interview

Okay... this is a link in an ongoing chain of interviews, and is probably the first true 'blog-cultural' event that I've participated in. The rule is that Transience posted her answers to the questions posed to her by someone else, and I requested that she interview me. If you want your five dreaded questions from me, and ask, I'm supposed to make them up, and you're supposed to answer them and burden yourself with the same obligation to interview those who request it of you.

I want to thank Transience for the interview, and I want to curse anyone who I'm forced to interview in return.


1. your interests: participating in, demographic, profiling, questionnaires, regarding my, interests for, the purpose, of targeted, advertising. what's with all the commas?

I had never before seen a blog until the day that I started this one. Based on my prior experiences with filling out profile forms, especially those owned by Google, I was under the impression that their intention was to solicit me with ads that are specific to my tastes according to my race, gender, age, location, etc. I initially tried to enter the above statement without the commas, but it wouldn't take... I noticed that others' profiles consisted of interests of one to two words, separated by commas, so I formatted mine accordingly, and Blogger finally accepted it. I now know that the interests section isn't tied into targeted advertising, but forgot to change it; now that you bring it up, I think I will.


2. jason just met me. he is staring at my three-inch heels with a child's wide-eyed wonder. what's that he's saying?

Jason the infant would say, "..."
Jason the toddler would say, "Gaa."
Jason the three-year-old would say, "I can't see the TV... move!"
Jason the five-year-old would say, "Nice shoes - now stop blocking the fucking TV!"
Jason the seven-year-old would say, "Hey Bitch, what did I tell you when I was five?!"
Jason the adult probably wouldn't be looking at your shoes.


3. if we could do a literary duet, what would we write about? discuss.

This I'm not entirely sure on. It's my impression that your writing has the characteristic of using the environment to express your thoughts. We don't always get to read about you directly, but have to build you out of the well-described and carefully placed details of whatever scene we find you in. You're spread across the room, and we often unknowingly gather your pieces as we visualize the pictures you paint and the events that play out.

I don't think I'm able to write on that level. I do my best to pour my insides out, but I don't yet have the ability to give my intent any sort of application. My meaning is presented in a direct way, emerging in a form that can't as easily be visualized or related to. The reader steps inside your writing, finding himself in the pieces that he recognizes; my words come out as something distinct from the reader - something he can see in its entirety, and take or leave as he sees fit. Your writing far exceeds mine.

I can't imagine a literary duet between us that wouldn't come out lopsided. It'd be like Sting in a duet with Pavoratti.


4. randall, i know a recruiter who loves you. what is that one thing in your resumé that made her adore you so?

I'd assume that she'd be impressed with the fact that my prior corporate projects are a sort of blend between consulting and execution... I generally come up with ideas to improve things, communicate my ideas with all the necessary parties, gather whatever information I need, and follow through with putting my plans into motion. It'd either be that or my ability to use semicolons properly.


5. as a person whose musical tastes are not as eclectic, how would you explain to me the concept of uncreative music?

I wasn't aware that people actually look at my profile; I may have to give it some attention for once. Assuming that sometime soon, I'll improve what's in my profile, I'll give enough background to give your question its context, in case it should become outdated. I currently have the musical genre of "not uncreative" as one of my musical tastes. As much as I'm giving the writing thing a shot right now, for many, many years before this, it was always about music for me. I'm hoping to get this all sorted out soon, to figure out if I'm going to pursue both music and writing, just music, or just writing, but when I started this blog, I was solely a musician.

It's only been for about a year now that I've been 'listening' to music. I've never really been a music-lover, just a musician. When I hear a song, I have a tendency to pick the song apart, rather than simply enjoy it... I experience the creations of others for the purpose of inspiring and improving my own creations. Many take pleasure in being entertained - I take pleasure in active creative expression; this is the case with writing, just as it is with music.

