Raven's Haunt

Legend of the Squidhound

2007-09-23T22:09:00.000-07:00

As a young man, Sean faced nature’s conspiracy of ambivalence at the mouth of the Mississippi River. It was the dark of early morning. Temperature in the air: ambiguous, unconcerned. Temperature of the water: a salted cool. Sean stood drowning his hook in waist-high water. He waited in his waders, snaking line into the flats and retrieving nothing. Was he fishing for flounders? No. They’re flatheads with eyes ever upward. He angled for squidhounds, those rad-ass bass always lithe in the fall. Surface-skimmers, shoal-strikers, they raise their eyes to hunt.

For the fiftieth time, Sean reeled back, unwound, and watched his popping cork splash in the current.

Sean [to nobody]: Great fishing, my ass. Pops, you were so wrong. I haven’t had a single strike! Not one! And I got up at three, too. I’ll tell you what. Three more casts, and I’m gone.

Pop! The cork disappeared, and Sean’s rod arched as line raced out, spool whirring.

Sean [to somebody]: No, you don’t. I’ve got you, no matter how far you swim. I’m bringing you in right now. I’m a fighter as much as you. Ah, and who are you?

A prominent black margin marked the fish’s posterior fin, and dark speckles lined the green ridge of its back. Sean lifted the fish from the water and wiggled the jig from between the fish’s front teeth. One marble eye searched Sean’s face. The fish croaked, sputtered, and spoke.

Fish [to somebody]: Who am I? I’m your nightmare.
Sean [to somebody, too]: You are not!
Fish: Yes I am!
Sean: No, you’re my breakfast.
Fish: I am not!
Sean: Yes, you are!
Fish: No, I’m a spotted sea trout, your nightmare.
Sean: You might be a spotted sea trout, but you’re no nightmare. How could you be a nightmare? I caught you, remember?
Seatrout: Exactly, you caught me. A spotted trout. And if you check the regulations, I have to be fifteen inches, yeah? Measure me.

Sean grumbled and pulled a tape measure from his wader’s illustrious pocket. Fourteen inches scraped out. Sean groaned. And again…

Seatrout [to somebody]: Yes, I’m your one-inch nightmare.
Sean [scoffing at somebody]: I think I can stretch you an inch. I’m hungry. Besides, you’ve been giving me lip. No fish should give me lip, you salt-cruster.

Sean prepared to slip the seatrout into his equally illustrious fish-pouch, but in the distance an engine hummed. As Sean’s eyes queried the horizon, the seatrout pounced at the black sea and disappeared.

Sean [sputtering to nobody]: Gave me the slip. Two hands! Pops always says to hold’em with two hands, never one.

Sean cast again, still muttering. The fishing line seemed to grumble with Sean’s discontent. He continued to cast until light kissed the ocean a deep green. Finally, shluop! the cork disappeared, the rod arced, and the line shantied out.

Sean: I hope it’s the trout. I’ll kill’em. Up you come and…

No. A flounder. Perimeter fins a dusky brown, a sandy tailfin, and those two awkward eyes, twitching. Sean scowled and reached for his tape measure. The fish wriggled.

Sean [to somebody]: Stay still, will ya? I’m just getting my tape measure. No need to get jumpy.
Flounder [to somebody]: No! Don’t! You can’t! I’m your, um, I’m your morning-mare!
Sean: My what?
Flounder: Your morning-mare? Is that right? Are you scared?
Sean: Scared? Why should I be scared? You’re a flounder. Now stay still, if you’re less than twelve inches I’ll let you go.
Flounder: Twelve inches. I’m clearly less than twelve inches.
Sean: You are not! You’re huge!
Flounder: Twelve inches is pretty big. I saw a grouper who must have been at least 13 inches, and she was at least twice as big as me. You should have seen her swim, the sweep of her tail. She swims over me all the time. A massive shadow, trust me.
Sean: Ah, the tape measure.
Flounder: What? You got it out while I was talking? Flip me around so I can look at you.
Sean: Seventeen inches. Aren’t you big?
Flounder: Stop it!
Sean: Sorry, but you’re over the minimum, and I’m hungry.
Flounder: My grandfather’s fins, but we’re disgusting. We’re thin. Stringy. Fishy.
Sean: And delicious. I’ve eaten flounder before.
Flounder: But

