referees. that is his JOB. though some people refer to it as whining.

ovechkin needs to grow up.

Sunday, November 9, 2008

Part VI: Read Something Else First

The man walked for weeks without seeing a thing. It seemed as if the horsemen took with them every shred of what little life had been in that desert. The gila noticed this too, and began to become suspicious of the man's motives. He was beginning to get hungry and had been searching for days for something. Anything. To eat. A storm brewed in the distance to the east. In fact, a storm brewed to the west. Actually, the man stopped for a moment and scrunched his face in thought. He looked to his left. And his right. Then in front of him and quickly spun around to his back. The storm surrounded him on all sides. Lightning struck and thunder rumbled far off in the distance. The man stared straight ahead.
"Perhaps we should set up camp or something."
The gila glanced up at him but the man's eyes never left the horizon ahead. A little unnerved, as the man had never before attempted to set up any kind of shelter, the gila simply set his eyes on whatever it was the man was staring at. The man took a step forward. The gila followed suit. Then another step. And another. The gila should have known the man didn't mean what he said. Why should he stop now?
Suddenly a loud roar quickly brought the monster back into focus. He pinned himself to the man's shoe and frantically searched for the source of the sound. There, in front of the duo, were two chain posts. Where had they come from? They certainly hadn't been there before. Connected to each chain post was a steel chain. Connected to each chain was a steel collar. One collar wrapped around the neck of a small lamb, laying down calmly against the desert floor. The other, however, restrained a large lion, fighting with all its enormous might to free itself from its bondage to get within reach of the lamb. The man and consequently, the gila, were quite closer to the lion than the lamb was, but the beast paid them no mind. It wanted one thing, and one thing only. The man stared at the ground, at the chain post that tethered the cat to the ground. It wasn't holding. Slowly, the post pulled out of the ground, angling itself towards the lion and its prey. Inch by inch, the silver shaft of steel wrenched free of earth, bringing the predator's deadly claws closer to the throat of the oblivious lamb. With each lunge, each roar, each inch, the lamb was closer to death. It, however, simply lay, watching the means of its inevitable end try desperately to free itself. The post was now nearly a foot longer than the man had initially thought, but still it held. The lion showed no exhaustion, it maniacally lunged towards the helpless lamb, slashing claws and gnashing teeth.
Saliva dripped from the lion's jaws as, with a fire in its eye, it clawed at the ground, pulling the stake further from its position.
The man watched in horror as the lion made one last attempt, pulling the iron stake free from its hold in the earth, and lunging towards the calm lamb. What could he do? He could not be expected to stop the onslaught of a hungry, crazed lion. Especially one that stood taller than he. The animal leapt over the lamb and just as his claws buried into the lamb's flesh, the lamb jumped up, tearing at the lion's mane with its own teeth, pinning the cat to the ground and ripping apart its throat. The lion was instantly still and the man could clearly see his esophagus pulled from its skin. Quick, thick spurts of blood measured the lion's slowing heartbeat as the lamb remained hovering above the body. As the trails of blood softened, the lamb bit into the belly of the beast, tearing a long line of hide from the lion's underside, spilling its organs onto the desert floor. With that, the lamb looked up at the man, head spattered with lion blood, and let out a loud baaa. Upon which the lamb closed its eyes and fell limp to the earth. The man stood shocked. Eyes wide and mouth slightly open, he couldn't move. The gila, however, saw a grand opportunity. He worked his way over to the carcass and gorged himself on whatever smelled to his liking. He was hungry. This meal was a godsend.

Saturday, November 8, 2008

the meaning of life

bruises healing
range of motion back in the neck
hearing back
constant ringing in the ears has subsided

just in time for...

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

Not that obama's win has anything to do with my thoughts concerning this holiday...

Remember, remember the fifth of November
The gunpowder treason and plot.
I see no reason why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, 'twas his intent
To blow up king and parliament.
Three score barrels were laid below
To prove old England's overthrow
By God's mercy he was catch'd
With a dark lantern and lighted match.
Holler boys, holler boys, let the bells ring
Holler boys, holler boys, God save the King.