So, I don't really have a particular genre of music that I'm a fan of, nor do I find my identity in my musical tastes. When I listen to a song, I'm looking for the creative things that the musicians put into it... I'm searching for good ideas and originality, and when I find those things, I'm inspired by them. In attempting to pigeonhole my musical tastes, I came up with the description of liking 'creativity' as the identifying quality in the music that I favor.

censored

"So..." It was already an awkward silence. We were trying to continue a conversation that never really began. "So, what do you want to talk about?"
"I don't know. We may have exhausted the conversation."
"No, I'm sure there's something..."
"Shit, I know..." I'd thought of something, "I've been meaning to tell you this anyway..."
A sudden excitement appeared in her eyes, turning their corners up slightly.
"I'm not sure if you've read my blog post from a couple days ago, but..."
"No, I stopped reading it." Any sign of excitement faded as she spoke those words. "I'm scared of what you write on that thing."
"Oh..." I had lost my train of thought. "I guess it wouldn't make any sense then."
A moment passed by before she looked back at me and smiled. "So, what do you want to talk about?"
I couldn't summon an answer to her question.

musing

Actions speak louder than words - so my voice is but a whisper. Take my words, for I have nothing else to offer.

through a child's eyes #11

Jason's father walked his son up the driveway and rang the doorbell. "Say 'trick or treat' when they open the door."
As the door opened, Jason cocked an arrow. "Give me all your candy, Asshole!"
"Jason!... I mean.. who are you again?" The man at the door drew some candy from a bowl.
"I'm Robin Hood!"
"Ahh, I should have known! Michael's inside if you'd like to see him."
Jason pulled the arrow back farther. "Give me my fucking candy first!!"
The adults chuckled, and Michael's father gave Jason his candy.

Michael ran up. "Hi, Jason!"
Jason's father smiled, "Wow, Michael... you look just like Jason - are you dressed as Robin Hood too?"
Michael shook his head vigorously. "I'm Peter Pan!"
The smile fell from Jason's father's face, as he looked accusingly at Michael's father. "Why don't you kids go play inside for a little while."

"What are you doing to this kid, Jim?"
Michael's father looked confused. "He's dressed as Peter Pan... what's wrong with that? Your kid's wearing tights too, so don't even think of bringing that up."
"Peter Pan's a sword wielder."
"No he's not, he..." Right then, it all began to hit him. "Oh my god, you're right."
"Shortswords even." Jason's father sighed, "He's only five, Jim - there's no telling what damage this could do."
The panic began to show on Michael's father's face. "I'll beat him extra hard tonight."
"I hope that'll be enough."

Michael ran up to his father sobbing.
"What's wrong, Son?"
"Jason said he was going to shoot me!"
Michael's father didn't jump to action as he normally would. "Why did he threaten to shoot you, Michael?"
With tears still running down his face, Michael replied, "I just wanted us to share our candy."
"Oh Jesus," Jason's father blurted out.
"Sharing?!" Michael's father's eyes began to water. "What have I done!"

lunch hour

She sat at the table, enjoying her lunch in solitude. So sure of her desires, so sure that this was what she wanted, she did her best to ignore those who passed by. This was her escape from the daily grind, and from those she worked with; this was what she wanted.

Glancing up at every face that gazed at hers, she would quickly look back down at her food. From twelve to one, she didn't exist and refused to be acknowledged. This was her lunch - they could do as they pleased, but she needed her space. She needed to recover, alone.

A man, about her age, caught her eyes while walking past her, and it didn't strike her to refuse him. She barely smiled, as if distracted by what she was seeing, distracted by the moment, but his eyes didn't turn away. Continuing his course, he came closer and closer, and she was sure that she could somehow feel the heat of his body... embracing him through the air, finally finding a release from her loneliness. Her skin warmed in response to his distant touch, blushing to reveal her desire, but she held her gaze... as if to tell him...

She thought she caught him smirking as he walked by. His pace never even faltered - he just kept going... she breathed a sigh of relief. "Good," she thought. She was again sure that she wanted to spend her lunch in solitude.

poetry submission

distinct and disjoined
  rooted in an ever-changing sense of identity
      something that won't sit itself still
      won't let me settle into its hollow claims
    swaying with the passing wind
      and waiting for a storm to break this loose again
ask me who I am,
  but I'm asking too
    -every breath renews the question
      and does its best to prolong the answer
      pinning me down with both arms... holding me, keeping...
  there's a touch of comfort in not knowing
    -but only a touch

rand the hatchet #5

Paul walked past the row of cubicles, to a small section of wall that separated two large windows. He wasn't trying to hide the plaque that he was holding... he really enjoyed the attention that he got when things like this happened, but he tried not to be too obvious either. Sometimes it's better to make people ask.