Sean dropped the flounder into his pouch and returned to fishing. The sun appeared. The sea warmed. The currents shifted. Sean smiled. His rockfish waited somewhere, scoping the surface, hunting. Shrimp beware. Herring flee. Sardine shipout. The rockfish is nosing from the deep, gilling for the shallow water. Ah, a flash! A surface something dancing. The rockfish bites and fights the illuminated line. A furious struggle: The fish snarls bubbles, and the fishing line winks. But two pillars draw closer and closer, and arms reach down, and

Sean [to somebody]: A striped bass! Record-sized, beautiful. You came, and I caught you. You are nature’s olive jewel, lined to perfection. And your eyes, what eyes! At least forty-seven inches and maybe fifty pounds. Breakfast is going to be monstrous! Hey, flounder!
Flounder [from the pouch]: Don’t put him in here with me! Just don’t!
Sean: I’m letting you out to make room for this fish. Get out quick.

With his right arm draped around the seabass, Sean untied the pouch with his left. Desperate, the flounder slammed his nose against Sean’s knee. Foolish fish, eyes always on the sky. Sean buckled and cried out. The linesider’s ten-pound tail slapped Sean’s face. The greenhead seemed to grin as it swam away.

Sean stood red-faced and dripping. Grimly, he set his bait and cast into the morning sun.
Sean [muttering to nobody]: Greenhead, linesider, rockfish, squidhound.
Sean [muttering a curse]: Striped bass.
Sean: Wait until Pops hears this.

delight

2007-08-05T21:13:00.000-07:00

Twenty minutes before dinner I put the wine in the fridge to cool.
Red, a Pinot Noir, a walk with raspberries, Oregon's valleys.

A fillet of walleye in a gentle baste, a hint of salt, an aroma -
Oregano. The fish pops in the heat of the skillet.

My God, I love the cool handle of the scrapper - flip the fish
Oh! see the perfect brown, taste it in the air, feel your lungs.

Lighting is essential. No candles and yet ambiance.
One fork, one spoon, one knife, plate, and table. Modify that.

I like wine. I like fish well prepared. I like perfect lighting.

And I love music twisting elegantly in the background -
fishing nets draped over candlesticks and the delight of dinner.

Deflected Narcissism

2007-03-06T19:41:00.000-08:00

Reading about your professors on the web is a kind of deflected narcissism. Dr. Jones and Patty Kirk gain acclaim for their published works, and I gain some strange kind of pride by association. The process couldn't be simpler. Simply type their names in a google or blogger search bar and browse the displayed sites, each with its own imperfect voice, thoughts, and praises. Or hop over to Amazon and search directly for the books themselves and read the meandering, anecdotal reviews stating what they liked, what they didn't, and above all how they felt about it. "It felt a bit preachy," is followed immediately by the next reviewer saying, "I love how the book never felt preachy." And as narcissism would have it, you condemn those who detract and commend those with the good sense to praise.

I didn't always have professors with small fame, but these four years have been good to JBU. Quality teachers have arrived, worked hard, and succeeded in publishing books and students. Older, more experienced professors have finally released their products of toil both in hardbacks and diplomas. The books have been fairly well received, each with its odd negative review, yes. But mostly positive.

It's strange to compare myself to these author's works. Of course, Confessions of an Amateur Believer or Is Belief in God Good, Bad, or Irrelevant: A Professor and a Punk Rocker Discuss more reflect their authors than me. But in some ways, the books and I are both products of their efforts writing and teaching. The book reviews are deflected reviews of myself.

