living the illusion of truth and meaning

through a child's eyes #19

2008-03-30T11:20:00.000-04:00

Jason's agent tapped his pen on the table impatiently. He was scheduled to represent Alfonzo the Squirrel at a commercial audition later that day, and this meeting was already twenty minutes late in starting.
When the leader of the Bat Wings finally entered the room and sat down, Jason's agent began. "I want to formally thank the prestigious Senseis of the Bat Wing Ninjitsu Clan and the Tiger Claw Shadow Academy for joining us here today. My client has narrowed his interests down to your two assassination leagues, and is prepared to..."
"Enough talk. The Tiger Claws will give you room and board, state of the art weaponry, and a 'per kill' commission." Eleven-year-old clan leaders are notorious for being down to business.
"State of the art weaponry?! Let me show you what's standard issue for all Bat Wing members..." The boy pulled a jagged piece of scrap metal from the folds of his clothing and placed it on the table. ".. here's the usual ninja star.. a blowgun... these are smoke capsules..."
Jason spoke up. "Holy shit! Do those actually work?!"
"Well, they're just filled with powdered sugar, so.. no. If you really need to make an unseen escape, it's usually best to just kill everyone." The whole room nodded to acknowledge the wisdom of his words.
The other boy angrily broke in. "The Tiger Claws control the whole region of Atlantica."
Instinctually adjusting his tie, Jason's agent tried to adapt to the meeting's unusual flow. "Atlantica?"
"It's everything between 9th and 11th streets, as far west as the Taco Bell." The boy beamed with pride.
The Bat Wing leader wore a smug smile so stealthily that nobody saw it. "With us, you could have opportunities that go beyond killing. Perhaps you recognize me from the romantic sports comedy 'Love Rebounds'? I played Youthful Assassin Number Two."
Jason's agent restrained himself from accepting right then and there - he had been dying to represent film stars for years.
"Enough!" The Tiger Claw leader hit the table with his fist. "Timmy, get in here!"
Dressed in the full splendor of his ceremonial garb, a five-year-old boy entered the room.
The Bat Wing leader was outraged. "This is highly irregular!"
The other leader smirked. "This could be you Jason. Except your belt would be green, not yellow."
Sensing his client's approval, Jason's agent probed. "I see that the headband pictures an orange dog..."
Timmy yelled with clenched fists, "It's a tiger, 'cause we're ferocious!!"
The leader of the Tiger Claws smiled at his rival as he issued his killing blow. "Also, you should know that we have cable."
"My client will need his own T.V..."
"That's fine. We'll kill Timmy - you can have his."
In a desperate attempt to prove his worth, Timmy scratched at the air with precision and fervor, but his leader's mind wasn't changed. There was a lot of paperwork involved with the re-allocation of property, so assassination was the standard method for revoking one's T.V. privileges.

through a child's eyes #18

2008-03-24T20:39:00.003-04:00

Detective Neil O'Connell stared Jason down stoically while his partner paced back and forth between them.
Sergeant McFarlane eyed O'Connell as he walked past, queuing the start of the next phase of the routine. Abruptly pivoting toward the table, he snatched up Jason's file. "Let's see here... both parents killed by an intruder, extended family didn't want him, ran away from boarding school at age eight, spent the last few months being trained by an elite group of suburban assassins... Oh, lookiee here - the kid won a spelling bee in first grade..."
Playing along, O'Connell smirked. "It looks like we've got a speller on our hands."
McFarlane slammed the file onto the table and finally addressed Jason directly. "Kid, I see scum like you in here every day. You're nothing but a 'street tough', and this one's going to get you more than a simple slap on the wrist!"
O'Connell took a step forward. "You're not going to spell your way out of this one, kid." In response to his partner's angry glare, O'Connell stepped back into his original position and folded his arms. There was a reason he was only allowed to play 'good cop'.

Jason clenched his fists in an attempt to keep from lashing out. Not only was the interrogation boring, but it was happening in the early afternoon - that's Prime Time for cartoon watchers. "You guys can't prove anything. Let me the fuck out of here!"
McFarlane sneered and crouched to play the tape taken from the security camera. Pointing at the television, he said, "You see that? That's you walking into the movie theater - we have you at the murder scene. You want motive?.. we know damn well that the victim liked to talk during movies. Hell.. we even have your fingerprints on the Skittle that killed her!"
Thinking about the cartoons he was missing, Jason was boiling in rage.
McFarlane pressed on. "What we don't know is why you killed her baby."
O'Connell jumped in. "I think you were worried about the baby growing up and seeking revenge."
"Fuck you guys!! I didn't kill anybody!"
Leaning against the television and shaking his head, McFarlane said, "You know.. I have a strong disrespect for baby killers, but if there's one thing I can't stand, it's a liar."

O'Connell turned to face the wall to get himself into character. "Look kid, I want to help you..."
Seizing the opportunity, Jason ripped a button from his shirt and threw it at McFarlane in a killing blow. The police should have recognized it as a concealed weapon - all kids his age wear shirts with snaps.
Turning to face him, O'Connell went on. "All you have to do is tell us..." Out of the corner of his eye, O'Connell saw his partner slumping over onto the television stand, which was about to give due to too much strain. Instinctually leaping in that direction, O'Connell cried, "The T.V....", but he wasn't able to get there in time.
O'Connell lost all composure as he looked over the corpse of his partner and the remains of the department's only television. Fighting the urge to reach for his gun, he screamed, "Willful destruction of State property... you'll burn for this!"

intrawoven

2006-12-31T21:09:00.000-05:00

Deep in the caves, I stood amidst walls of glass and stone. Rows and rows of bottles of wine silently awaited their release, as they would for years to come. Some wines improve with age; some men have passed their prime.

Thirty now, soon thirty-one, then older and older and lesser and lesser. There was time enough for all these things, but time deceives and will betrays. Maybe uncorked too early and undone.

These bottles had much yet to do... the internal struggle of converting bitter essence to an elegant taste. Waging war on themselves, countering the youthful nuances that nature invokes... fermented and emboldened. Eventually, having a worthy story to share, something that's complex to the tongue, and poison to the mind... something that can influence, and even control, telling its tale to the fool who tastes. Declaring the glory of its toil, to please then dull the senses.

Some things instead die on the vine. Never to be told, never to be awakened.

My fiancé then took my hand, and shook me from my thoughts. She looked lovingly into my vacant eyes and squeezed my hand a little tighter. Without words, saying that she was happy to share the moment, whatever it meant to her, and whatever it meant to me.

Falling back in, I wanted to lay my wrath upon the walls. To break every glass - break past the will to contain my rage. Steal the growing wisdom from every bottle before it had a chance to mature, pour their glory down my throat and lungs, and in a drowning gasp attain what I otherwise never would. Bring back the struggle that bore me form, and pour my formless, wasted life onto the bricks of stone beneath my feet.

Failing again, I squeezed her hand back, hoping that there's another way to find both in time. Aging silently, for better or for worse.

sage wisdom

2006-11-12T16:32:00.000-05:00

Don't take life for granted, or life will take you for granted... if it ever becomes sentient.

trampled

2006-09-08T16:48:00.000-04:00

Reflected in these words are days that won't change... ages that drag on and on, until the softer points are unrealized.

I used to walk with gentler steps, paces placed with the awareness of their every sound; sounds that made their way into my mind, and spoke of their deeper truths. Time and freedom were intertwined, and the only thing to pull at me was the desire to continue on. This lies in thought and memory now, both set in their decay.

We all wanted to change the world somehow, each in our own chosen way... each on the same chosen path, but each called by different names. And the song sounds in, and the heart cries out, as we're left to stand alone. This is your life, you're over now; this is who you've become.

And now all you are.

analogy

2006-07-23T01:39:00.000-04:00

I like my coffee like I like my women: tan, sweet, hot, and wet, with a spoon sticking out.

waking

2006-07-03T14:23:00.000-04:00

Days and days of the same, and pushed onto the narrow path. Friendly faces in range of mine; their words sounding in endless repetition, their sight set to their hands, and their hands to the trivial. Feet guided into their place, and sent straight through the narrows... boxed in until the voice again finds its way to the surface.

Whatever's me in this... is caged. What once was and since many times forgotten. What cries out with its questions, scoffs at the ease in which you answer, and waits endlessly for something better to arise. Looking into your eyes, searching the depths for something more than an empty shell... just hoping for a glimpse of the pattern in you... just enough to justify having woken up this morning. Again failing, the mind returns to its slumber.

sand and seed

2006-06-07T19:56:00.000-04:00

A Croatian at work said that there are islands off the coast of Croatia, which are so culturally isolated from the mainland, that most of the islanders are heavily inbred. Apparently, it’s entirely noticeable, as they’ve become straight-up retards.

My girlfriend and I are going to Jamaica in a week, but I might try to convince her that we should take a detour to Croatia; I think that those islanders could use a dose of some fresh seed. I’d be doing God’s work in helping with the inbreeding issue, but I’m more drawn to the idea of fucking all those retards. I can’t wait to get my dick into those dummies.

important news

2006-04-15T20:04:00.000-04:00

From this day forward, my penis is to be known as Bethany.

A penis has no protrusions, and has a noticeable hole... thus, dicks are female. My little baby is sweet Bethany. She love you long time.

cycle of life

2006-03-02T23:27:00.000-05:00

This drifts in, in its varying forms of emptiness... waiting beneath the obscurity of what I once thought to be. Ages like these, seasons which seem to draw on and on, force their way into me... they force upon me this sense of being whole. The pieces I loved so dearly pushed aside, and there's nothing left of what I loved. Nothing worth noting in the face of so many forgotten dreams.

Time can heal all wounds, and given time enough, one can see those wounds return. Fate carries itself in such circles, coming round and round and threaded back through the center... there is no end to this; there is no reason.

tidbit

2006-03-02T00:08:00.000-05:00

It's my upper lip, and I'll grow a Hitler mustache if I want, God damnit!

longing to return

2006-02-13T22:32:00.000-05:00

Standing on the other side of this thought, taking it in, twisting and testing... until I'm sure that it has the strength to stand on its own.

Something needs to be taken back.. something left to fend for itself, while hands were stolen from their course. Distracted by other devices, and given to all but themselves. This needs nurturing; this needs to be torn out from the page. Nothing stands when all is left to wait.

unbecoming

2005-12-29T09:28:00.000-05:00

Weathered, and growing older each day. Still restrained and hiding beneath my skin, nurtured to silence by an ordinary life, with ordinary steps, and so trained – an ordinary mind. These are the lives that claim us; these strangle the life away.

This sound drowns out all thought and whatever was meant to follow... sent beneath and below, ever deeper and under, and threaded through again. Songs like these carry over, repeating their thoughtless chorus, something spit forth in a single breath, that never seems to lose its momentum. These strangle the life away; whatever's left can carry on.