A penny loaf to feed the Pope
A farthing o' cheese to choke him.
A pint of beer to rinse it down.
A fagot of sticks to burn him.
Burn him in a tub of tar.
Burn him like a blazing star.
Burn his body from his head.
Then we'll say ol' Pope is dead.
Hip hip hoorah!
Hip hip hoorah hoorah!


Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Busy Signal

its not you, its me.

maybe soon.
maybe later.
maybe even never.

wouldn't be the first time

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Intermission: Too Many Long Posts

lets keep this one short.
idk. is it worth continuing?
does it matter what happens next?
are any of these things coming together to form a real plot?

is there anybody out there?
is there anybody out there?
is there anybody

out there?

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Part V: Read Parts I - IV First

The sun was once again high in the sky, beating proudly its heat upon the man and his reptilian follower, seemingly unknowing of its tired fate only eight or so hours from this point. The man continued relentlessly, unfazed by the terrible heat. His mouth was dry and his stomach empty, but the man couldn't stop now. He was well on his way. The gila didn't mind; he ate no more than five times in a year. Despite earlier doubts, he was now convinced that these mammals took the same schedule. He was however, growing very tired, as the quickened pace he needed to keep up with the man was far faster than a normal gila will move. He was used to conserving his energy, what little he had, and slinking slowly across the warm sand. The man rejuvenated his energy though, and he was surprised he could keep up with him as long as he had. The gila pushed these thoughts from his mind and focused on the trail. It always came back to the trail. Every thought or doubt either of the two travelers had was always subdued by thoughts of the trail. It must have been important for that reason.

As the sun hit its highest point in the sky, the man thought he heard a whinny. He stopped and looked around him. Nothing but sand surrounded him. Soon though, he heard the muted tapping of hooves running through sand. He turned quickly and no sooner did his head reach around his shoulder than a horse of pure white flew directly past his face. Startled, the man stumbled back and the rider of the horse pulled back his reins and turned so the broad side of the milky horse faced the man. The horse trotted in place as the man observed the apparition in front of him. The rider wore a white robe and held the reins in his right hand. In the same hand was a longbow and atop his head, a crown. The man sported a thick red beard and had a very viking appearance, despite his attire. The rider lifted his huge left hand and pointed past the man, into the distance behind him. The man turned and seeing nothing, returned his gaze upon the rider and his horse. But the horseman had fled, and it was so far in the distance, it was as if he had never stopped to greet the man. Was he greeting him? The man turned once again to the scene behind him, but this time he did see something. A second horse was arriving quickly, its rider riding low, dragging something across the sands. This horse was a beautiful brown, one could almost mistake it for a burnt red color. The rider wore a brilliant scarlet garment that ran up over his head and covered his face. He sped by the man who saw now that he was dragging a large broadsword, marking his trail behind him. The rider never stopped as the first did, only continued pursuit of the white horse, though the man doubted he would ever catch him.
The man looked behind him again, to be sure another ghost (at this point he very much doubted the riders' actual existence) wasn't following. He brushed off his suit once more, returned to his original position, directly in line with his previous footprints, and stepped forward once more. Strange, he thought, the only two men I've seen since the journey began and neither of them bothered to ask my business in the desert. He was, in fact, ill prepared for a journey through the desert, and perhaps this was the first time he noticed. Both of the riders wore more appropriate garb for a trip in the desert, and they both had better modes of transport. The man pondered this thought for a moment but, not able to find a logical answer, determined that they were simply ghosts, with no real minds of their own. There had probably been an epic battle here centuries ago, and the two riders were mere memories to the aging sands.