I'm protected by two things. First, the reviews are overwhelmingly positive. Second, I ignore all negative reviews as a proper narcissist would. I am beyond my education. Maybe.

To an Unknown Woman

2007-02-25T21:30:00.000-08:00

To an Unknown Woman

I delight in the back of your head.
I delight in your forest of hair that tumbles
Down from its peak,
Thins, and
Dies
On the foothills of your shoulders.

You turn and look at me.
Again, I delight in your hair
As it flies off those foothills, drifts,
And settles softly
Like willow branches after a storm.

Three impressions linger:
The silhouettes of your smooth cheeks
The range of your eyes
And the nature of our inverted intimacy –

I always look away.

It's Weird, I Know

2007-01-26T23:04:00.000-08:00

The Players, The Actors, The Despairing

In this scene:
Jeremiah the Criminal Negotiator
Maria the Teller, the Hostage
David the Artist, the Hostage Taker

From Act 1, Scene 2

A seeming robbery has taken place. David has taken Maria hostage behind the teller window but allowed everyone else to leave the bank. These people report to Jeremiah that David has remain silent, not asking for money or ransom. Jeremiah announces his presence.

Jeremiah: I see your arms shaking, and your leathered hands

Trembling: black gloves, black gun tracing eights

On her cheek. I watch you tuck her hair

behind her ear with your weapon’s muzzle.

Maria (Whispered): And this I feel, the caress of desperation,

The promise of cold annulment waiting

One corridor down, that metallic slug

Cued before fourteen others, hoping for a finger’s touch.

Jeremiah: I watch and beg you pause to breath. Muzzle

That maw by loosening your fingers.

Relax and speak – expel the poison of tension

Creeping through your straining muscles. Exhale.

For we will take your calming inhalation

As growing hope for life’s continuation.

David: Tension is nothing. Tension is water wrapped around a line broken

By a strong tug and a thousand ripples. By a fish

Driven by fear of capture to explosion.

If that fish, perhaps a carp, could speak a line in human

Tongue, I know what it would say,

“Tension is nothing. Tension is water wrapped around a line. Broken.”

Maria (Whispered): You know fish words, but I fish thoughts,

“Oh, to burst from pond to sea by way of some inland bay,

Driven by fear of capture to explosion.”

David: But enough. No carp chews a human tongue. You brazen,

You beg me speak with your needle in my mouth? Says your stitch,

“Tension is nothing. Tension is water wrapped around a line broken.

Relax and speak! Let thought and communication – Let reason

Stay your flustered mind, stay that swaying finger

Driven by fear of capture to explosion.”

I am caught and know it. I know the yank of a thousand strings

Set in my lips and tongue. Set in and ripping. Yes,

Tension is. Nothing is. Like water, like my words: fragile, broken,

Driven by fear of capture to fragmentation.

Maria (Whispered): Before, as he leaped the counter and caught my arms,

I caught his current meaning: the silence baited with fear.

Now we are married by rings of steel, by the same

Waiting death –

Its coming and present capture

Of our thoughts.

Jeremiah: An artist often speaks in repeated

Lines, one image cast many times,

Odysseus lost at sea, then stranded,

Now stranded by domestic crimes.

Mourning is buried in recurrence,

As each passing lends power to a phoenix’

Tears. Remembrance bursts like currants:

Red, sweet, and swiftly destroyed by bricks.

You were the artist who knows life’s weeping,

Who sat quietly, uncomfortably in

Hard wooden chairs at night, thinking, scribbling

About circumstance and freedom’s absence.

Now you are the artist who marries all to

Death, who uses our lives to make dead art new.

In Glorious Response

2006-10-31T18:14:00.000-08:00

(Advice poster #3 in the writing center: "Always write – and read – with the ear, not the eye. You should hear every sentence you write as if it was being read aloud or spoken. If it does not sound nice, try again.")

What does it mean, “if it doesn’t sounds nice.”
Must it sound pretty and nice,
as sweet to the ear as chocolate is to the tongue?
What if a sentence is bitter, soured by death and pain and fear?
It shouldn’t play nicely on the ear
Like an over-sweet rhyme
“If it doesn’t sound right, try again,”
sounds nicer than “nice.”