You think you know what's behind these eyes? Something that doesn't even know itself... that can't even find the strength to breathe, or the sense to pry the hands away. You think you know what this means - or could mean, if only things had been different? If only there was a chance for something more than what is. Whatever's left can carry on; I just wonder if I'll be there to notice.

has it really been a whole month?

2005-10-03T21:15:00.000-04:00

Well, I just haven't been feeling the need to post here for a while, and I guess that feeling isn't going to return in the immediate future. I've been working on other artistic projects (I seem to leap from project to project these days), and have been burning up all of my creative energies without applying the pen to the page. Sorry for dropping off suddenly like that, but I simply lost my momentum for this thing. I won't tear the page down or anything, and in no way promise to stay away from it forever.

retracing steps

2005-09-04T02:26:00.000-04:00

I've said all this before, but I'm now no more than a pattern... a circle returning to itself - sending feet into steps they only just left, and yet only remember when retaken.

This is my mind; its thoughts abandoned to instead take part in the noise surrounding my every step. Filling these halls with the sound, filling in the gaps that speak greater volumes with their silence... glossing these things over, sending them backward, that they might lose themselves in the clutter of so many unanswered questions.

Cover our lives this way, put hands to tasks we pretend to need us... when it's us that need them. It's us who can't make sense of the greater toils and treasures, or find our ways out of its cycle; it's us, just as it always has been... us and nothing more. While the emptiness remains filled, what could ever change?

filling in space

2005-09-03T13:16:00.000-04:00

So, I was in line ordering a coffee, when I thought back to the happiest moment of my life.... Unannounced, unexpected, and years into her career, Cindi Lauper had gone back to her old high school to receive an honorary diploma. I remember being so happy and so angry, as if happy Rand and angry Rand were wrestling eachother, and I had no way of knowing who would win. Why did they have to wait until she was famous to give her an honorary high school diploma?! Cindi, your hair never looked so pink as it did on that day, when the sun was shining.

poetry submission

2005-08-29T23:32:00.000-04:00

spend our lives building these dreams
    piling up the broken pieces
        that should instead have made us whole
      always yet higher,
        until the destination lies beyond any hope of reach
        and the origin beyond conception
  this is where we set our eyes
    lest we see the depths in which we dwell
      the truth beyond the reason,
        the simple fact of its nature

call to me...
  I still long to touch something real

through a child's eyes #17

2005-08-25T19:38:00.000-04:00

"Hey Jason," Erik spoke softly so that nobody else would hear. "Do you ever wonder what it would be like to kiss Mrs. Louis?"
"Eww... she's really old!"
"I think she's beautiful."
He didn't respond to Erik's last comment; clearly, Jason hadn't reached the stage in which his attraction for the opposite sex would develop.
The silence went unnoticed as Erik continued. "She's not too old... she's eighty-three, and I'll bet her kisses taste like wisdom."
Shaking his head in disgust, Jason began sharpening his knife.

Erik had been fascinated with the elderly for as long as anyone could remember. When he was very young, he would allow adults he knew to kiss him, but would cry if his grandmother's kiss wasn't performed with an open mouth. All he ever wanted was for her to massage his tongue with hers, but like the rest of Erik's relatives, his grandmother fell short of reasonable expectations.

His current target was well chosen, as Mrs. Louis was in dire need of someone to run his fingers through her hair and wrinkles.
She easily caught his eye while giving a lecture on vowels. "Erik, would you stay after class please?"
Elated with hope and fear, he nervously replied, "Why?"
"We're going to make out, Silly."
The whole class giggled; Erik was quite embarrassed.

Jason waited outside until Erik finally came out. "Did it taste like wisdom?"
The look of shock and disappointment on Erik's face answered the question for him. Erik stifled a tear, "No... more like potato chips."

whispers

2005-08-22T20:13:00.000-04:00

Giving myself this chance to speak; to be the sound that even I can barely fathom. Bend ear with me and give a breath of notice. Give way, that the sound might pour itself in.

There are words within words, changes to bridge desire, and these still moments which seem to bind them all together. This is just a moment, marked by the subtle sound of pen scratching against paper - whispering its secrets to the page, but the page holds no recollection of the sound. This won't last... this won't be what it was, when it began. When it actually happened.

These are traces of a moment, of a thought, of a secret lost.

flailing

2005-08-17T21:24:00.000-04:00

We see the life we'd like to be ours, but refrain from reaching out for it. Hang our heads in their distraction, trying desperately to hold onto what we have... things that maybe would be traded, if we had enough faith to let them go. Splinters of a life left breaking.

But I can't see where this is going - drifting in its own way, on its own path, with me trailing and straining my eyes at the sight. Sometimes nowhere, at others everywhere, and I barely know what's in between. Emerge to both sides, and the edge of reason, which brushes up against the edges of many nameless things.

Waiting, and this is what finds me. This, in itself, is but a shadow of the course, but it's the only piece I can see. This is what I'm holding onto, as the rest falls away... everything is falling, and the ground trembles beneath me.

through a child's eyes #16

2005-08-15T18:50:00.000-04:00

Before Jason was born, his older brother's problem became apparent to his pre-school teacher. Holding up a large, plastic, blue square, she said, "Henry, can you tell me what color this is?"
Henry arched his head. "What do you mean?"
She sighed sadly; the boy was too stupid to be taught.

"I don't understand why you wanted to see us." Jason's mother nervously took her husband's hand. "Is Henry misbehaving?"
"No, no..." Henry's teacher paused a moment to think of a way to break the news delicately. "Sammy, can you come here please?"
A young boy named Sammy rolled up in a wheelchair, and politely waited for further instructions.
The teacher smiled thankfully. "Sammy, could you now stand up for us?"
Obediently pushing himself out of his wheelchair, and onto his feet, Sammy fell to the floor in a heap.
Seeming proud of the result, the teacher said, "You see, most children are able to walk sometime around their first birthday, but Sammy is already four and can't even stand."
Jason's father jumped in, "Well, it seems like his legs are somewhat deformed..."
Shaking her head, the teacher stopped him, "No... Sammy's simply too dumb to walk. As intelligent as he may seem, his mind is like that of an infant - that's how it is with all physical disabilities."
Jason's mother unknowingly squeezed her husband's hand tighter.
The teacher lifted a pencil and went on. "Can both of you see this?"
They both nodded fearfully.
"I'm afraid that Henry isn't even able to do that... he has a severe form of mental retardation called 'blindness'."

Placing their hope in a second opinion, Jason's parents took Henry to a specialist.
"Amazingly enough, Henry's IQ is off the charts."
Jason's parents beamed at each other.
"Oh, I'm sorry... you misunderstood," said the specialist in response to their positive reaction. "I meant that Henry is immeasurably stupid."
The look on their faces became what the specialist was hoping for.
He removed a piece of paper from a folder and handed it to Jason's mother. "This is the multiple-choice portion of Henry's test. He didn't circle any of the possible answers - he just drew scribble down the side of the page."
Jason's mother burst into tears. "What can we do?"
The specialist's face became very firm, yet compassionate. "I recommend having another child... perhaps Henry can be his pet."

Jason's mother had a particular knack for interior design, and always felt that her great efforts were overlooked by Henry.
After Jason was born, and was finally able to speak, he looked up at the painting of a kitten and said with murderous intent, "It's pretty, Mommy."
Interpreting his statement as a compliment on the way the painting's colors went with the couch's upholstery, Henry's fate was easily decided.

It took some effort to find a doctor who would perform a twenty-eighth trimester abortion.
Henry asked where they were going throughout the entire trip to the clinic, but it was assumed that he'd be far too dimwitted to understand the explanation.
Jason's parents stood firm in their decision as they said their stoic goodbyes to Henry. Despite the fact that he was sobbing in confusion and fear, they left him sitting alone on the examination table, so that the doctor could see him.
After the door was closed, Jason's mother could no longer contain her emotions, and ran up to the window to get one last look at her son. With tears pouring down her face, she mouthed the words 'I love you', but Henry was too stupid to notice. That moron.

afk

2005-07-29T17:20:00.000-04:00

I'm gone to Italy for two weeks... my life sucks. I hope you all die in my absence.

dogs and erections

2005-07-28T22:31:00.000-04:00

So, I was taking a piss tonight in a wine bar, when I noticed that right above the toilet was a picture of a dog on two hind-legs. It was an artsy photograph, and it looked like the dog was howling or something, but since the dog was standing completely upright, and it was a male dog, I could see what was left of its genetilia. You see, the dog appeared to have been neutered, however, I could see the bulge of its flaccid penis sticking out from its hairy pelvic region. I know that it's only arousing to see a dog when it too is aroused, but none the less, I was taken aback and turned on, and began to gain an erection of my own. Naturally, this made the rest of the urination process difficult, as my dick wasn't necessarily cooperating, but I did my best to carry on, pissing as normal. My urine is of course now covering the seat of the toilet, which I'm sure is welcome to every chick that saw me before I sprayed it, but to those others.... rest assured, I'm moderately good looking.

through a child's eyes #15

2005-07-26T19:27:00.000-04:00

Richie went on, "It's true, I swear!"
Jason couldn't believe it. "There's no fucking way that this butter is hand-churned."
"I don't know where you used to go to school, but this cafeteria has the best butter ever!" Erik spread some butter over a piece of toast, clenching his teeth to keep from laughing.
Becoming more serious, Richie leapt to his feet, knocking his chair over in the process. "Go see for yourself, Jason! They make it right there in the kitchen; I never lie."

Jason emerged from the kitchen with tears streaming down his face.
Erik was the first to point and laugh, and within seconds, the rest of the children had joined in.
"No school cafeterias hand-churn their butter, Stupid!" Richie had known all along.
Feeling the sting of defeat, Jason looked at the butter he'd snatched from the kitchen - frozen and pre-packaged. In a fit of rage, he threw the butter at Richie and screamed, "This cafeteria sucks!!!"

A few weeks later, Jason was allowed to leave class to visit Richie in the hospital.
Jason's jaw dropped when he entered the room. "Holy shit, you have your own T.V.?"
"Yeah," Richie said happily. "I get to lay here and watch cartoons all day long!"
"You don't have to do school crap at all?!"
"Nope! Both my legs and one of my arms are paralyzed... they say that I no longer have any potential worth nourishing."
Stomping his foot, Jason said, "You lucky asshole!"
"You did me a big favor by bruising my spine!" Richie cackled victoriously. "And the best part... because I'm an orphan, if I die, nobody will even notice! I'll never have to amount to anything!!!"
The fact that Richie was living like a king infuriated Jason. Grabbing a handful of butter from a bowl on the table, he attempted a more lethal snipe.
Richie laughed as the butter splattered against his skin. "That's hand-churned, Jason... way too soft for throwing. I don't use that shitty cafeteria butter anymore."