"What's that, Paul?" Mary was the first one to speak out.
Paul didn't notice that his posture straightened slightly, "Oh, the company made this plaque for Mr. Hatchet. I thought that this would be a nice place for it."
Mary got up from her seat and came closer to Paul. "That's a great spot for it. Nice work, Paul."

Being unable to restrain himself from joining any conversation in his presence, John spoke up, "So the Hatchet's getting a plaque? It's about time."
"It's really amazing to see what he's doing around here," Mary said.
Paul was too busy making pencil marks on the wall to respond, but luckily John was there to hold the conversation together. "It really is... did you know that Matthew was just fired last week?"
Mary smiled, "Really? So that's why I haven't seen him!"
"The Hatchet's really taking them out fast," said John.
Pausing a second to do a little bit of math in her mind, Mary replied, "Yeah, he sure is!"

Peter and Judas were coming back from the snack machine when they saw Paul trying to measure the distance from the floor to the ceiling.
"Another inspirational poster, Paul?" Judas asked.
Knowing that Paul was busy, Mary answered, "Rand the Hatchet got a plaque. Isn't it wonderful?"
Judas smiled in relief, "Thank Jesus, that's much better than those damned posters! Good for Mr. Hatchet, he deserves a plaque."
Peter was distracted with his low-fat Twinkie, but if he'd been listening, he'd have agreed wholeheartedly.

With the nail in place, Paul lifted the plaque up and began trying to hang it properly.
"Hey Mary," Joseph said as he hustled up, "I have a letter for you."
Taking the letter from Joseph, Mary quickly opened it so that everyone could see what it was. "Well fuck me, Jesus!"
"What is it, Mary?" John asked with excitement.
"The Hatchet just automated my job. I've been fired!" Mary shook her head and smiled.
Joseph grinned, "I knew it was something like that! How does he do it?"
"I don't know," said Mary. "It's just an amazing time to be working here.... or well, it was while I still worked here!"
The whole group laughed with Mary.
Still focused on his work, Paul stepped a few feet back from the wall and said, "How's that?"
Everyone looked at the plaque fondly, and Mary put her arm around Paul. "It's perfect, Paul... just perfect."

sophistication

The economic peak of every culture has their little treats that those of lesser importance are unable to afford. France has caviar, England has delicate pastries, Japan has hookers, and when I got out of my meeting yesterday, I went to a little place on Wall Street to see what the elite of the U.S. nibble on as they sip their champagne.... yip... Froot Loop bars.

monologue

I could sleep right now. Take notice of this life - account for all the effort I've spent, how all that's strived for goes by unseen. Take it all in and realize that it's all taken away.

I have no friends to hear me; some think they do, but they pick out the pieces that benefit them - seeing only the parts of me they think they own. I'm valued in small ways, for the lies I put forth. I do the same... seeing myself in others, rather than seeing them, but I know this, and think I could learn - if someone found me first.

It's all the same. Whether you make yourself in meeting your desires, find your value in holding to or breaking your rules, strive for something more or strive to find something more... whoever or whatever you are, you're wasted. You've already found your truth, you already know your answers - I don't even know myself, so why read me?

Someday, I'll find a slumber that ends this. In everything I do, my hands come up empty, and when I sleep, I'll lose my grasp anyway. Now or then, it's the same end, and the only difference is the time I wasted while trying to stay awake. I'm so tired, and striving toward claiming my sleep seems the only action that will prove fruitful.

Try to find a way home, try to find a reason to go home, and failing both, stop trying.

drifting

Stop a moment and let these words flow from me. Send and return and find a stillness in the difference, in the change from one to the other. These are pieces, fragments... days and years and opportunities lost.

We tear away from the center, like it's something that must be done - floating and drifting further from whatever this was. Whatever this was supposed to be. Carried by unseen motivations and the effect they thrust upon our lives. Some things are just meant to drift this way - to suffer the course, rather than hold its reigns.

You humor me and say you agree; I humor you and believe your lie.

through a child's eyes #10

"I'm not going to tell you again. Cover your mouth when you sneeze!"
Ignoring his father, Jason slid an apple wedge across the tray of his highchair.
Jason's mother looked at her husband, "He's too young to learn that."
"I just can't tolerate bad table manners."
Jason removed the apple wedge from his mouth as his face began to scrunch up.
"Cover your mouth this tim..."
Jason's sneeze was forceful enough to spray half the table with apple-flavored saliva.
His father stood up in a rage. "You did that to provoke me!"