Part IV: Read Parts I - III First

Blood still dripped from the man's lips as he continued down the invisible path in the moonlight. The gila monster peeked out of the man's pocket every once in awhile, but only saw the same scene in front of him. Sand. The desert was an endless ocean of sand and wind. No one in this man's position could make it out alive. But then, to the gila monster's knowledge, this man wasn't ordinary. Apart from the meager meals the gila witnessed, the man hadn't eaten or drank anything in days. Who is he to say what is normal for a human though? This was in fact, the first he's ever met. He seemed nice enough, engaging the gila in pleasant conversation and even letting him ride in his pocket during the chilled nights. He liked the man. He was actually going quite a distance out of his way just to accompany the man. The man needed him, he thought. How else could he navigate through the harsh desert sun without a local to help guide him? And the snake! Surely, the man would be dead of venom if it hadn't been for the gila! This is how the gila monster justified its venturing far out of his normal routine and his infatuation with the human being. The gila, then realizing this fine opportunity, curled up inside the man's pocket, and fell asleep.


The man could feel the gila curling up inside his jacket pocket and smiled to himself. The poor creature followed him without fail but this wasn't its journey to make. The journey was for the man alone. In a way, he admired the gila monster. He admired the loyalty it had for a man it had never met. A man that had never done anything to earn its loyalty. A man that had hardly earned loyalty from anyone in his life. The admiration soon turned into confusion. Why did the gila have such loyalty for the man? It didn't make sense. The man couldn't even remember when he first met the gila. Surely it was after the journey had begun, but he couldn't be sure. With an imaginary shrug of the shoulders, the man shook these thoughts from his mind and concentrated on the journey ahead of him. The night was long, but cool, and the moonlight turned the sandy dunes an eerie shade of gray. They moved, or at least they seemed to. In the distance mostly. They rolled, as if waves of a churning ocean, down, then up, then down again. It may have been the man's own motions, up and down the dunes, but no...he couldn't be moving that fast. No, in fact, the dunes he was walking on moved too. The entire desert moved in the moonlight. Up and down. Up and down. The waves lurched him forward as he walked. He prayed he wouldn't lose his bearings and his path, but what good is prayer in a time like this? Another wave came from behind him, catching him off guard, catapulting the man into the air. As he came down, the man splashed into the sand, chest high. The waves crashed over his head, as he fought hard to keep his head above the sand. He gripped his briefcase tightly as wave upon wave of sand smothered him. The man was losing his strength. With each wave that crashed over his head, the man sank deeper and deeper into the sand. Finally, the man took one last breath and his head was covered with the next passing wave.

He was standing. He hadn't moved for a few minutes now. The moon had retired and the sun was coming up. The man looked around him, not entirely remembering why he stopped moving forward. The marks in the sand indicated a struggle, but the man was clean of sand and the gila monster remained asleep in his pocket. He decided not to take notice and, checking his $1200 gold watch, the man continued on his path. As the sun raised its head over the most distant dunes, the gila monster awoke. It climbed from the man's pocket, falling to the desert floor. It regained its position to the man's left. Looking down, the man smiled at the reptile. "Ready for another day?" he asked. The gila looked up momentarily, then continued at the rapid pace it had become accustomed to, trying to keep up with the man's elongated stride. The man was growing weary of the reptile's silence. But he paid no mind, focusing on the horizon and continuing on.