Jason's head was drooped over as he made his way back to school. "Only the lucky kids get paralyzed."

today's hell

2005-07-24T11:28:00.000-04:00

This is my custom electric guitar. I went a little nuts with the wiring design, and now have to somehow get this mess to fit into that little cavity.

unknowing

2005-07-22T23:17:00.000-04:00

Slip into a new form of obscurity. These are imaginings; these are the splotches of color that give life its beauty. Vague in description, themes that hint at a reality, but remain so removed from it.

Hope comes in the form of possibility - questioning, rather than knowing... smoothly drawn lines that neglect their details. The appealing faces of religions that downplay their contradictions. The beautiful woman walking by, who wonders if you'll ever see her as anything more. The dreams you chase but never seem to grasp. The nature of all things, that the closer you look, and the more that becomes yours, the less it manages to draw you.

The wise eye sees a gray world; the hopeful eye knows better than to look too closely.

through a child's eyes #14

2005-07-20T21:18:00.000-04:00

Mrs. Hawkins happened to be walking down the hall as the boy lunged at Jason with his knife. Quickly stepping back to maintain his distance, Jason threw his knife at the boy, who immediately fell to the floor. Mrs. Hawkins ran up, "Why aren't you two in class?!"
Jason answered first. "This asshole called me a jerk!"
Mrs. Hawkins frowned and looked at the other boy. "Okay, let's hear your side of it."
He attempted to answer, but the knife that was lodged into his throat made speech difficult.
Shaking her head and sighing, Mrs. Hawkins said, "When that bell rings, you two shouldn't be in the halls. Now, get to class!"
Jason yanked his blade from the other boy's neck and angrily walked down the hall.

"I said 'go'!!" Mrs. Hawkins was furious that the boy was still lying down when she'd given a direct order.
Ignoring her, the boy closed his eyes, squirting blood from his wound defiantly.
"Get up now, or I'll..." With tears quickly forming, Mrs. Hawkins turned her head and walked away; she hadn't realized until then that she had no real authority.

between sleepings

2005-07-17T01:20:00.000-04:00

He lay there still, looking up into the darkness, watching the sounds and colors of the events and reasons that would hang in the air above him. Drifting close, pushing back... doing their little dance of pretending to matter. These just the fragments of a life, effortlessly bearing whatever ill will they could muster.

Finding some physical comfort in placing his hands behind his head, his comfort wouldn't breach the coarser realm; the images continued to taunt him. He tried to remember what it was to dream, he tried to remember what it was to forget... he had tried and tried for years up to now, and the years gave substance to those hovering thoughts. Knowing that he couldn't reach up to force a change, his hands remained where they were.

A few memories strangled their portions of his mind, and he looked up in a vain attempt to look away. The air shook as it gathered its strength, pulling the pieces together, pulling into one... and casting itself down on him, like hammer to anvil, he would be formed. Hope for sleep drifting further away, he could sense the words that formed with each blow... "there is no release."

friday night

2005-07-16T23:26:00.000-04:00

I was walking home from the bar when I noticed a young child giving his father a high-five on the sidewalk. Inspired by the spectacle, I thought, "Dear Jesus, thank you for killing Luther Vandros... I know that we've had our differences, and that you took your sweet-assed time in getting the job done, but eventually, you finally got off your ass and killed that fuckhole. Amen."

Jesus, I owe you one... well... you owed me a big favor already, so I guess we'll just call it even. No, no... stop being so anal about this shit... we're even.

Midway through my journey, a cab was parked at a red light, and suddenly decided to inch forward as I walked by. Just after that, I saw a man with a white dress-shirt unbuttoned, but a clip-on tie was clipped on to one side of the unbuttoned collar. I immediately thought, "WHAT THE FUCK?" and realized that Jesus was fucking with me. "Don't you renege, asshole... no fucking renegging on my watch!"

Anyway, I finally got to this bitch's house, when she was doing her thing, and mid-way through, she said, "Yo, Baby... don't turn that Vandros shit off!"
"This fucker's finally dead... why do we have to listen to him?"
"When I hear his music, it reminds me of the Brothas... yo dick aint shit... Luther somehow makes you feel bigger and Blacker inside me."

The first thing that I thought was, "Hey, Bitch... don't resolve my random posts with recurring symbolism." Fucking whore.

doing homework

2005-07-13T20:10:00.000-04:00

By the way she made eye contact with strangers for a solid second before abruptly breaking off, I could tell that she was friendly, but socially awkward. Mid-forties, by my estimation - skinny, pale, with dark brown hair. I was standing in the subway car, and she was sitting near me, marking up a printed document.

While placing the papers into her bag, she accidentally touched the man next to her with her elbow. In response to his instinctual glance, she said, "I was just doing my homework," and giggled slightly. The man offered a polite, but evasive laugh, and looked away soon after.

I couldn't help but chuckle, and following me shortly, others began to join in. An old man's roaring laughter caused the laughter of all others to escalate, until the subway car was filled with the noise. He could barely breathe as he said, "Doing homework... that's hilarious!"

Looking at the woman, I said, "You didn't make that up," but I didn't make enough of an effort to speak over the crowd.
Still giggling, she asked, "What?"
Before she could inhale, my hand was clamped onto her throat. Speaking into her ear, I repeated, "You didn't make that up, did you?"
Shocked and afraid, she replied, "Yes, it was just..."
My thumb, which was lodged under her jaw, pressed farther up under the bone.
She yelped and said, "... I... I must have seen it in a movie or something."

I was back in my standing position, and the woman was still direly confused, when the laughter began to die out. I think I noticed before she did that she'd pissed herself during our little conversation. I pointed a finger and began chuckling, and within seconds, the whole car was again filled with laughter.

through a child's eyes #13

2005-07-11T10:03:00.000-04:00

William and Jason were playing with toy cars peacefully, when Jason's car went over an imaginary ramp and flew through the air.

Jason's mother rushed over to see why William was screaming. "Oh my god!! What happened?!"
"My car went over a ramp, and Willy got hit."
Grabbing Jason by the arm, she yelled, "Look what you did to him! Do you see where his face is smashed in?! That's not going to heal... he's going to be horribly disfigured for the rest of his life!!"
Being only three, Jason was too young to understand.
Jason's mother calmed down a little and made a stronger effort to explain. "Because of you, Willy is now a monster, and nobody will ever love him."
William's remaining eye widened as he heard those words.
Jason inquired, "So he can't come over anymore?"
"No, this house is for people, not monsters."
Angry with his mother for banishing William, Jason picked up his car and violently wiped the blood off of it.

A question burned so strongly in William's mind, that it momentarily overtook the pain. "Will my Mommy still love me?"
Jason's mother was overwhelmed with compassion. "No, Sweetie... not even her." She wanted to put her hand on William to make him feel better, but couldn't bear to touch the little freak.

false hope

2005-07-09T23:14:00.000-04:00

So easily locked into a role; through opportunity and sway, we become things we never imagined. All is not as it once was - all is only as it is.

We speak of things progressing, one form shifting to its next... we impart our hopes into these words, but what right do we have? Are we really spinning the wheel, or does it turn of its own accord? Who are we to say what the future brings - we've never been right in the past. Songs dry up in time... with them the energy to feel their loss.

Push forward, follow the path - but don't tell me that it leads anywhere. By now, we should know better.

poetry submission

2005-07-07T22:43:00.000-04:00

try to remember what this was supposed to be
    -when I put myself here,
    when I gave myself a reason
  could it be that every day since was spent asking?
    returning to that moment
      a vague concept set forth with poor planning
        given these hands and feet and mind
            but held back from the meaning
            the idea that triggered the event
            a reason to begin and end
              and to return to their cycle
          given all but the eyes I need to put these hands to use
            and day after day stands wasted

fourth of july

2005-07-04T15:54:00.000-04:00

I had just finished my speech on the wonders of democracy. A little overwhelmed by the gratuitous applause, I made my way back to my seat.

Senator Jacobs congratulated me by putting a sweaty hand on my back, and pulled my chair out for me. I looked him in the eyes and said, "Jacobs." I think he took my meaning; he had to - there was no escaping it.

My girlfriend and the rest of the table smiled as I sat down. Clooney looked like he was about to speak, but this wasn't the time or place.... it wasn't then, and isn't now. Don't you ever forget that.

"What an inspiring speech, Rand." Hartford, you kiss-ass. "I especially liked the part about human rights being a privelege, not a right."
I looked down my nose at him. "Yes, my mother-in-law always says that when..."
"Oh, my god!" Hartford turned excitedly to my girlfriend, "You two got married?!"
Of course, my girlfriend started crying.
I slammed my glass down. "Do you really think I'd take my wife to this shim-sham?!" I'll bet you can't answer that one, can you, Hartford?

I heard my name called over the loud speaker. I put my face in my hands and said, "Oh god, here we go again," but God wasn't listening. Nobody ever does.

through a child's eyes #12

2005-07-01T19:20:00.000-04:00

The woman sat behind her desk, watching Mr. Chambers as he looked longingly at the bowl of jellybeans. Fighting the urge to roll her eyes, she looked over at Jason. "So, young man... what brings you and your father to our school?"
Jason snarled. "He's not my dad."
Mr. Chambers began sifting through the top layer of jellybeans. "The boy shot his cousin; I was hired by the state to get him placed somewhere."
The woman's posture became more rigid. "We don't shoot people here. You're going to have to learn to resolve your conflicts in other ways."
Finding the situation uncomfortable, Jason reached for his gun.
"Give me that pistol, right now!" The woman was no fool.
Jason looked at Mr. Chambers for help, but he was occupied with the bowl. "Fine, here." Jason crossed his arms defiantly.

After locking the pistol up in her desk, the woman looked at Jason accusingly. "I won't tolerate firearms at my school."
"What if somebody pisses me off?!"
The woman leaned forward. "Have you ever tried talking to people?"
Jason didn't reply, but the look of frustration on his face gave him away.
"And if talking fails, there's always knifeplay." The woman pulled out a large knife and slid it across the desk to Jason.
"Knives?! Fuck that!" Despite his hatred of knives, he took the weapon in response to the woman's stern look.

The woman eyed Mr. Chambers fiercely. "Are you enjoying the jellybeans?"
Startled back into the conversation, Mr. Chambers answered with his mouth full. "Yeshh, shhank you."
"Does it bother you that he's eating all the red ones, Jason?" she said, continuing to watch Mr. Chambers dig through the bowl with his bare hands.
"Yeah!! I like the red ones!"
The woman nodded; everyone likes red jellybeans. "Why don't you stab him then?"
Barely listening, Mr. Chambers asked, "Whaa?"
Jason looked down at the knife, fighting the urge to kill him until he could reclaim his gun. "This knife crap is bullshit... I hate this school!!!"
"Well, if you're not going to stick him with that knife, you'd better ask him to stop."
It turned out that Jason had a fear of confrontation. After a long silence, he finally screamed out, "Stop eating all the fucking jellybeans, you fat retard!!!"
Suddenly embarrassed, Mr. Chambers removed his hand from the bowl, spilling jellybeans onto the table. "Ohh, I'm shhorry."
The woman leaned back in her chair and smiled at Mr. Chambers. "We'll accept Jason into our school."

