art failing

These words are passing. Not through memory, not through tongue, but through their brief moment in time... not even known to be forgotten. Not a rushing wind, but a slight breeze - too slight to be perceived.

We crawl through these lives, trying to grasp these experiences - trying to fathom how they could be so easily lost if not retold. We express these things so that our lives might live on in another form, but an unread page is just a page... the life living on its surface starves if not given attention, and the experiences we were trying to preserve manage to fade away. Our lives are slipping through our fingers, and art is a vain attempt at maintaining our grasp.

You see, expression doesn't prolong the experience; it only lives if transferred into new experiences as others witness the art. These experiences are its children, and it lives through them, but even then, its true nature is lost. Each child carries the taint of the eyes that birthed it, twisting and mangling the art with its touch on their own lives.

These words hold no recollection of the life they reflect. They hold hints and traces - things to be interpreted... or more likely, overlooked.

through a child's eyes #4

After Jason's parents were killed, he was sent to live with his uncle and his family.

"Jason, how's your turkey?"
"It was good, but I'm full."
His uncle was astonished. "Your aunt went to a lot of trouble to make Christmas dinner. Now, finish what's on your plate."
"You guys gave me way too fucking much. I can't eat all that!"
"Your cousin, Lisa, ate all of hers..."
"Yeah, but she pukes it up right after!"
"Her bulimia is an expression of love, young man!"
Lisa pointed a frail finger at Jason and said, "Do what you're told, you little brat."
Jason pouted, "Fuck you guys, I'm full!"
Before they managed to get him to eat the rest of his food, Jason's aunt started crying. "Jason hates my turkey!"

While Jason's uncle tried to console his wife, Lisa scowled at her younger cousin. "Thanks for ruining Christmas."
She would have said more, but pointing fingers and scolding other children tends to wear her out very quickly.

backward

She sat silently in the coffee house, kept by her thoughts. In her usual seat, with her usual cup, she unknowingly waited for the past to return.

She looked down at the mug in her hands, and let out an unexpected laugh - 'Bold Tina'. Her friends used to call her that because she drank her coffee scalding and pitch black. She shyly glanced around to see if anyone noticed her oddly placed chuckle, but nobody seemed to. Her friends would have noticed, but they weren't with her. Tina quickly looked back down, confining her boldness to the cup.

They'd all gone to new places and new lives. Graduation set them free, and left her stranded - locked into a pattern that was once so right. She wondered if they were happier chasing their dreams, maybe there's more to the planning than doing. She wondered if they missed the times of sharing, the times of waiting, or the way that seeing each other smile made each of them smile a little wider. She wondered if they missed the feeling that they weren't alone.

She didn't know what tomorrow would bring - she wasn't looking forward... only backward, only into the cup. She looked deeper into the blackness contained within, searching its depths for something that resembled what was, searching its surface for her own reflection. Nothing was to be found - all had already settled to the bottom.

powerlessness

I'm sensing that all of my anxiety stems from a feeling of powerlessness matched with expectation put on me. Usually this sense of impotency regards others or things I don't know. I can work so efficiently within the confines of my own mind, but when I need to draw on existing knowledge that I don't possess, or to rely on others that I can't trust or control, I feel like nothing can be accomplished. I hit this barrier all the time, and it completely halts all momentum.

When I'm in a position to rely on others, I hope that they won't fail me, but I know they will - they always do. Whether my dependence is large or small, that dependence will be what causes my failure. I don't know why, I only know that it's a visible pattern. I don't want to depend on others, but though my talents are strong, they have limitations. If my limitations are recognized and accounted for, I can thrive, but when I'm expected to excel on every level, simply because I excel on some, I'm doomed to fail.

I wish I was able to control others. If all were but extensions of myself, I'd guide them along, pushing them into fulfilling their roles. I'd fulfill my own, and my talents would play themselves out. Like flexing an unseen muscle, I'd cause them to retain their motivation, and would be able to turn my eyes inward, knowing that all else was taking care of itself - that others could be trusted to take care of all they should.

In the meantime, I think I'll just stop trying - this is the only thing truly in my power to accomplish.

purpose

The moon draws in and begs me to ask the question. What purpose is in my heart - what's the root of all this? What is it that I want for them?