Precision is obscurity’s doppelganger.
“A square is a square! I see it precisely.”
Geometry sits passenger-side, shotgun ready,
And shoots deer from a pickup truck near
The forest of semantics.
From the road, Geometry shouts,
“A tree is triangle not a cone! A deer, a square quadruped
Riddled with my cylindrical
(bang!)
Now circular
Slugs.”
Precision grasps the steering wheel,
Revs the engine
And turns
To laugh with Geometry as
They bumble along what mapmakers call
A perfect and straight country road.

Perception is but a daydream of truth.
A black cloud, a bitter wind
That suddenly, sweetly, ruffles the hair
Of a child who ducks under a slick tire-swing
And spins, arms out, in a sort of wet rain
That drenches the rich black earth of an
Iowan cornfield,
That rusts the iron of a barbed, brush entangled fence.

Philosophical Problems

2006-08-29T20:54:00.000-07:00

Formidable
My foe sits on cowls, cloaks
and confessional masks
naked
wasted, silent and frail.
Sits on grey cathedral steps.

Enticed
Doors open, they swirl and coalesce,
crowd and edge closer
to the beggar
naked
sitting on their chapel steps.

Defeat
I tear at their coats and scream
“your children, your homes!”
but trip on a cane and tumble
down their steps; I have lost
them.

Hope
The crowd parts. The beggar, my Foe,
naked
descends the chapel steps. Raises
my cowl, my cloak, my confessional
match.
I catch and burn.

Camp 2006

2006-08-05T21:04:00.000-07:00

I attended Upper Peninsula Bible Camp's family camp this week. After two trains, one bus, a five mile walk, the movie "Miami Vice," and one four hour car-ride I happily arrived at camp tucked in pines and undergrowth by an aptly named "Little Lake." I spent the week either sitting by lake reading or swimming in its murky waters. Dead Souls by Gogol is hilarious and its genius characters would make a wonderful timepiece comedy. Fear and Trembling by Kierkegaard is a profound piece of exposition on existence and faith, build on paradox, anguish, and honest inquiry. I haven't finished The Sound and The Fury by Faulkner and as of yet haven't grasped much of the plot hidden in Faulkner's stream of consciousness style, but perhaps the plot will become clearer later. I read in the shade on a wooden swing painted brown. I swam in cool water that smelled of fish and aquatic vegetation.

It has been four years since I last attended UPBC. Four years since I last talked to my friends there, and most of them have left camp themselves. Only two remain, both now on staff. One found his wife at camp, the other perhaps a sense of purpose. Regardless, when I arrived both were either busy re-roofing or were otherwise engaged. So I was left to my books, my family, and the lake. Later in the week a girl I once knew appeared at camp, but I never found the nerve to talk to her. I could never talk to her before. My hesitation was simply a carry over from the past. Strange how some places, some people inspire feelings, fears, and attitudes that don't dwindle with time.

But what good are northern forests and their lakes without their solitude? The weather shifts swiftly from warm to cool, from sun to rain. Creatures dash about ferns and trees, spew noxious perfumes, and buzz about with the sole purpose of raising welts on unsuspecting victims. Everything changes, everything seems chaotic, but patterns hide in plain sight like how dappled shadows overlay meshed pine needles and dirt. Nature is downright philosophical - concerned with life, death, and little else.

I enjoyed reading at camp and talking about literature with a middle aged South African woman who currently seeks her PhD in rhetoric at Northwestern and heads the English department at Trinity University in Chicago. Every morning before chapel we sat and talked about whatever was on her mind, be it Katrina, political language, South Africa, or what should constitute an English curriculum. No translations. Learn the French and read Camus and Sartre in the French department, for goodness sake. David Carruth, she salutes you. I suppose it makes sense though. Her father studied Chinese and Russian, only to settle on Zulu as his dominant second language.