Realizing that he'd have to go on without a gun, Jason was almost in tears.
As Mr. Chambers was picking stray jellybeans from the folds of his shirt, the woman leaned across the desk toward Jason. "Would you like to know a little secret?"
Jason nodded at her sadly.
"Big knives like that one are good for throwing." She slowly backed away from him, watching his face brighten with the realization of her words.
"Oh, fuck yeah... I'm going to slice the shit out of people!"
The woman smiled. "I think you'll fit in just fine around here."

interview

2005-06-29T22:12:00.000-04:00

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

2005-06-26T21:26:00.000-04:00

"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

2005-06-25T18:58:00.000-04:00

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

2005-06-23T21:04:00.000-04:00

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

2005-06-21T18:52:00.000-04:00

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

2005-06-19T18:58:00.000-04:00

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

2005-06-17T18:56:00.000-04:00

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

2005-06-16T22:46:00.000-04:00

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

2005-06-13T18:50:00.000-04:00

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

2005-06-11T18:55:00.000-04:00

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

2005-06-09T21:38:00.000-04:00

"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

2005-06-08T21:34:00.000-04:00

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

2005-06-06T21:30:00.000-04:00

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

2005-06-03T21:36:00.000-04:00

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

2005-06-01T19:21:00.000-04:00

"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."

poetry submission

2005-05-28T21:07:00.000-04:00

this rewrites itself again
  today in raindrops that seem bearers of a secret,
    spread across their form
      and sanctioned and dwindled
      and held at bay
  but tapping on my window...
    begging for a glance or taste
      the light touch of their fingertips on my skin
        subtle embrace that holds, and draws me deeper
      while lips inch over my neck,
        soft, patient, and resolved...
        now at my ear, send their whisper
          "let go... just be this"

through a child's eyes #8

2005-05-26T21:28:00.000-04:00

Jason rode up to the two bikers. "Hey, are you guys in a gang?"
"Yeah. What of it?"
"You should let me in!"
One of the men smirked and leaned forward on his bike. "Do you ride, kid?"
"Are you fucking blind?! Of course I do!"
The man who had spoken took offense to Jason's disrespect, but the other biker was impressed. "He meant 'do you ride a motorcycle'... that's a baby scooter that you're on."
Jason's eyes squinted. "Fuck you... I'll race your ass!"

Both men started laughing.
"This kid's got fire in his veins! Maybe we should give him a chance."
The other man studdied Jason carefully in contemplation. "Nah, fuck that... let's just take his scooter."
"Okay, that works too."

Later that night, Jason was on the phone with his grandmother.
"So the men stole your scooter and you had to walk home?"
"Yeah, Grandma... they were total assholes!"
Laughing erupted from the other end of the line. "You little pussy!"
Jason replied with a prompt, "Fuck you, Grandma!!!" but she was laughing too hard to hear it.

updates

2005-05-23T12:56:00.000-04:00

Here are the updates of my life over the last couple weeks. Brace yourself.

The city of New York doesn't want anyone passing through this 4-inch gap.

At Union Square, there were Chinese people trying to gather support against the imprisonment of practitioners of a certain type of meditation in China. They've been doing this actively since I first moved to New York. On this particular day, a Jamaican lady, with a yellow t-shirt that said 'Jews for Jesus', was preaching at them. The lady was wearing a bible on her head.

I have no desire to meet the owner of this license plate... I do have a desire to key her car though.

This is a picture of the Statue of Liberty; I didn't feel like going in closer for a better shot.

This is a picture of the calendar that's pinned up in a co-worker's cubicle... that's right, this shit is displayed in a place of business. I can see this from my desk. Now you know why I get nothing done at work.

This chick's ass looked bad enough before she caused it to bend around this pole.

There, now you know everything.

beneath time

2005-05-22T21:24:00.000-04:00

At the heart of the emotion are days that move too fast - never a chance to stand still, never a chance to let my mind recover. I need to regain a sense of balance - to find my feet below me, and find myself above them. Treading water, still and blank, but wasted.

Something here wants to find its way to the surface. Tell it to these hands, and they'll tell it to all, but life keeps going... drawing itself out. Dragged along, no longer aware of what this is or what this means, what is and what isn't... all these things are buried beneath a pace that exceeds mine.

Call this what you will - find a name to fit the occasion. Find your words in the midst of mine, and find yourself in what's revealed. I'll meet you there some day... fate allowing.

poetry submission

2005-05-20T21:53:00.000-04:00

reaching out to every end
    and I sense them;
      waiting, building... castles in the sand - but little more
      waiting to be gathered and put to use
        much like me
    and these sounds erupt from the depths of each of us
      as we try to hold our lives together
        but know that there's little reason to
        for it just doesn't matter...
  and still, all I want to do is pluck them from their lives
    give them the path sought
    give them the tools, the mind, the eyes
        and the reason
      to put empty hands in empty hands
        and hold them together

ten minutes of my life

2005-05-18T19:51:00.000-04:00

I've been waiting thirty-five minutes for my computer at work to boot up and do all of its unnecessary network updates. Sitting here, watching the minutes tick away, I'm entertained by some little icon's animation on the screen... I don't know what the hell it's supposed to be, but it's sitting there next to the '10:38 AM' at the bottom right. '10:39 AM' now.

It's a Monday, like any other, the beginning of another week of a regular life... another ending of dreading its coming. I put my regular life on in the morning, hoping that I'll remember to shed it when I get home, hoping that I won't forget that it's just something you wear - a face you put on to hide the truth. It's not a hard life by any means - I'm just not sure that it's worth the trouble. 10:44.

Look inside. Are you forgetting to roll with the punches? Are you believing your own lie, or have you held your perspective? Duck and dodge and close my eyes, and hope that something within will begin to shine - that something without will begin to reflect the vivid shades of the possibility. Look deeper now... isn't that which shines from within just another lying face to wear? 10:48, and my life is still ticking away.

through a child's eyes #7

2005-05-16T19:57:00.000-04:00

"Jason, it's time to go."
Ignoring his father, Jason stared at the flock of birds, as they searched the grass for scraps to eat.
"Jason... Mommy's waiting - we have to go home."
At two-years-old, Jason was barely able to speak, but was already quite stubborn. Looking at his father and pointing at the birds, he opened his mouth to protest, but didn't know the words.
His father understood just fine, but they had to leave. "No, Son, we're going home. You can murder the birds next time we come to the park."
Jason stomped his feet and started to cry, but his father couldn't be swayed. He sneered at him with all the hatred a toddler can muster and thought, "You just signed your death warrant, Fucker."

poetry submission

2005-05-15T18:53:00.000-04:00

my life is painted in emptiness and circles
    moments left behind
      while others enter in
        -promising to be something more,
          but nothing keeps its promise
  this was never real...
    just another of tomorrow's memories

trapped

2005-05-13T08:55:00.000-04:00

Any second, he would step through the door, and it was already too late to run. He wasn't always bad when he was drunk, but he called her on his way home; while he was screaming that she never listens, she did everything in her power to let him know that she does, but he didn't want to hear it. It wasn't the first time, so she knew exactly what to expect.

She didn't know what to do... should she defend herself? Would he be easier on her if she took the blows unflinching, or would he rather see the pain he puts her through? There was no time to decide... she could already hear him outside the front door, already yelling at her as he fumbled with the lock. She wanted so much to run, but couldn't find the will to move her feet; she made an easy target.

He had her pinned over a chair, one arm twisted behind her, pressed into her back by his knee... her other arm clutching the cushion, expressing the pain that she dared not let him see on her face or hear in her cries. While his yelling continued, he pulled her head up by her hair, so that her ear would be in a better position to receive his insults, with one leg on the floor, and the other still bracing her arm behind her back... that's when she felt the snap. He was too drunk to notice, and she was unable to tell him; her hand dangled loosely behind her back, hanging from a broken wrist.

And life builds up to moments like these... moments in time, captured. The past didn't flash before her eyes, and there was no thought of the future; she was trapped in that moment, with no other time willing to receive her thoughts.... different rules apply, and they refuse any notion of compromise.

Helpless to speak, helpless to tell him what he was doing, she unwillingly endured... unknowingly sending all of her anguish into the cushion that refused to lift a finger to save her. She needed to learn to listen, she needed to show him that she could, she wanted him to be happy and she wanted it to stop.. but as much as she tried, the pain was tearing her away from his words. His screams blended together, as she struggled to keep them in line, but it was no use... she didn't have the power to please him; for this, she felt guilt.

Moments like these... moments in which the entire experience seems to strangle the senses, pressing from every side and confining you in. She was powerless to escape, and powerless to make sense of any of it... her body the first victim, then her emotions, then her mind... and the longer it continues, the harder it presses, until it finds every part of you to confine.

When the lecture was done, she was no longer to be seen... not in that moment. A creature lay there wounded, thoughtless, docile. Seeing what he had done, he was overwhelmed with guilt, trying to bring her back, trying to pull her from that moment. After some coaxing, she returned... she wasn't conscious of the fact that she did so to please him. He told her it would never happen again, and for some reason, she believed him... again.

verbal masturbation

2005-05-11T18:52:00.000-04:00

I think I could spend the rest of my life writing this, sipping coffee, sipping ale, drinking in the people around me... limiting their lives to the space of a few lines. Pair the real with the unreal, fill the gaps with a few random words, and forget it all for something new. I'd tell you it matters, that I matter, and the color of the words would convince you. Painting each picture, a thousand words at a time - giving up halfway in, and in that, I'm finally telling you the truth. Pour another ale and we'll forget we ever happened.

You'll tell me it really does matter, you'll tell me it actually happened, but I've already forgotten.

poetry submission

2005-05-10T17:58:00.000-04:00

smirking behind these eyes
      ...defiant, and unchallenged
    drawing up from within
      maybe a sense of the self
      maybe a sense of what the self wants to be
      maybe something conjured by the imagination,
        but these are the same -
          these will shine through, regardless of their origin
            hiding behind the safety of their mask,
            but rising up the same
  it doesn't fear you,
    doesn't care what you want it to fear
    doesn't care.

hammer

2005-05-08T11:34:00.000-04:00

Of thirty-two people, eight would lose their jobs. It wasn't an act of malice, nor anything personal... the machine needed to protect itself, and in order to do so, it needed to spread its arms wide. The hammer strikes at random... it picks at parts... it sees gears, not the faces they wear.

Each knew it was coming, but they didn't know who would be chosen. Their jobs weren't being eliminated, just moved elsewhere... and when practicality sets in, this means that they'd be given to others. They knew, and they knew why... all that was left to chance was who, but now who was known. Some say that it's better when you don't know if you've been chosen, others say that the anticipation is worse than the reality of the act; I think this separates those who hope from those who expect the worst. Now that the hammer was in sight, both groups were joined back to one... the names had been read, there was no longer anything left to question.