I think that my distaste for humanity stems from my disappointment in it. It's not that I don't care, but more that my care has been defeated by their actions. I want them to find something, but I want them to do it themselves; my effort is in vain.

I believe that the most important thing that a man can do is to find his role in the universe, and to then fulfill it. These very words revisit my own search, but I find mine to be tied to that of the whole. This is a common revelation, but most use it to the end of needing others to reinforce their own beliefs; I don't need others to believe as I do - I weigh each man according to the standard by which he weighs himself. I don't care if he shares my beliefs... I care that he believes something and emulates it.

I want men of light to shine their brightest. I want men of darkness to embrace themselves and to lash out. I want men of balance to understand the beauty of the whole and to abandon their search for extremes. It's natural for every man to think himself right - I want each to stop doubting himself and to stop trying to fit a cultural standard... find something in this, be something.

Each man is but a child trying to find his place. On a larger scale, the whole of humanity is nothing but the same. The universe is restless, waiting impatiently for each piece to build itself into the puzzle; my desire is for this child to stop playing it safe, to stop trying to contain the very thing that grants it beauty.

test results

The man sat in the small room, nervously awaiting the news. The two hour wait in the lobby only added to his anticipation. By now, the feeling was very real.

He jumped slightly when a woman entered the room, but it was only a nurse. She sauntered in, staring down at the clipboard in her hand. "Mr. Gray?"
"Yes."
"And why are you here today?"
"Just getting my test results."
She continued to look at his file and said, "And who's your doctor?"
"I don't know."
Rather than staring mindlessly at his chart, she decided to actually read it. "Oh, Dr. Rice is your doctor."
"Okay."

He was only alone in the room for another few minutes before Dr. Rice came through the door.
"Randall?"
"Yes."
She closed the door behind her while reviewing his file.
"Everything looks okay. No HIV either."
The man sighed with relief. "That was easy."
"You looked a little pale - do you feel better now?"
"Yeah, I guess I was just nervous."
"Everything's fine - you have nothing to worry about."
"I'm glad... I do feel better."

She smiled and studied him, making sure that he was okay.
"Alright, now that you're more calm, I have something to tell you."
With a newfound sense of ease, he confidently looked at her and said, "Oh, what's that?"
"You have a shitload of STDs, most of which are incurable."
"But you just said that..."
"I know, I find the news to be easier to break this way... you'll be fine, just never have sex again."
"You know what... I really do feel okay about this... that false hope shit really takes the edge off!"
She smiled and said, "Yip, it's my favorite way to tell people horrible things."

The man was in the middle of making love to her when she said, "Hey! What did I tell you?"
"Oh yeah - no sex. Shit."

the Lord's miracles

Do you ever just think about the wonders of God's creations? Just think about the eye... this amazing instrument of biology that manages to translate variations in light into sight, such that the brain can make sense of it. What about the reproductive system... using instinctual desires to initiate an entire miraculous process that uses two distinct humans' genetics to create a new being. My favorite is cancer... a simple deformation in the cells of a living being that feeds on its environment, thriving and growing into something that can't be controlled or stopped. Amazing.

Frank, nuts, and a bit of wasted time

So, I need to write something right now - I've been slacking on this shit, throwing all of my time and attention into other creative projects. I've actually limited my postings to accommodate other pursuits. I was posting daily - now I'm only committing to a few solid posts a week. I take on these large creative projects, and immerse myself in them every second possible. Writing is one such project, but it's more stop and go - I want to try writing a long piece soon, but that's on hold for at least a couple weeks.

I'm in the 'cafeteria' at work right now (which doesn't serve food), and I'm listening to Frank Sinatra. "Oh, cool... Rand has good taste in music; I love the classics too!" Na, Frank Sinatra can blow me. Some asshole vendors are renting out the space in our cafeteria to peddle their wares. These fucks are selling nuts and gummy worms - wonderful. It's one thing to have five tables taken up by some shit I have no interest in buying, it's another to have some poor-assed peddler watching me write, hoping that I'll develop an appetite for gummy worms, but playing Frank Sinatra for the whole room to hear? That's fucking unacceptable.