Of course, it was a Bible camp and there were two chapels a day. The morning meetings concerned the Fruits of the Spirit. I must admit that love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faith, gentleness, and self-control are beautiful qualities. I still doubt the statement that only Christians exemplify these traits, but in some regards I agree with the doctrine of moral stagnancy outside of an external force. I cannot increase my love for others or self-control no matter how hard I try. Combine this series of lectures with Fear and Trembling, and perhaps I have an avenue to God and change. Time will tell.

I left a day early with my sister. The drive is long and she wanted company for the trip, so I obliged. I had no reason to stay. So now I’m back to my computer and a new anthology of contemporary poetry I hope browse in search of inspiration.

Evolution Has Painful Consequences

2006-07-16T18:01:00.000-07:00

I went to the zoo Saturday. Lincoln Zoo in Chicago is small. It houses a few hundred animals from seals and bats to tigers and gorillas. My favorite exhibit was the primate house. Agile gibbons danced and flipped about fake vines, and a large baboon stalked proudly in his environment. One animal, however, scared me.

The Geoffrey Tamarin has a stark black face flecked with white and a ruddy red mane. One tamarin looked remarkably human, and its beady black eyes stared out of the cage. This human resemblance continued as the tamarin moved, walked, and bounced around bushes and trees. The tamarin was a veritable mini-human with a flowing red cape and a tail! No wonder some people think we descended from these creatures. All they lack is some sort of language, and even that they might have, as no one has ever managed to interpret a primate's chirps and yells.

But what happened next may shock you. The tamarin I was watching jumped from the back of the habitat, dashed across a branch, and landed on the wire mesh directly in front of me.

"Quick, Quick, come here!" the tamarin whispered. I was shocked. The little primate's dash had startled me, but his speech nearly sent me into shock. Not the fact that he spoke, but the fact that he had an accent. A Spanish accent.

"Come here, man! Before they see me!" My tamarin glanced from side to side. He looked afraid, and began beckoning me closer with his hands. I took a few steps closer and bent down until I was looking into the tamarin's eyes.

"Uhh, you speak?" I knew the question was stupid, but what else do you say to a monkey?

"Stupid question," the monkey whispered and then muttered something about the quality of education these days.

"I need you to bring me something, man. I need a fresh banana. They only serve nuts and small crickets in this joint."

"And you couldn't ask your zookeeper?" I asked. I didn't want to be saddled with this mundane task, as it was getting late and I still hadn't visited the Bat and Snake House.

"You’re talking about the waiter, yeah? I asked him, but the guy fainted, man, and when he woke up he didn't remember my order! But this is necessary! I don't want my brothers to find out I talked to you. They get rough when anyone gets special treatment. I might get neutered!" The tamarin broke away from our conversation at this point.

"Don't forget, man, fresh bananas!" he shot back as he dashed up a tree.

"Aahh, a banana?" I thought. "Where am I going to get a banana?" I didn't want to leave the zoo. Luckily, as I turned to leave the exhibit, a tamarin bounced up and yelled at me.

"Hey, did I ask you for a banana?" I looked at the tamarin closely. I stared at his features, his freakishly human features, and couldn't tell if this tamarin was the one I spoke to before. He might be a vengeful brother seeking incriminating information. He might have a neutering tool hidden on his person. I didn't want to be responsible for neutering a talking monkey.

"A banana?" I feigned ignorance, hoping his next sentence might reveal some identifying bit of information.

"Yes, a fresh banana." the tamarin repeated, annoyed at the repetition. At this point I knew this was a different tamarin. His accent was Irish.

“No…no…you’re not the same monkey I talked to before!” I stammered in surprise. The Irish tamarin glared at me, as if I had betrayed vital evidence.