Monday, October 13, 2008

Part III: Read Parts I & II First

The sun must have been exhausted because it was no longer able to keep its high position in the sky. Neither did it shine so brilliantly and neither still did it release such destructive rays. Instead it drifted slowly beneath the horizon, painting brilliant reds and purples against the clouds in the distance. A coyote howled. The man turned his head to see which direction the sound came from but saw nothing. Turning back to his front, the man was startled to see a pair of coyotes staring back at him. Sitting side by side, the dogs grinned, tongues hanging to the side. One of the animals stood up and circled the man and the monster, snapping his jaws at the air. The other sat silently, panting as if they had just enjoyed a long, winded run. The one that circled them, however, did not pant at all, only snapped his jaws to the left and to the right, as if he was performing a ritual dance around the man and his companion. Upon completing the circle and returning to his original position next to his noticeably smaller partner, the coyote leaned down and stretched out his forelegs, laying his head down at his paws. Or was he bowing? The man would have not thought it odd if he were, but as soon as his muzzle touched his paws, the animal leapt up with fire in his eyes, snarling and opening his jaws wide, aiming directly for the man's throat. The man fell backwards screaming and covered his face with his hands. He braced his body against the sand for impact but never felt it. Opening his eyes, he looked around him and saw no trace of the wild dogs. The gila sat upright near his briefcase, which he had thrown in his desperation. The man shook the sand out of each shoe and stood up, once again straightening his jacket and tie, retrieved his briefcase and continued on his way. The gila quickly followed suit. Dusk had long passed and the only sign of light came from a sliver of moon that hid behind a thick cover of clouds.
The temperature had dropped substantially and with it, the cold blooded gila's ability to keep in step with the man. The man noticed and bent down to pick up the creature. The gila obliged and the man lifted it into his pocket. Peeking out, the gila now had a birds eye view of their destination. Surprisingly, it looked the same three inches off the ground. After another while, the man stumbled across another cactus plant. He stopped, as the small, bulbous plant lay directly in his path. The man thought a minute about what to do, and then decided to sit down and enjoy the cactus' company. Setting his briefcase down, the man asked the plant what it did for a living. Hearing no reply, the man assumed the plant must've been an employee at one of the four firms that were consumed by the mega firm he now led.

"I'm terribly sorry for your misfortune," the man said upon his conclusion, "but I'm afraid business is business. I'm sure you understand perfectly."

The gila tilted his head to one side, observing the man's actions.

"Trust me, ma'am," the man continued, noticing the flower that topped the small desert plant, "if I were able to remain in business without eliminating some poor individual's job, I would! But you know how it is, jobs represent cost, and cost must be minimized." As he talked, the man pulled a pair of black leather gloves from his jacket pocket and pulled them over his hands. "In fact, I bet you didn't want to work in that stuffy building much longer anyway! I bet I did you a favor by absorbing your company, didn't I? All you need to follow your dreams is a firm push from behind, that's what I always say." The man carefully pulled the cactus from the ground and held it in one hand. "Oh, no need to thank me," the man said, waving the cactus in front of his face, "All I ask is an invitation to the grand opening of that art gallery you've been telling me so much about." And with that, the man took a large bite out of the plant, choking down the spines.
After finishing his meal, the man pulled a handkerchief from his front pocket and wiped the blood from his mouth. He removed his gloves and returned them to his jacket pocket, lifted his briefcase, spat blood into the sand, and once again continued his journey.

Part II: Read Part I First

Returning the utensils to his pocket, the man stood up and wiped the sand from his pants. He never bothered to wake his companion, who dozed off under the man's shadow, taking advantage of the rest. The gila monster quickly awoke however, no longer protected from the wicked rays of the sun. Looking around, the gila shook the sand off his back and caught up to the man who had only traveled a short distance further. He looked at the man with a look of betrayal but the man didn't notice. The two continued walking, silently. The man looked down at the gila, who was staring straight ahead, trying hard to keep up with the man who had a much wider pace. Noticing the awkward silence, the man looked into the horizon, inquiring "Where are you headed?"
The gila looked up at him briefly but returned his gaze ahead of him and continued walking.

"I'm sorry I left you back there," the man replied, "I didn't want to disrupt your sleep. You haven't gotten much since we started together. I can't imagine we're going to the same place anyway. You probably would have been better off. I have nothing to offer you."