"Rand, this post sucks." No shit - Frank Sinatra's mindless lyrics are sucking all creativity out of me. I'm glad he's dead - I wish I passed by his grave on the way home from work so that I could piss on it... it's not worth the effort of actually going out of my way to visit, but if it didn't require a detour, I'd drench it. Ideally, his descendents and some of his fans would be paying their respects to his carcass - I'd piss on them too; it's all in the hip.

Some chick just sneezed into one of the nut bins. If I had any intention of buying nuts, I'd wish a painful death upon her, but since that's not the case, I'm commending her for her idiocy. It's all about perspective - my perspective. I witness a hell of a lot of stupidity at work - nuts are more a medium for stupidity to be expressed.

One of the vendors is wearing a Hawaiian shirt and has a mustache. That's not important enough to mention, but it was mentioned regardless. None of this is important enough to mention.

through a child's eyes #3

When Jason was only a few months old, he woke up in the middle of the night.
"The baby's crying; we should stop."
"Just leave him alone and he'll go back to sleep."
"He'll see us having sex though."
"Whatever, I'll move his crib in the morning. I'm almost there - I'm not stopping now."
Jason found the spectacle amusing enough to cease his crying, and he was quickly forgotten.

During his afternoon feeding, Jason recalled some of what he had seen.
"Whoa..."
"What, did he bite you?"
"No, he... oohh..."
It seemed that Jason was a natural at flicking his tongue. He enjoyed the way his mother would wiggle when he did it, but was too young to understand its implications.
"What the hell's going on over there?!"
"Nothing... he's just... oooohhh..."
On that very day, Jason's father took up baby-shaking.

Six years later, Jason's schoolmates used to call him by the name 'Baby', because he was the only one among them who was still breastfed.
His mother had once read that breastfeeding children gives them stronger immune systems, and makes them more likely to be social with other children. The article didn't specify the age at which breast feeding should end, so she decided to act by the 'better safe than sorry' rule... at least in this one case.

"Jason, why did you punch Molly at school today?"
"That bitch called me a baby!"
His father frowned. "We took extra steps to give you a strong immune system and to make you social around your peers. It's bad to hit people."
Jason's mother looked at her husband and said, "I think he's just hungry."
"That's your answer for everything!"

poetry submission

I stood in the dimly lit room
  the ale was in hand to watch over me
    as we speculated-
so many were there,
    so many who could have been so much more
  but in this dimly lit room,
    filled with dimly lit minds
      the candles were the only things shining

empty hallway

I walked down the steps, into the long hallway, the same as I did every other day, but on this day, the hallway was empty. I noticed immediately - this hall, ordinarily packed with people, was vacant but for me. I knew this had to mean something.

I walked my normal route to the subway, not avoiding others as I went along. I wasn't avoiding those who were reading their phones' text messages, causing them to walk at a halved pace. I wasn't avoiding eye contact with strangers brushing up against me. I wasn't avoiding physical or verbal invitations to purchase a new product, career, or faith. I was alone in a place I'd never before been alone, searching for its meaning - it had to be a metaphor of sorts, something I would soon make sense of.

For the first time, I was able to hear the sounds of wind pouring through. I noticed how it competed with the echoing sounds of my own footsteps, which told me to soften my steps. I hadn't before been aware of how loud I was in this hallway; my sounds and intentions had always been overthrown by the crowd.

I was nearing my destination when a swarm of people appeared before me, coming straight for me, bringing with it all the things I had briefly enjoyed being without. The face of the swarm was a fleshy wall, quickly devouring the emptiness before me. My comfort faltered, as I knew my pace would soon after, being abruptly thrust from side to side by the wave of pedestrians. My time alone was nearing its end, and as a final act of desperation, my mind did all it could to grab hold of the situation's meaning, but the crowd engulfed me before it could.