“He asked you for a banana, didn’t he? Diego, Diego, Diego. When will you learn that the pursuit of selfish favors can never be hidden from the community’s watchful eyes? When will you learn that actions have consequences? Dire consequences.” The Irish tamarin looked pointedly at me and slowly raised his tail. It held scissors. “It’s an offence a monkey could loose his manhood over,” the Irish monkey stated, and in an instant he turned and dashed, howling to the back of the cage with scissors.

I never looked back, and ever since that incident I’ve always know the humanity, and inhumanity, dwelling in every monkey’s heart.

Why I Don't Like Opinions

2006-07-01T17:09:00.000-07:00

I was three months old
when my mother took me to the doctor.
I was dressed in blue pajamas,
and my mother wore frayed jean shorts
and a flowery pink top.
“He moves in his sleep,” my mother told
the doctor, who sat legs crossed,
his shiny black-rimmed glasses hanging
off his nose, his pencil hovering
over a pad of paper.
“He rocks back and forth,
waffling like that for an hour every night,” she explained.

The doctor repositioned his glasses
and scribbled a note. “He’ll grow out of it in time,”
intoned the doctor.
He stood up and sat down again. Small talk
and general inquiries filled
the final twenty five minutes of the visit.
That night, my mother placed my
blue pajama body in a bundle
of warm blankets, and
I waffled until sleep stole my waking moments.

My father had a friend who rocked like me.
He was charismatic. Conversations were his love
and humor his tool to make them alive.
“He would take over a room. It was amazing
how all eyes would follow him,” my father
would say, his eyes brightened
by the memory’s light.
My father loved this man
and would likely still call him
“best friend” if he hadn’t died from brain cancer
at the age of thirty-two.

“You will grow out of it,” my mother exclaimed
the morning my bedroom door inadvertently
swung open to reveal my body waffling back
and forth. I stepped over dirty,
black athletic shorts to shut the door
and went back to bed.
“You will grow out of it,” my father firmly insisted,
as he mentioned his friend who had
died of brain cancer caused by rocking.
I turn twenty-one today, and I still rock or waffle.

Only eleven years left.

Care’s Wrought Vine

2006-06-23T21:14:00.000-07:00

A bag of wind, violence wrapped in canvas,
armoire brown and tall, antique as a distant solar wind
caught between one Castor, one Pollux searching for home,
is placed in the hands of a sailor, strong, tall,
tanned by Trundholm, and worn like fig leaves
bound by the sins of yesterday, the sins of April.
Shocks of twine bind the leather mouth, a mouth
caught by torments, the Tantalus, the tapeworm writhing,
all bought the mind of Hamlet and none of Macbeth.
A Stone’s Story extended by thesis, death extended by
wails and tears.

“He who measures life by coffee spoons has a basement
full of boxes.” And dances to the din of china, dances
to the din of china.

Violence wrapped in canvas, sheathed in stone,
dreams of beaten mares and chases buggies to the curb,
stings the whip of madness to the eyes, sings verses onto
yellow paper, inked notes from air. Dreams of
wrapping arms around the house’s head and fields
of blood to graze it. Betrayal is a perfect thing
which breaks the waves of doubt to help a hamlet
entertain Macbeth with bread and wine, a white wine
served chilled like the blood in my veins.

“He who measures life by coffee spoons has a basement
full of boxes.” And dances to the din of china, dances
to the din of china.

Death steals horses like an evening thief, leads them to villages
tucked in fog and hills behind the Himalayas.
My shoes are steel! My feet are gone! My chariot digs
its feet in mud and rocks, and I shall be buried in it.
My bag of wind has blown to the sun, that heel of a sun
who blinds Castor, hides Pollux and burns the canvas,
but the twine, ah, the twine is in my hand. It twists like
vines, now binds my hands and roots my feet in something
similar to silence.

“He who measures life by coffee spoons has a basement
full of boxes.” And dances to the din of china, dances
to the din of china.