The machine needed its new gears properly molded, and therefore, the old would train the new. As closure to an era of years of service to the machine, each would get to pass the torch directly, shaking the hand of the new one to hold it, looking him in the eyes, trying to hold back any tears of protest or feelings of betrayal. But there wasn't anyone to blame... this wasn't personal, it was just something that needed to happen. The hammer chose based on logical reasoning... it didn't know the names of those it chose... it only knew their functions. Hate would have helped to soothe these eight victims of fate, but there was nowhere to put their hate. The only ones to hate would be the ones who replace them, but they couldn't do this openly... they'd have to train them, teach them, guide them... probably only days before they were asked not to return.

In time, there would be eight empty desks, the computers given to their new owners, the chairs put into a large room to occasionally be used for conferences. The desks would remind those who remained of the friends they'd no longer see, about the years and years that transitioned into something unexpected, the desks' emptiness reflecting an emptiness that each gear did their best to ignore. Elsewhere, eight new desks would be new homes to activity and a hope for a future of stability, unaware that the hammer that gave them their new hope could just as easily take it away.

through a child's eyes #6

2005-05-06T19:21:00.000-04:00

"Again!" cried the old man, and without thinking, Michael swung his sword with perfect form, slicing the air before him.
The man grunted in acceptance and signaled to another student, who in turn looked down the shaft of a cocked arrow, which was aimed at Michael.
Two arrows flew past Michael in succession, passing only inches from his head, but he didn't blink once.
Without expression, the man commanded, "Strike!"
It was only a split-second later that an arrow, on a path to pierce Michael's skull, was intercepted by his blade, splitting the arrow's tip, and shattering it across its length. Michael's eyes were firmly focused on his blade as the cloud of wooden dust flew past him.
Another grunt emanated from the man before he made his declaration. "You are now ready to face him."

At recess, all the children huddled around a circle that was vacant but for Michael and Jason. Normally, deadly weapons weren't allowed at school, but both boys had notes from their parents.
The fingertips of Jason's right hand rested on his father's pistol, which was thrust halfway into his pants' pocket, which today, he called his holster.
Michael eyed his opponent fiercely, and drew his sword.
"What the fuck is this?!" Jason asked. "I thought you wanted to have a duel!"
"That's right, Jason. I'm going to slice you down the middl..."
"A sword?! I told you that swords are for pussies!"
Michael squinted. "You won't be saying that for much longe..."
"God damnit, Michael - I thought I was finally going to get to use this thing!"
"Swords are awesome, and to prove it, I'm going to..."
Suddenly, with a pistol already drawn, Charlie emerged from the crowd, running toward Jason and firing.
Instinctively, Jason rolled out of the path of bullets, exposing Jenny to their wrath. Only one of her wounds was fatal, but one was enough.

Charlie was too startled by the crowd's screaming to notice Jason sneaking up on him. Suddenly feeling the pistol's barrel pressed forcefully into his ribs, Charlie froze.
Jason leaned in close to Charlie's ear, "Never draw against a professional, bitch!" He then pulled the trigger.
Some say that Charlie died an excruciating death hours later, others say that he was expelled because he didn't have a note to justify the use of firearms at school. Either way, he was never seen again.
While Charlie was writhing on the ground, clutching his gushing wound, Jason cackled and fired a shot into the air.
The crowd rushed in to congratulate the victor, while Michael swung his sword around unnoticed. Tears welled up in Michael's eyes as he screamed, "Validate me!"

baby pics

2005-05-05T22:22:00.000-04:00

Yes, even serial rapists look cute when they're young.

through a child's eyes #5

2005-05-03T18:41:00.000-04:00

Before the days of guns and silencers, would-be close-range snipers threw rocks.

Young Jesus of Nazareth approached the other boys. "What are you guys doing?"
Michael answered, "You see that big rock over there? If you hit it with one of these small rocks, you get a point."
Jason added, "We're practicing our skills!"
Knowing that Jason throws rocks at people when they say things that sound stupid, Jesus was careful with his words. "Why's my cousin, John, sleeping by the big rock?"
Jason answered, "He was over there looking for bugs to eat. He said you can live off that shit, so I sniped him."
Jesus gasped in horror.
"Oh shit," said Jason, "I should tell you - if you accidentally hit him when you're aiming for the big rock, you lose two points."
Jesus couldn't believe that they were just leaving him out there like that. "I'm going to tell you guys a story."
Michael nodded at Jesus, while Jason continued sniping the big rock.

Jesus began, "Alright... say there's some guy who's hurt pretty bad, and needs help..."
"Wait... why's he hurt?" Jason interrupted.
"Uhh... let's say that he was talking about eating bugs, so you threw a rock at him."
"Okay.. that makes sense." Jason went back to his target practice.
Jesus went on, "So this guy's hurt, and a priest walks by him, not even thinking to help him. Then a Levite walks by, and doesn't want to help him either."
Michael said, "Okay."
Knowing that they were listening, Jesus smiled and continued, "And then this Samaritan comes by, sees him, and decides to help..." A rock struck Jesus in the arm. "Owww!!! Why'd you do that?!"
Jason answered, "Samaritans are half-Jews... they wouldn't help that guy!"
Jesus rubbed his arm and said, "Yeah, I know.. that's the point... he was better than the Jews who left the guy in the street; he was a 'good' Samaritan." A rock whizzed by Jesus' ear, barely missing him.
"A good Samaritan?! You fucking moron!" Jason laughed with glee, preparing another rock, hoping that Jesus would say something to earn the snipe.
"Quit doing that, Jason!! It makes me really mad when I get mad!"
Michael giggled, knowing that Jesus' utterance deserved a snipe, and laughed out loud when the rock ended up hitting him square in the stomach.
Jesus wept.
Jason said in between laughs, "Stop talking, Jesus... my arm's getting tired."
Jesus silently stormed off. His repressed anger caused him to have a tantrum in the temple later that day, overthrowing the tables of some money-changers; it made quite a mess.

Years later, when Jesus' cult was growing in number, a woman was brought into the street to be stoned for adultery.
Jesus spread his arms out and yelled to the crowd, "Let he who is free of sin throw the first stone!"
The woman was touched by Jesus' sympathy, but was also shamed by her actions. "No Jesus, let them kill me... I deserve to die." A rock struck her in the side of the head.
"Jason!!! You're not free of sin... why did you throw that rock?!?!?" Jesus looked like he was about to throw another tantrum.
Jason replied, "Huh? Oh..... no.. I sniped that dumbass because you were trying to save her, and she said that she should die... stupidest thing I've ever heard. Totally separate issue, I swear."
Jesus shook a fist at Jason. "I swear to God, Jason... one of these days, I'm going to have your dad killed right before he takes you for ice cream!" A rock struck Jesus in the leg.
"What the hell is 'ice cream', you weirdo?" Jason shook his head, and let out a smiling sigh. That Jesus.. he'll never learn.

poetry submission

2005-05-01T21:12:00.000-04:00

write myself into these pages
    and commit it all to change
  lower into a new form of emptiness,
    where desires attune themselves to the deeper one
      where I am molded closer to me
  shifting-
    sent through and away...
      and this tomorrow is as unknown as the former
        one truth to another,
        a path retraced;
        one heart to itself,
        a page turned and lost.

art failing

2005-04-29T21:36:00.000-04:00

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

2005-04-27T19:36:00.000-04:00

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

2005-04-25T17:03:00.000-04:00

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

2005-04-22T22:14:00.000-04:00

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

2005-04-20T20:29:00.000-04:00

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

2005-04-18T21:58:00.000-04:00

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

2005-04-17T22:45:00.000-04:00

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

2005-04-15T19:31:00.000-04:00

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

2005-04-13T08:59:00.000-04:00

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

2005-04-11T10:18:00.000-04:00

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

2005-04-08T21:26:00.000-04:00

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

2005-04-06T14:39:00.000-04:00

"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

2005-04-04T18:10:00.000-04:00

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

2005-04-03T22:58:00.000-04:00

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

claiming what's mine

2005-04-01T19:41:00.000-05:00

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.

poetry submission

2005-03-31T17:25:00.000-05:00

she looked at me in a way that said, "I want to draw you inside"
    and all I could do was draw her reason into me
  she knew me - she held me in her arms,
    but more in her heart
      and in that place,
          in that moment
        I grasped it-
        I felt her inside me the same way
          touching me in a place so long untended
            knowing me in a way I never thought possible
              reason to follow through was reason enough
                and in that, all was said and done

through a child's eyes

2005-03-30T19:47:00.001-05:00

Jason was seven years old, and had already developed a healthy hatred of his parents. "They used to be the shit," he would say, "until I started going to kindergarten - that's when they became total assholes."

"What was that, young man?!"
"I said you and Dad are assholes."
"Go wash up and get ready for dinner."
What a bitch.

Jason, do this. Jason, do that. "Why don't you get off my fucking back and do it yourself?" They never listened to reason.
"You just wait until your father gets home!"
"Fuck," he'd reply, before defiantly stomping down the hall to make his bed.

"Alright, class... I want you to think about what you want to be when you grow up. Okay, Jason, let's hear you first."
"I want to be a sniper, so I can kill my parents." The boy had an active imagination - most children want to be assassins, but he knew exactly what kind he'd be.
"A sniper, eh?" she asked with an encouraging smile on her face.
"Yeah, a close-range sniper! I want to see that bitch go down with my own eyes.... fuck looking through a scope!"
"Well, why not use a knife or sword?"
"What do I look like, some kind of pussy?"
Nobody noticed Michael's nervous reaction; his answer of 'sword ninja' would have to be rethought.

Jason was watching cartoons, with the volume turned up to overpower his mother's nagging. That's when he first noticed a man dressed in black, trying to sneak in through the back door. "Shit, a close-range sniper!"
It was foolish of him to yell that out, because it alerted the sniper to his failed attempt at stealth. The sniper quickened his pace to try to get to Jason's mother before the boy could warn her.
"She's mine, asshole... go snipe out someone else!"
The sniper was racing Jason down the hall, when Jason's mom yelled out, "No running in the house!" They both stopped.
"Fuck it, take that bitch out."
"Thanks, kid."

homecoming

2005-03-29T20:30:00.000-05:00

When Marcos and I got home from buying ice-cream, the house was strangely quiet. We had rushed home, knowing that the dinner that Megan had prepared would be already waiting on the table. Marcos wanted to run in and eat his dinner as fast as possible, because he couldn't wait to try out the flavor of ice-cream that he had picked out. It just hit me so hard to go from this rushed excitement, to abruptly be slapped with the reality of stepping into a silent house. I knew right away that something was wrong.

