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."

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.

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.

Zombies

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


A: Thousands of undead dying to consume your flesh.

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 is...how long could I survive chained to a bunk bed with something truly fierce?

A Fortune Cookie

A person with a determined heart
frightens problems away.

Mess

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.

Motel

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.

Corners

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.

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.

X

...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
there
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.

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.

21

:)


MY LAST POST WAS MY 100TH!!!!!! CELEBRATE!!!!!
we'll celebrate this one. my birthday post. the 101st. like the dalmatians.

BLOGPARTY

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?



infinity.

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.
postpostpostpostpsotpsotpstopaost
post office
postman
postage
stamp
ramp
tramp
semicolon
ellipsis
tilde
NAHT.

charlotte is in C#
she's silly.

the almighty
beware of bears.

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 chance...you 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 basically...it 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.