"Normally, this wouldn't need more than a couple stitches, but babies' skulls are very soft." Dr. Steinman pointed at the x-ray, "The fork pierced his brain right here."
Jason's mother looked a little concerned. "Is it serious?"
"No, no... the damage was confined to a part of the brain that dictates behavior. At the very worst, your boy will display homicidal tendencies."
Jason's father asked, "Is there a possibility that he might end up hurting us?"
Dr. Steinman removed his glasses and looked intently at Jason's parents.

"Then what did you say, Grandpa?"
Dr. Steinman smirked; this was his favorite part. "I said, 'No, Jason will be fine - I'd be more concerned about me... I tend to put hits out on people who don't pay their doctor bills.'"
"You didn't really say that."
He sadly replied, "No... I didn't." The truth was that pediatricians' lives are quite dull.
Knowing that he had lost his grandson's respect, Dr. Steinman cut the little fucker out of his will.

nothing really

The bartender put the glass on the table and then stopped. Looking at the man next to me, he said, "You ordered a vodka with soda, right?"
"Yeah."
"With lime or lemon?"
"Lime."
I leaned over and said, "You should have ordered it with lime."
"I did."
Smirking drunkenly, I replied, "Well, la-de-fucking-da." What a putz.

unfound

So far from thought, but right now willing. And its sound pours in, unexpectedly empty... reason given, but unrevealed.

Reveal yourself in me. Can't you see that I'm sitting here waiting? Hoping - though distant from it all. A name in its records... just a name.

Jazz seeps in, from the room to my ears, and carries these empty words. The guitar says nothing, the bass and drums bring their steady rhythm, and there's nothing left to tell. I'm barely here, and all that I'm not sits beyond my reach.

racism

Racism is thriving.

I see it all the time. When I'm walking down the street, it's right there in front of me.

Finally, I catch up to it and smile a little, but it pretends that it didn't see me. Don't you fucking snub me!

Fuck you, Racism... you in your yellow turtleneck shirt. You think you're so much better than me, don't you?

It walks by a sign that says, 'Declare War on Racism', and its feelings are hurt.

"I didn't do anything to that guy," it says, "that's discrimination!" And so the cycle continues.

Racism cries a little... nobody ever gave it a chance, people hate it even though they've never met it.

That's what you get for snubbing me, asshole.

through a child's eyes #9

"Put my cartoon back on, Lisa!"
Lisa continued to look at the television screen while flipping through the channels. "I don't care if your parents are dead - I'm going to watch a real show."
Jason drew his pistol and cocked it. "I'm not kidding, you bitch! Turn it back now!!"
The television settled on a channel, and Lisa made herself comfortable.
Jason fired a warning shot. "The next bullet is going into your head!"
The remote fell from Lisa's hand as her body slumped over.

The judge frowned, "Does the defense have anything to add?"
Jason's lawyer rose and cleared his throat. "Your honor, the defendant only fired a single warning shot..."
"That shot punctured my daughter's heart!" Jason's aunt continued sobbing.
"..Yes, well... the defendant didn't know that a shot to the chest would be fatal. Your honor, what we have here is a simple lack of a proper education."
The judge sighed; this was a difficult case. "I'm going to let this go, but I don't want to see him in here again. Stand up, young man."
Jason was upset, but did as he was told.
"A warning shot should miss the target or at the very most be a flesh wound. The whole chest area can be very dangerous to fire at unless..."
Drawing two concealed pistols, Jason started firing at the judge, but only one bullet hit its target.

The bailiff pried the weapons from Jason's hands and quickly restrained him.
The judge started laughing. "You shot me in the arm... a mere flesh wound - the boy is free to go!"
After failing to wriggle his way free, Jason scowled at the judge and tried to foretell his death in the ancient tongue, but his words came out as gibberish.
Jason's attorney sighed at the spectacle. "The boy can't even properly curse his victim in a demonic rage - our school system is going down the tubes." Gathering his files together, he softly said, "America failed you, Son... America failed you."