Maria had taken the baby to their room, and Megan was in the kitchen by herself, silently staring blankly out the window. Neither Marcos nor I were sure what to make of the scene, and he wasn't sure how to act. He looked at his mother with a deep concern that you never expect to see in such a carefree, young child. He took my hand, and waited for me to somehow fix things.

"What's wrong, what happened?"
She knew that we were there, but didn't respond to my questions. Her eyes shut tight for a moment, and it was then that I noticed that she had been crying.
"Meg, are you okay?"
She paused a moment before answering, but she didn't turn to face me, nor did she open her eyes. "The police came by."
"Why, what happened?! Is Maria okay?"
My question seemed to break her from her stupor. She turned around to look at me, and said, "No, ... no, it wasn't anything like that... " She looked at my worried expression for a moment, remembering again that just like her, I was concerned about the family. She seemed to again see me as a husband and father, but when she regained her train of thought, her expression again changed. "They were looking for the knife that killed that woman."

This was a very strange thing for me to hear, especially in the context of being so fearful that someone had been hurt. I've been thinking about that split-second since it passed... a father's fear suddenly transformed into a fear of a different kind, and the concern that someone may have been hurt suddenly transformed into knowing that someone was hurt, but it not mattering as much as the chance of being caught. For just a second, I forgot about my family, and was alone in the room... it was so strange, because I never stop thinking about them... it made me wonder if I remembered them when I did it... was it for them, or was it for me?

My mind quickly recovered, and I could again feel my son's hand in mine. I remembered where I was, but not soon enough for her last hope in me to be salvaged. I don't know what expression she saw on my face... I wasn't to be found behind it, but apparently the expression was revealing. As my eyes came back into focus, I found hers staring wide at me; she seemed shocked and conflicted.

"I... I don't understand, Manuel... why?"
"I don't know... it just happened."
"But you've been so wonderful lately... you've been the husband I've always dreamed of, ever since..." She stopped herself from saying more as she looked off to the side slightly, seeming to piece things together. I don't know if she understood... I barely understood, but something clicked in her, and as much as she wanted to hate me, her confliction prevented her from taking a clear stance. She quickly looked back at me, as if to ask a question, but she couldn't seem to form the words.
"I think it just had to happen... I think I needed it."
She seemed to understand, but not understand. Despite everything that she thought about people who do such things, she seemed to realize that it had made everything so much better for all of us. A forgiving and loving smile seemed to approach her lips just slightly, when Marcos said, "Mommy, are you okay now?"
She looked at Marcos, and any trace of that smile simply fell away. I watched her posture straighten slightly, as if she was building up some sort of inner strength... I watched her intently, hoping that her smile would return... that simple smile that would indicate a happy ending to all of this. It never came.

She held Marcos in her gaze as she spoke to me. "Maria found it before they could; I think you'll be safe. It's in the drawer over there... just take it and go." She was looking so intently at Marcos, as if he was the source of her newfound resolve.

"Meg?"
"Just go, Manuel."

She didn't look up; her eyes were locked onto Marcos. As I sadly let go of his hand, she snatched it from me, and pulled him toward her. I silently took the knife and began to leave the room, watching her all the while. I was hoping that she'd at least give me a glance, if not that smile that I so longed for; she gave me neither.

what to be

2005-03-28T19:24:00.000-05:00

I think a lot about my role in life - about what I'm seeking to pull out of this human experience, and what affect I'd like to have on things.

I do have a certain love for the normal life. I like knowing myself capable of normal things, and also that in some ways, I'm exceptional. Competition, compensation for feelings of inferiority... a man can thrive on this. This can be that which he feeds on and eventually chokes on. I do enjoy it - I enjoy knowing it's in me, but I can't imagine making a life of it. It's but a lesson to give the human experience a sort of context; if mistaken for the human experience, it becomes a distraction.

I also enjoy knowing. Thinking observing, writing things like this - it feels closer to me. Casting experiences into a useful form, and finding myself within them. I'm more curious than competitive, and I think I'm better at this than the other. People read me, minds find pieces for themselves, but still, it reveals such limitations. Every answer asks numerous questions, and I am hidden beneath them. Minds can't find me this way, they're too occupied with scraps and fragments.

I don't think I live to be human; I think I live to be humanity. I want to be every tear of pain and joy, in every eye that can or can't see the answer laid out before it. I want to be the loudest cry, the softest whimper, and the breadth in-between. I want to be the question and the answer, the reason for asking, the excitement in sharing, and the fear of being revealed. I want to be the very breath we breathe, the active force that draws it, and the consciousness of it being drawn. I want to be all of us, as me.

I don't know what that makes me, and I don't know why.

pausing

2005-03-25T20:27:00.000-05:00

This is a still moment. A pausing between events and emotions, a break from pretending. Let the sounds of those around and within me play their own games, while I stand off to the side. I become separate; I regain perspective.

Why do we put ourselves here? Flooding our lives with experiences, hoping that a trace of what we touch will make itself known. We live and live, but how often do we learn? How many sounds and textures manage to break the surface – what portion finds its way to us? Experience screams so loud that it drowns itself out, its message failing to reach this tired mind.

I only had a moment to remember – their world is again calling for me. It’s demanding that I set down my pen, wear a respectful smile, and return to pretending. It’s begging me to forget; memory makes us too real. Life has no patience or allowance for anything of significance. I could drown in days like this.

a bad day for Mathias

2005-03-24T19:58:00.000-05:00

I was in line at McDonalds when their breakfast cut-off time hit. They made sure that everyone who was in line before 10:30 had the option of ordering from the breakfast menu, but started making the big transition to lunch. The hashbrown cookers suddenly transformed into gourmet french-fry chefs, imitation egg mix was substituted for imitation ground beef, and cranks were turned to switch the menu display.

“You guys aren’t serving breakfast?!” A whiney bitch in McDonalds… what were the odds?
“No, Ma’am, we start serving lunch at 10:30,” the manager said. I’m sure this conversation was part of the 10:30 daily ritual for him.
“Who eats breakfast at 10:30?!”
The manager shrugged at her and continued working.
“I can’t believe this! It’s 10:33!!” I did a bit of math in my head and decided that 10:33 is, in fact, after 10:30.
The manager ignored her and took the next order.
“You just lost a customer!”
The manager seemed devastated.

Shawanda was partially in the right here. Apparently, some people do prefer breakfast at 10:30 AM, and possibly even at 10:33 AM, but what she probably failed to realize is that the manager was following the corporate standard for his demographic. That’s right – believe it or not, McDonalds hires morons so that they don’t have to pay them jack shit. Most think this to be a coincidental trend, but they actually do it intentionally. Because it’s no mistake that their employees are idiots, they’re able to plan ahead for those employees’ idiocy. They don’t trust such morons to make business decisions… all the decisions are made from afar, by people who are qualified to do so. Silly Shawanda… the manager’s GED qualifies him to be a chain manager, but it doesn’t qualify him to decide when lunch begins – that’s a job for the professionals.

“Mathias, come in and sit down.”
”Yes, Sir,” he said nervously.
“It seems that we just lost a customer in Manhattan.”
“Oh, really? I hadn’t heard…”
“How could you not know?! It’s all over the papers!”
“Oh… oh yes, Shawanda Williams… she prefers breakfast at 10:33 AM.”
“And why weren’t we able to provide that service for her?”
“Well, after years of research, it was decided that the most profit was to be made by an immediate transition to lunch at 10:30 in most of the metropolitan areas of New York.”
“Our stocks are plummeting, Mathias! Word is out… Shawanda has gone elsewhere for her breakfast!”
“Well, McDonalds’ policies have always been about pleasing the largest possible customer base with substandard products. Quantity over quality…”
”Quantity?! Since when did McDonalds ever care about quantity?”
“Our most famous slogan is ‘over one billion served’…”
”Get out of my office!”
Mathias was demoted to chain manager later that afternoon.

McDonalds serves the worst coffee known to man. After grabbing my food, I went to the restaurant next door, to get some coffee to go. Low and behold, Shawanda was in line ahead of me, buying some sort of breakfast sandwich. She had a victorious smile on her face.

“That’ll be $8.49, Ma’am.”
Shawanda tried to hold her smile as she thought, “That’s too much for an egg on a roll! You just lost a customer; I’m going to McDonalds next time.”

daddy's little girl: perspective #3

2005-03-23T22:03:00.000-05:00

Maria didn't think anything of the visitors at the door until she heard the fear in her mother's voice. When one of the men said, "Megan Ortega, we have a warrant to search your house," she knew what was happening. This was the moment she feared and secretly expected to come.

She knew he did it - she had seen it in his eyes when he so casually told her that such a notion was ridiculous, but it wasn't real to her until this moment. It didn't matter until now... her father could do whatever he did, and it wouldn't involve her; she now had to decide how involved she would be. She didn't have to make that decision - it came to her naturally.

She put the baby in her crib and stepped into the hall to see what was happening. Two men walked past her, trailed by her mother. She recognized the second man, and for a moment thought that he would say hello to her, but he instead frowned and quickly broke off eye contact. Her mother followed them into the kitchen; she seemed upset and distracted, probably unaware of what this meant.

"We're going to need to take any knives, scissors, or other bladed objects with us; please stand over there, Ma’am." As Maria heard the sounds of silverware being taken from the drawer and put into a bag, it finally hit her. She wasn't sure if they knew what they were looking for, but she now knew. She'd seen her father stare at that knife for minutes at a time, as if he had somehow stuffed all of his memories into its nicked and worn blade, and was trying to read them back out of it. This was the first time that she visualized him in the act, killing that helpless woman with that same contemplative look on his face... she vigorously shook her head and forced the image from her mind. She had to focus; she had to save him.

They were too busy looting the kitchen to notice her running to her parents' bedroom. In two minutes of horrifying panic, but unshakable resolve, she searched the room with every ounce of stealth and speed that she could invoke in herself. Finally, in the back of a drawer by the bed, behind some books and a pile of photographs, it met her hand. It was wrapped in an old cloth, but she could feel the flat of the blade through its wrapping.

After taking it into her hand, her panic quickly gave way to deep questioning. She stared at the object in her hand, picturing its form under the wrinkles of the cloth that contained it, wondering why this little object mattered so much to him. Why this? What did her father see when he looked at it so intently? How could he do such a thing?

The sound of footsteps in the hall brought with it the sense of urgency that she had momentarily forgotten. She slid the knife, still in its cloth, into the back of her pants, and pulled her sweatshirt over the part left exposed. By the time the bag of blades came to claim her father's knife, it wasn't to be found.