With that, the man stopped dead in his tracks, hearing a steady rattling noise. Ahead and to the right, the snake coiled and raised its venomous head. The gila, who had been traveling on the man's left, scurried around the man's heels and in front of him to his right side, quickly taking a defensive stance against the deadly counterpart. Opening his mouth wide, the gila let out a deafening hiss and the snake glared back, uncoiling its body and slithering away into the dunes.
The man, embarrassed by his inability to defend himself, straightened his suit and continued walking. The gila once again joined him on his left. The man glanced back at the spot where the altercation took place and realized for the first time in days how this journey would end. His eyes moved up to the horizon and no sign of the man's vehicle was to be seen. In fact no sign of it was to be seen since the first day and now the man was beginning to doubt he ever even had one. He turned again, and with a shrug of his shoulders, took a few more steps before sitting once again. The gila sat with him. Opening the briefcase, the man pulled the lone, conspicuous key from the corner and buried it in the sand. Then he bent down low to the dune and sniffed the earth. Sticking out his tongue, the man dragged his face across the sand. He sat up, chewing. He locked the briefcase again, stood, and continued without pause.

Part I

A man walked through the desert. He was alone, accompanied only by a gila monster that seemed to be going the same place he was. He wore a suit. Armani. Black jacket and red tie. His daughter bought him this tie for fathers day. She was four. He carried his briefcase just below his $1200 gold watch. His right hand tucked firmly in his pocket (it was the only place to avoid the blistering sun). The same sun, which very audibly signaled that it was near high noon. The man past a small cactus. Funny, he didn't notice anything resembling life in the distance. But here was his own little ecosystem. The cactus, the gila, and himself. He looked behind him. His footprints told the story of his past. Thousands of steps. Thousands of lonely steps. Inevitably, they led back to his abandoned car. A car he wished not return to. The man reflected on his actions, then hanging his head, turned and continued his path. The gila monster scurried ahead a few steps and turned and sat directly in the man's path, looking up into the sun. The man stepped over the reptile, continuing his journey. The monster ran ahead again, stopping, sitting, and looking up. It wasn't the sun that caught the animal's eye, it was the man. He stopped.

"Why do you stare at me?" the man asked the simple creature.

The gila monster refused to speak, opting only to stare directly into the man's eyes. The man shook his head in frustration, stepping once again over the small gila, and continuing his path. The gila watched in silence as the man walked away, then, realizing the loneliness of being left behind, he quickly joined the man's side once again.
Soon, the man began to feel the effects of dehydration and decided to take a quick breather. He had, after all, been walking for days, without break. He stopped at the top of a dune and sat down. The gila covered himself with sand and sat with only his eyes protruding from the desert floor. The man set his briefcase on the dune and opened it. Inside was everything that was important to him. To the left, sat a stack of $100 bills, all together totaling $26,400. Next to that, an investment portfolio, indicating that not one of the man's stocks were on the decline. Underneath the portfolio sat a cash flow statement which outlined the incredible success the firm had had under the man's supervision. In the bottom corner lay a keychain with only three keys which were inscribed, respectively, with the brand names BMW, Hummer, and Mercedes-Benz. A fourth key, uninscribed, lay conspicuously apart from the keychain near the cash. Underneath it all lay a newspaper clipping proclaiming the takeover of the firm by the man and exclaiming that things were about to change. Things did change. Beneath the clipping was a letter. The letter was unopened and the man didn't intend to open it now.
The man carefully pulled two $100 bills from the stack. He closed the briefcase and set the two banknotes atop the case. He pulled from his pocket a fork and knife and cut the bills into pieces. One by one, he consumed the slices, leaving not a crumb on his makeshift dish.
what if i?

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

i'm at work.

i miss charlotte.

she's probably at home. in the living room. being abused by dan's wing-sauce smothered hands.

don't let her see these two posts below...i dont want her thinking im trying to replace her.

i still owe her that new paint job i promised.

Or possibly...

Schecter Damien 5?

please note...the BAT inlays

Christmas List

Schecter Omen-5.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

Thought Map

i guess i've been working this thought map up for awhile but waking up this morning it all came together at once like an electric circuit linking together.