Thrust back into my daily routine, I laboriously navigated my way through the crowd, losing the sounds of the empty hall to the noise that keeps it hidden. I lost my sense of reason, and was fully placed into the task of finding my way home. In that state, where meaning escapes me, I realized that the empty hallway had no meaning to be found - by whatever name I would attempt to give it, it would just be an empty hallway. I now had the metaphor I'd been seeking.

through a child's eyes #2

"Jason, get in here now!"
Jason was reluctant to leave the room in the middle of the cartoon, but his father could be a real asshole when he wanted to be.
"What?! I'm busy!"
"Why is your mother lying here on the floor in a pool of her own blood?"
"A close-range sniper got her. Can I go now?"
"If you did this, you're going to be grounded."
"I didn't do shit! Why the fuck am I always to blame?"
"I'm sorry, Son. I guess I jumped to conclusions."
"No shit."

Jason was back to watching his cartoon when his father again interrupted him.
"Jason?"
"What?! I want to see what fucking happens. Go away, you ass!"

"Son, a commercial's on. Can we talk now?"
"Make it quick."
"I'm sorry for accusing you of sniping your mother. How about we go for ice cream later?"
"Now you're talkin'!"
It was then that the close-range sniper appeared from his hiding place behind the couch, and shot Jason's father in the side of his head.

That night, before bed, Jason was in the middle of his nightly prayer, when Jesus answered, "I did it because you wanted them dead."
"Yeah, but my dad was going to buy me ice cream!"
Jesus cackled maniacally.
"I hate you, Jesus!"

movie

I emerged from the movie theater the same man who always emerges, someone who has temporarily lost that false sense of who he is. Waking from one dream to another, returning to a forgotten kind of sleep. To gain and lose an integral part of the self in such a short space of time.

They tell me who they are, who humanity is... and I believe them; I disbelieve myself. Myself - this concoction of thought and theory, a passing notion, lost when something more substantial crosses my path. Unreal and easily unmade.

Images passing before my eyes... stories of life's triumphs and failures. Captured moments and ages lost. Lives of fiction played out so real, as I observe and wonder if I've ever been as much as those characters on the screen. Could my life ever be captured and made into something bigger than a collection of passing days? Mine is real, but meaning escapes it... it makes me wonder which is truly wrapped in fiction.

today's quote

"I am a vengeful god." -Mere Existence.

claiming what's mine

As part of my workout routine, I'm supposed to drink a bit of water after every set. The drinking fountain is within visible range of the weight machines at the gym, and shit's pretty empty in the mornings when I go, but there are a bunch of old bastards there, who steal my machines the second I vacate them. They're weight machine scavengers.

This fucked up about two of my workouts before I started bringing a bottle of water with me. I sit there after every set, sipping my water, watching those damned vultures out of the corner of my eye. I don't want to bring a bottle of water though - I don't want to buy the occasional new bottle, I don't want to wash the one I use daily, and I don't want to drink the mosquito eggs and mildew that are growing in it as we speak. I have a solution - I'm smart like that; I'm going to piss on the weight machines.

Old people act on instinct more than us civilized young folks. They shit themselves in public, they complain audibly without restraint, they wake at dawn, and sleep at dusk - they're nothing more than animals. When I piss on something, I'm speaking their language... I'm saying, "That's my weight machine, you old fuck!" They smell that shit, and they know exactly what it means. Their animalistic minds respond to that territorial crap.

Nobody can confront me on it though... I'll claim that I have a disability. These old bastards probably unintentionally piss on the machines... the only difference with me is that it'll be on purpose. If they ask for a note from my doctor, I'll claim that it's a psychological disability. Don't fuck with me... I hate being discriminated against, and it just makes me leak out even more.

I'll probably be an asshole about it too, whipping my dick out, looking over at some old bastard who's waiting for the machine, holding it in just long enough to get his hopes up that I won't be able to squirt it out, then I'll spray every inch of that machine. I'll go to the drinking fountain, come back to find him trying to decide if he should just use it anyway, then I'll push his scrawny ass out of my way (I'll get buff really fast, because I'll have exclusive use of all the weight machines). I'll sit back down on the piss-covered machine, and I'll enjoy every second of it. It really won't smell that bad, because I'll be drinking a lot of water... partially because it's great for my muscles, but also to load up so that I can drench the next machine too.

This really works out, because I like pissing on things. After this makes me stop laughing, which won't be for a while, I'm going to piss on old men in the shower. It's their own fault for being old.