She made herself unseen until the men had already been gone for a while. In the kitchen, she found her mother still upset, still not understanding what had occurred, and having no idea what she had done. She wondered if she did the right thing, or if she was as bad as him.... that question confused her even more, because she still couldn't imagine him doing something so horrible. Her mother was busy pouring the burnt stew into the sink, but Maria couldn't keep this to herself anymore; she hugged her mother from behind, and began crying, with her face pressed up against her mother's lower back. Megan was startled at first; she asked Maria why she was so upset, but in ten minutes time she would deeply regret having asked that question.

daddy's little girl: perspective #2

2005-03-22T22:23:00.000-05:00

Megan was preparing dinner when she heard the knock at the door. Her husband and son were out buying ice-cream for dessert, and Maria was in the living room watching the baby. This was going to be a nice, quiet night with the family; she had been looking forward to it all day.

She wasn't expecting company, but surprise visitors were always welcome. She had already darted halfway out of the kitchen when she remembered that the stew was about to come to a boil. "Oh, damn!" she exclaimed as she stood there, trying to decide on a course of action. She finally ran back to the stove, lowered the temperature slightly, and hurried over to the front door.

"Hi, Mike!" It had been a long time since she'd seen her childhood friend, but she really enjoyed their occasional conversations. "How are you..." she wondered who the other man was as she uttered these words, but it then struck her that this may not have been a social visit. The look on Mike's face confirmed her suspicions. "What's going on?"

She really had no idea why they were there, and her 'friend' was just standing there awkwardly, leaving her to fend for herself. While the other man handed her a warrant and told her that her home was about to be invaded, Mike did nothing to defend her. She expected him to stick up for her, or to at least tell the other police officer that she wasn't a criminal, but he didn't lift a finger. She looked at him, pleading for his help, and said, "Why?!"

Mike didn't answer right away. He stood there judging her with his eyes. He clearly thought her some sort of lowlife scoundrel, and had come to her door, just before dinner, for the sole purpose of accusing her. She was betrayed. She still hoped that he'd rip the warrant out of her hands and defend her innocence, but he instead said, "I'm sorry, Meg. Just let us in, and it'll be over soon."

Tears of anger welled up. He was using their friendship against her. He was taking advantage of her vulnerability to further his career. All those years that she bragged about his work as a police officer, and this was how he repaid her. He had never been a friend, and now his true nature was exposed. When the other man violently pushed her out of the way to gain entry, Mike did nothing but carelessly walk right in after him.

daddy's little girl: perspective #1

2005-03-21T10:31:00.000-05:00

Mike internalized his thoughts on the situation as he followed his partner up the steps.

"I'm not so wild about doing this, Trev."
"Just let me handle it."
"No.... she should hear it from a friend."

Mike knew Trevor's lack of a response as a response of its own. This was a hard situation; the job often crossed over into personal relationships. Mike had known Meg since grade school, and although they didn't speak often, he had always considered her a friend. He hoped that she'd still think the same of him after today.

After Trevor knocked on the door, both he and Mike instinctually rested their right hands on their holstered guns. Catching a glimpse of how threatening his partner looked in that stance, Mike quickly let his hand fall loose to his side, not knowing what else to do with it. He was there as a cop, but was also a friend. He put an awkward smile on his face in preparation for the door opening, but a stern look from his partner reminded him that this was a serious situation. He again wore a commanding face, but his hand remained hanging at his side. The door then opened, and a familiar face appeared.

"Hi, Mike!" she said in a tone of cheerful surprise. "How are you..." as she realized that two uniformed policemen were standing at her door, a touch of hesitancy appeared in her voice. "What's going on?"

Mike opened his mouth to speak, but wasn't sure what to say.

Recovering for his partner, Trevor pulled the document from his pocket and offered it to the woman. "Megan Ortega, we have a warrant to search your house."

Quickly looking to Mike for guidance, she fearfully exclaimed, "Why?!"

Mike waited for Trevor to respond, but Trevor instead gave him a supportive look. "I'm sorry, Meg. Just let us in, and it'll be over soon."

As tears began to form in her eyes, she stared at Mike angrily. It pained him greatly, but the job had to be done. He looked back at her with apologetic compassion, but he wasn't sure if it came out as a smile or a frown. He found himself unable to penetrate her anger.

Seeing the situation becoming too emotional, Trevor pushed his way past Meg, into the house. Mike sighed deeply and followed him inside.

subway adventure

2005-03-20T01:06:00.000-05:00

After work on Friday, I was on the subway, on my way to have dinner with an old friend. We don't see each other that often, but used to hang out a lot and did a number of gigs together, when we both lived in New Orleans. I was coming straight from work, but it was a Friday, so I was in jeans.

Out of nowhere, came an old lady who looked to be in her nineties. There's a special bench for people with special needs, which is akin to handicap parking, but the open spot next to me was closer to the door that she came in through. She was really slow, and it was clear that she wanted to sit somewhere fast, before the subway started to move.

As she sat down, I quickly looked at her ass, to see if it was wet. It looked a little damp, but it may have been a shadow. It didn't look drippy wet or anything, but I only got a quick glance.

I lasted about three seconds before I put my hand on the bench between us. She was probably too old to notice, and others probably thought that I was hoping to brush my hand up against her wrinkled ass, but really, I just wanted my hand to intercept any puddles of urine coming my way. Getting piss on my hand would be fucking disgusting, but it'd be an easier situation to deal with than getting her piss in my jeans.

I couldn't handle the anticipation for long. At the next stop, I got up and stood by the door that I'd eventually use to exit the subway car. People rush over to the exits long before it's necessary all the time, so I just looked like another New York moron who can't fucking sit still. This was a strategic maneuver intended to spare the old lady's feelings, but also to save me from getting her piss all over me.

I mentioned the situation to my friend when I met up with her a few minutes later. I told her that I believed it to have been caused by a purely rational fear. I think she agreed... she fucking better have.

poetry submission

2005-03-19T19:04:00.000-05:00

I'm lost to myself right now
  sitting down to write, wondering why it matters
      why put forth the effort?
    yes, yes... this is an outlet for obsessive thinking
      but right now, the mind wants to sleep
        yet these fingers remain active
        writing these words of their own design
          -a sort of doodling touching on diligence
decisions come with more resistance than questions
  and with new decisions made,
    I'm left feeling drained
      and maybe even fulfilled
    touched by the promise of new things thrust into motion,
      I just want to sit back and observe for a while
        to let life live itself through me
          while pretending that I'm really here
I'll let you read of and into me,
  but sometimes I'm harder to reach than you'd imagine
    -sometimes I barely am

accomplishment

2005-03-18T00:01:00.000-05:00

There's a guy who serves my coffee at a little bagel joint by work, who told me that he's fulfilled his dreams. We have short, casual conversations daily, and he once managed to slip this statement in. The very thought of it sends my mind into numerous directions.

This guy's working ten to twelve hour days, seven days a week, for a low wage. He's putting the extra time in right now, simply because they're allowing him to; I sense that he'd do more if given the opportunity. Spanish is his first language, though he speaks English well; I'm guessing that he's from Mexico or somewhere further south. He probably has a lot less going for him than I have, and when he said that he's accomplished his goals, I assumed that his goals were related to becoming established here. That's a safe, but broad assumption, and because it was so poorly formed, I'm going to instead leave the question open. I didn't ask him what his dreams were... that's a little odd, it seems like such an obvious question.

I don't think I've ever accomplished a dream. In fact, if you asked me what my dreams are, I wouldn't have an answer. If you name your goals and succeed, what does your life become after that point... basking in your former accomplishments? If you name them and fail to see them fulfilled, it taints everything that you did accomplish in life with your primary failure. In defining our dreams, we're defining ourselves.... we're putting a label on who we are, and that's forever the standard by which we'll be weighed.

Who are we? It looks great on paper to be someone who can be characterized and summarized, but is that what we should be seeking? What's more significant - a lifetime, or each moment lived?

I have some definite directions that I hold to, but not goals. "Don't you want to be a musician?" No, I am a musician. "Do you want to be a successful one?" I don't know. "What about this writing stuff?" I'm writing, so I guess that makes me a writer, but beyond that, I have no idea. I'm just me, here, right now... one who's accomplished nothing in life, and has nothing to accomplish. I've been accused of being happier in the last few years, but I've never been accused of being happy. Motives, thoughts, and emotions last about as long as it took me to write this, and each next step can potentially take me anywhere. There's no winning or losing for me, there's just the game being played.

I don't buy into all this status shit; a man is what he thinks and feels. According to our culture's economic mindset, I have much more than the guy who serves my coffee, but that's not what I see, and I don't think that's what he sees. He's whatever he sees himself as, and he sees himself as someone who's accomplished everything he wanted to accomplish in life. I both envy and pity him for that.

raven's rollercoaster ride

2005-03-17T00:01:00.000-05:00

When I woke up that morning, my friend was already gone. It was probably around noon, and he had the courtesy to let me sleep, but not to stick around. It didn't matter; I'd just play his bass guitar for an hour or two until he came to get me. Time and activity were irrelevant on Saturdays when I was seventeen.

After getting up from my usual place on the floor, I kicked my blanket and pillow into the corner of the room, and plugged his bass in. I was barely halfway through the day's first song, when my friend's younger brother came into the room. "Cool, you're finally awake... I want to show you something."

Everyone in this family was a unique character, and my friend's fourteen-year-old brother was no exception. He was my brother's age, and my dad still hated him from years ago, when he squirted liquid soap into our fishbowl, which was inhabited at the time. He wasn't much different at fourteen, which is why I liked him. He was mischievous, ballsy, and impressionable - everything you want in a friend's little brother.

There's one sibling left unaccounted for at this point, Raven. Raven was their three-year-old sister. She was sophisticated in many ways, modeled after their mother, but she was also just a child. She wore makeup and high-heels, but carried dolls around. She was also engaging and affectionate, but she'd often snub you, because you weren't cool enough to socialize with her and her dolls. At three, she already had her own twist on the family heritage of being cool and intriguing, yet enigmatic.

Raven was waiting in the hall, excited to participate in whatever trick my friend's little brother was going to show me. I was barely awake at this point, but followed the two of them to the living room. He sat down on the couch, put Raven on his lap facing toward him, and made sure that I was looking.

He hugged her sweetly and said, "I love you, Raven." Without any delay, she responded in kind and hugged her brother, with a big smile on her face. After a few seconds of this, he grabbed her by the shoulders, whipped her back to an upright sitting position, quickly looked her in the eyes, and growled, "I hate you!" Raven instantly burst into tears, while I burst into laughter.

Hugging her again, while rubbing her back, he said, "I was just kidding, Raven... I love you." Her crying stopped immediately, and her smile returned. The experience of a moment before was very traumatic for her, and she seemed glad to have her big brother there to console her. The consoling only lasted for a few seconds before he again thrust her back and angrily proclaimed his hatred toward her.

This went on for a little while, with her reactions instantly following the lead of her brother's demeanor. I wanted to tell him to stop, but I was laughing so hard that I could barely breathe, let alone speak. Really though, what did I know about raising a three-year-old anyway?