[why do i reference an electric circuit instead of a light bulb and switch like everyone else? whatev.]

so. my point.

many nonbelievers tend to hold the notion that God can not exist because nothing exists that are absolutely intangible to us. we could argue the wind, or atoms, but they say that you can feel the wind. and scientists have proven atoms. yeah, well scientists have "proven" the big bang theory but we still don't know where those molecules that caused it came from...
they also discredit the Bible based on its extensive use of miracles to prove God's existence. they say that if God existed...or if he still existed, there would be miracles today. its so easy to see miracles in today's world, we just call them coincidence or irony.

i guess it comes down to this.

C.D. Broad, a philosopher in the early part of the 20th century, wrote an essay in 1939 called "Arguments for the Existence of God." In his essay, Broad recognizes that the people we stand in awe of, arguing about the nonexistence of God, are the people who have never seen God's power. This is like listening to someone who grew up in the city, who has never seen a cow, say that cows do not exist. AND BELIEVING HIM. Broad relates it to music very well.
"If a man who had no ear for music were to give himself airs on that account, and were to talk de haut en bas about those who can appreciate music and think it highly important, we should regard him, not as an advanced thinker, but as a self-satisfied Philistine."
How can you immediately discredit someone who has countless religious experiences while citing someone who has never felt the presence of God in his life? He also tells us that just because someone has had many experiences with God does not mean that man isn't crazy. There are some cuckoos out there that claim God told them to do pretty rash things. Like blow up a building. But then again...we have the story of Abraham. Separating fact from fiction is NOT an easy task. But Broad argues that we can think of this information in one of three ways.

We can accept what we hear about God like we accept what trained biologists tell us. Sure, they can tell us about atoms and electrons and photons and dark matter. But we can't see that. We can't prove that with our own eyes. They can't even see it. They can "prove" it based on equations and experiments, but when it all boils down, it's still just a theory. Yet we still learn about it in school.

Or, we can think of the information about God the way we think about drug users' hallucinations. They all seem to have similar hallucinations so they may be real, just a perception of things we, as sober individuals, haven't the open mind to see, right? Well the difference is that there is no physical evidence to suggest that spiders and rats are crawling all over someone.

The third way, is an imaginary scenario. I related this to the story in "The Giver" by Lois Lowry, if you've ever read that. Great book. Anyway, imagine a race of sightless beings. Not one member of this race has the ability of sight. Now imagine that suddenly, select individuals gain the ability to see. Kinda like the new movie, Blindness, but backwards. These new superior beings can tell the average being about things they might feel. They can describe to them the shape and height, the location or direction, and the average being will be able to believe them. Eventually, they will run into the object the Sight-Being described and will be able to take his words for fact. How then, will the Sight-Being be able to describe COLOR to the Blind-Being? It is impossible. No matter what words they attempt to use, the Sight-Beings will never be able to describe color, an intangible property, to beings who have never experienced such a thing. Until the Blind-Beings also gain sight, they will have to take the Sight-Beings descriptions of hue and saturation and tone and darkness as opposed to lightness as fact based on FAITH.

I could continue into countless realizations that hold as much concrete evidence for the existence of God but I don't want to bore you. I'll save those for another discussion. Besides, I've already explained that this blog is mainly meant to get the things in my head out. This is just a thought map. Is that already a thing? I hope I made it up.

P.S. I guess there's this new movie coming out, "Religulous," that sounds like its going to anger me to no end. I'll still probably see it...probably not in theatres...I just don't like seeing things that think they are so quick-witted to easily discredit things like religion when I can't immediately point out to them the fallacies in their arguments that their interviewees so conveniently couldn't answer. Ugh.

Sunday, October 5, 2008


rays of sun on a golden hill

Saturday, October 4, 2008

The Doors of Perception

im watching the doors. i dont know how i dont have this movie memorized yet.
i looked up some poetry of jim morrison. because quite frankly...i dont know much of it other than his lyrics and those he dubbed over for An American Prayer.

listen to this:

Now is blessed
The rest

i stumbled across this on accident, i was searching for another one in particular that i knew was short so i just looked for short ones. but i found that

live in the moment.
because this moment is the ONLY this moment there will ever be.
the rest of the moments passed are only in existence in memory. so make the most of them for the sake of their existence and make the most of them for the sake of your FUTURE memories of your PAST, or currently, your NOW.

at least thats what i got.