I think that the story could be used as a metaphor for the emotional ups and downs of familial interaction, contrasting the stoic environment in which I was raised. Maybe it could then be said that my friend's little brother was somewhat deep, showing me what family is really about. I mean, Raven was experiencing both the best and worst of her brother in quick, potent doses, and I was given the unique opportunity to witness this interaction first hand. This little girl knew that she was both loved and hated - most people don't learn that until many years later. I consider her lucky in a way.

My friend's little brother was sharing this intimate moment with me, and I think that he taught me a powerful lesson... some would say that he must have been a teacher of sorts. I instead like to think that he was just an asshole kid who wanted to make me laugh my ass off before I even had a chance to take my morning piss. Lucky for me, I have one of the most controlled bladders known to man.

flashing

2005-03-16T00:01:00.000-05:00

Life often seems so vague and untouched, like a dream that shifts in and out of focus. To be so overwhelmed by the moment, then to step back and question that moment's significance - I feel like there's more than one me wearing this skin.

They say that in the moment before your death, your life flashes before your eyes. Maybe this defines me, maybe I'm trapped in that moment. I own my mortality; it's here with me, holding my hand. It's whispering in my ear, speaking of ends wrapped up in beginnings. Life is passing by before me, just out of reach, just beyond my grasp... and so I see, I marvel, and I maybe live.

But that's the point, isn't it? Haven't we just been dying since our birth? This view of the whole doesn't care about the present - it cares what the present resolves into. Every silver lining accentuates a dark cloud, and therein is the real meat to life, the part we gloss over. Why can't we find beauty there?

rand the hatchet #4

2005-03-15T00:01:00.000-05:00

James and his brother, Peter, stood quietly in the crowd. The ceremony hadn't yet begun, but it would soon. An often overlooked aspect of funerals is that the moment of waiting can be more intense than anything that transpires during the actual event; there's a certain climactic energy to the silence that sometimes serves as a nice starting point for stories like this.

"This is really pissing me off, Pete. This just isn't right." James kept his voice down for obvious reasons.
"It'll all be over soon, Jim... don't do anything stupid."
"It just isn't right. It's just not right."

Ted's widow and his two teen-aged children were close enough to hear them, but Peter figured that they weren't bothering to listen. Ted's wife wasn't making a peep, but her head was tucked down into her lap, and her entire upper body was shaking violently; Peter assumed that she was crying. He observed James staring intently at the casket, with a silent rage that he knew all too well. "Just don't do anything stupid."

The company limo pulled up gracefully, and two girls solemnly stepped out. They were wearing their ceremonial robes, which were crimson in color, and looked to be made of a thick, heavy fabric. They slowly ventured toward the podium, scattering rose petals, creating a beautiful and colorful path. James and Peter couldn't hear the words that they were chanting, but already knew their song, "Make way, make way, for he is coming."

"This is all his fault, Pete."
"He'll hear you, Jim..."
"He just shouldn't be here."
The brothers bowed their heads along with everyone else, as Rand emerged from the darkness of the limousine.

Rand was in his everyday-wear, consisting of a flowing purple robe, with gold sewn into the sleeves and collar. This robe only had a ten-foot train, and he wasn't even wearing his formal Papal hat. He was dressed like he was stopping off at the funeral just after doing some grocery shopping. Ted's widow started weeping harder when she saw that only two girls were carrying the train of Rand's robe.

Most of the people at the funeral were Ted's friends or peers; these were people from an age that was quickly diminishing. These people grew up playing catch in the street, waiting eagerly for the ice-cream man to drive by. Rand's era was a time of progress... this created a world that they just couldn't keep up with. This was a time of computer games, easily accessible pornography, and wars fueled by economics... this was a time when things made sense for once. They were lost in this era... they didn't have the energy anymore to toss a ball around with their kids, and they couldn't afford to get them ice-cream. They were quickly dying out, and Ted's failure was just a bit of Rand's reality slapping them in the face. As Rand finally arrived at the podium, one of the girls who had scattered flower petals rang a bell, and the entire crowd stood tall and sang, "He was coming, we made way, and now he is here."

Rand pretended to survey the crowd, but wasn't really paying attention. "I want to thank you all for coming, but today, we're here to honor Ted. Ted lived a good life, until he finally decided to end it, leaving his loved ones to fend for themselves."

Ted's widow started weeping audibly.

"Ted was an adequate sandwich delivery boy, and at fifty-six years of age, he was the oldest delivery boy at the deli."

James' face took on a darker shade of red, and his hands clenched into fists.

"Having to work two jobs to fund his son's three years of junior college, Ted's fire quickly burned out, much like his son's education did."

Peter noticed his brother's knuckles turning white, but lacked the courage to say anything.

"His friends called him a good man, with a big heart. He was just one of the guys; he was very.... average."

James couldn't stand it anymore. "Ted was a data processor!"

The entire crowd gasped, and even Ted's family looked back at James in horror.

Peter's heart dropped. He wanted to save his brother, but didn't know if it was possible anymore.

One of the girls pulled a crossbow out from the folds of her robe, but before she could aim it at James, Rand lifted a hand, signaling that it was okay. Pretending to make eye contact with the crowd, Rand continued, "This is true. Ted was once a data processor at my company until we automated his job. Even though he wasn't very good at doing..."

"Ted was a good man, and you ruined his life!" James had gone too far; Peter backed away from him slowly.

"Son, the Lord works in mysterious ways." While the rest of the crowd responded in unison by saying, "Amen," James approached the podium so that he could look Rand in the face.

"You're a monster! You take pleasure in ruining the lives of good people!"

Rand sighed and nodded at one of the girls in robes. Before Rand could say, "Forgive him Lord... he knows not what he does," a shuriken was lodged into James' ankle, causing him to lose his balance and fall backward into Ted's open grave. His screams of pain pierced the ears of all around. Rand glanced down to see that James' left leg was folded under him, and other bones appeared to be broken as well. His cries were finally muffled when the casket was lowered, and dirt was thrown into the grave.

After the crowd sang the 'Baptism of Earth' song (a joyous hymn about forgiveness) for both Ted and James, the clouds above parted, and a booming voice resounded, "This is Rand the Hatchet, with whom I am pleased."

dumb question

2005-03-14T19:22:00.000-05:00

I hate it when magazines answer the question before they ask it.

astounded but not speechless: decay

2005-03-13T12:01:00.000-05:00

There's an old lady that sits near my desk at work. She's been with the company for twenty years easily, and is a section supervisor. She's dying.

She's very nice, and we tease each other a bit throughout the day. It's really light teasing... the toned down kind that you do with old people who grew up watching silent movies that would put one-line captions on the screen, expecting their viewers to read at the speed of eight-year-olds; they just didn't have room on the screen for vulgarity. When I go for coffee, she asks me what I brought back for her, and I give her the brown bag that my coffee and muffin came in... she also gets the few muffin crumbs that are sitting at the bottom of the bag. When she looks over at me, trying to hold back a smirk, asking me if I brought her anything to eat, it's like she's saying, "Rand, my body and mind are falling to pieces. I'm dying, Rand... please don't let me die."

She doesn't use a cane, but she has a pretty cool cane that folds up into three sections... it's locked up in a drawer in her desk. I've never seen her use that cane... most probably think that she has it because she's old and has arthritis on particularly cold days. I think that she has it because she knows that the day is soon coming that she won't be able to walk without it. I'm guessing that she has a walker and a lung-machine hidden in the closet... there's nothing wrong with being prepared for the inevitable.

I think that she's married... nobody wears wedding rings around here, so it's hard to pick up the details when you don't really care to ask. She's mentioned preparing dinner for 'us'... so I assume that 'us' includes a husband. Maybe he's already dead, and she still prepares him dinner so that she feels a little less lonely. Dead or not, I picture this guy resenting her long nights of weeping, seeing death coming for her.... too afraid to just end it prematurely. Really though, what's the difference between a few weeks?

I don't work long days... my time is valuable. She's here hours before I come in the morning, and stays at least an hour after I leave. You're probably thinking, "God... they're working her to death," but no, that's not what's killing her. Old age is killing her... it's eating away at her bones and curving her over. It's pricking her fiercely when her joints are pushed too far, and it's mocking her whenever she looks in the mirror... as her skin hangs loosely off of her face. The memories of her youth taunt her day and night, reminding her of how little she's accomplished, and how incapable she now is of accomplishing anything more.

She got a haircut recently; I could already see her scalp, but after a haircut, it's even more visible. When she wears long-sleeved shirts, she puts rubberbands on the sleeves, so that when she pushes them up, they stay in place; I'm guessing that she doesn't like to push her sleeves up too often. Bone grinds against bone as she bends her elbows.

"Hey, is that a new perfume you're wearing today?"
"No.... that's just the stench of my impending death."
"Hmm, smells a bit like strawberries."
"Common mistake... it's actually composed mostly of lye... it smells fruity because as you breathe it in, it's eating away at your olfactory sensors... much like the way that time is eating away at every barely functioning part of my body. I'm withering away, Rand... please... save me. Oh god, I think I just shit myself."
"Weird... your shit smells fruity too... that lye is really something."

She's a nice lady; I think I'll push her down the stairs to end her misery.

picturebook

2005-03-12T00:23:00.000-05:00

i, ii, iii, iv, v, vi.

vi.
The picturebook still sits open, but its pages are never turned. Every face but one stares at her blankly. Only one of these faces had ever truly seen her; only one ever made her see herself.

She finds comfort in watching him, pretending to live behind closed doors, pretending that it's real. As much as she longs to bring him close, she can't reach into the page. She holds him in her mind, pretending that it's enough.

Sometimes, she listens for a knock at her door, but no one ever comes to release her. He once tried, but she turned him away, taking this piece of him instead. They stare into each other's eyes, but she is hidden from his sight. Conjuring memories of his voice and touch, she returns to the moment that holds her captive, trying to forget what could have been.

picturebook

2005-03-11T00:01:00.000-05:00

i, ii, iii, iv, v, vi.

v.
Their meal now finished, and one glass of wine deep, she knew that she would spend the rest of her life staring into his eyes. Another moment of silence came, but this one was filled with an expectation. She waited in the safety of his presence, until he finally said what she was hoping to hear. "I'd like to see you again." She answered him with a smile, and this time didn't turn away.

She knew there was something about this that wouldn't last, so it was decided that she would capture the moment. When he reached across the table to touch her hand, her hands were already busy pulling the camera from her purse. It wasn't until she was staring through the camera's lens that she realized what it meant. This lens had always been her shield, but now she knew it as her prison... a closed door that she didn't have the courage to be free of. As the smile faded from her face, that look of warm concern returned to his. He again stared into her, reaching past the lens. Her finger fell... the deed was done.

After she sadly put the camera back into her purse, she had trouble engaging his eyes; there would be time enough for that later. Although his hand was still extended, he would quickly learn to take it back. She didn't know if he understood. She wasn't hearing his words or feeling his touch... his expression was now locked into place, and he'd only ever be a name, a face, and a memory.