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

to end the current haiku binge

ill end on a happy note.

zombie zombie dead
zombie zombie zombies rock
zombie zombie no!


i accidentally threw up the visualizer on itunes.
its outta my mind.

its seriously ridiculous...

lemme show you a screenshot...

thats real


98% of the time, ive determined, i draw my circles clockwise.

i wonder why?
water spins our hemisphere.

you know what? dvds spin clockwise.
CLOCKS spin clockwise.

do you suppose in the southern hemisphere dvds spin counterclockwise?
and if they do...would the movies made down under play backwards in a northern made dvd player?

more importantly...

do people who live south of the equator draw their circles counterclockwise?

Monday, September 29, 2008

I can fix that

seems your stuffing's out
those cuts must be pretty deep
but I can fix them


i wish you knew that
you cant convey your feelings
'til you stop screaming


the way out is up
the sea is unforgiving
please don't fly too high


death comes so quickly
summer breeze and dancing seeds
a breath of new life

open water

i swore i'd be home
but the storm caught us off guard
the sea is calm now...


oh, you sit so high
away from all those you love
the vulture awaits...

upside down lady

upside down lady,
your umbrella is filling
why don't you come down?

early monday morning

the sun peeks over
as the horizon sleeps fast
stirring up the dew

Saturday, September 27, 2008


we leave today.
off to helsinki, finland.

to play Jokerit Helsinki, one of the best teams in SM-Liiga. Then the pens will stroll over to Sweden to blow through two games with the senators. whatev. the senators are old news.

Jokerit will be awesome.

Fans in Helsinki ate up the tickets in less than half an hour. THEY. WANT. HOCKEY.

i cant wait. new season. more experience. and a lineup that now includes a Fed, Satan, and the Cookie Monster.

oh yeah. i am ready.


i could have sworn. i decided to write this blog and it was only 5. but here i am, close to 5:30, not tired, bored. bored. bored. bored. boreed. bored. boredl. bore.d

what do i do.

what does one do at 5:26 in the morning?

blog, apparently.
and watch The Exorcist II. its been a good night for horror. earlier, i watched the devils rejects. before that part of halloween. before that it was nightmare on elm street.

the other night we watched the serpent and the rainbow.
wes craven is amazing. and so are zombies. real life ones in Haiti. thats the real deal. spooky spooky.
not even lying.

i mean 5:28.
the structure of this very blog in my mind included no more than three lines.
i should have counted because i know i am well beyond that now.
my blog is long. not this entry, the whole thing in general, right?

i should really shorten the number of posts on the front page. fortunately for the glory of each post...unfortunately for the viewer...i am lazy.
even when theres nothing to do at 5:29am on a saturday morning, i still can't find the time to do something like that.

wow wow wubzy.
watched that the other night. there must have been something in the air. we were CRACKING.UP. it was ridiculous. shocking, really.

5:30. 5:33 according to that clock over there...5:31 now. still 5:33 over there.

time is irrelevant. i feel like...i feel like time is imaginary. made by men as a way to control other men.
time can only be measured by instruments created by man, programmed to measure what we want it to.
if i wanted, i could make a clock that took an accepted hour to measure one second.
but i suppose i could do that for anything. pounds, money, height, volume.
it's all subjective if you think about it.
these minutes are absolutely flying! i promise you 100% i am not stopping typing and im not erasing, save typos. how can i only get one or two sentences in a minute??
this is not promising for time. or is it not promising for me?

its an interesting predicament.
i hate this commercial. the new thing...with the weird rap-ish song where he has this crazy ridiculous tone in his voice. its so obnoxious.

idk whatev. i guess ill find somethin else to do.

still not tired.