Claymores

2006-04-03T18:46:00.000-07:00

Whoever compared the pen to the sword
knew what they were doing. Seriously,
today it's been a battle just to hold
the pen. Claymores would be half as heavy,
tired even before the fight began.
This white page is innocent. Pull the pen
along and watch the page bleed and again
hear the screams pierce a now wounded silence.
On the battlefield, sadistically slash
the wounded again, tracing, retracing,
widening gaping wounds. Madly drive the
pen left or right to the center of things.
Silence dies on the edge of a pen. It's
a battle just to hold the pen today,
because when silence screams, it deafens;
silence reborn in the form of blotted ink.

Draw

2006-03-06T22:57:00.000-08:00

Where does the imagination draw me?
Does it draw me over bridges ascending
to meanings stuffed in clouds? Does it
draw me wisdom dipped deep from wells
worn with time? Does it draw me a figure,
molded lines formed to fit a 3 or 9?

But if imagination draws me on and over
rising bridges, am I not the one who
unpacks the clouds? Am I not the one
who draws wisdom like water from echoing
holes? For in the end, I own the figure
imagination draws. I draw myself.

Madness Built A House Next Door

2006-02-25T22:47:00.000-08:00

Madness built a house next door
and its windows are twisted and
shuttered. On the front door
a raging dragon is perched like
a sparrow. With each knock
the dragon's maelstrom mouth
bites wood like a thunderclap.

Madness built a house next door
and its porch is ancient and
cluttered. On the roof, shingles
simmer like scales and chimneys
line the ridge. With each gnawing
knock at the door, flame and smoke
bloom skyward like red flowers.

Madness built a house next door
and its siding smiles a worn and
tired smile. And I built a hedge to
hide the smiling, weary home from
wandering eyes; a green hedge
my children played in when the
knocker struck the door.

And now I bear the dragon’s teeth
and knock on Madness’ door. On
pains of glass, I see my children
walking within the walls. With
each knock the children laugh, and
so I enter an empty home to find
Reason and a Hope.

Valentines Day

2006-02-14T13:59:00.000-08:00

I took a walk and stole a beat
from a languid tune.
My battered heart hummed
as my feet paced in pace with
a song.

"Love is in the air," she sang.
"Mist is in the air," I whispered.
Black trousers, black shoes,
a black suit-coat, and last
a rose in breast pocket.

Subdued, I walked to your house.
Your father greeted me and surprised me
with a hug. Your sister listened
to the falling rain. "She's sleeping now,"
your mother said.

In the mist and rain, we left
the house as ants in rank and file,
desperate not to drown. The car's engine
hummed. "Love is life!" it seemed
to sing.

February 14th and a party to
attend. People gathered round
as a gentleman raised a serpent's
cup and proposed a toast in
your honor.

Hearts accompanied you, not music
as you were lowered down.
Each beat bled because you were broken,
bled red like the rose in breast pocket
I placed upon your coffin.

Birthday

2006-02-11T13:31:00.000-08:00

I hate this bookshelf
you made for me.
All beviled edges and smooth
like the day I met you,
dressed to impress.

You impressed me with
the beautiful designs.
The bookshelf was empty then
and no expectations. Only hopes
to fill the shelves.

I hate this bookshelf
you made for me.
Because
This year you made excuses
and now my bookshelf's walls
are bookends. The old
books fused between
the shelves.

The new lay
abandoned on the floor.

Throw Off the Worlds That Rest Upon Your Frame

2006-01-19T17:40:00.000-08:00

Throw off the worlds that rest upon your frame
And shrug the atlas from your failing mind.
Weights, the Captives chained and weary, fully lame
As earthen are the links, the thoughts, that bind.
My house, its sleeping couches, is no longer home.
The street, its once sweet sounds, I hear no more.
I cease to read the words of ancient tome,
A book of hidden wisdom and dusty lore.
Who would not chase the scent of "I" in breeze
And walk descending path's identities,
For golden blood flows out, it slows and seize
A breath for freedom’s hopes and memories.
But bonds are safe and safety fast confines.
The Air, the Earth know meter and the rhymes.

Update On My Life

2006-01-12T22:06:00.000-08:00

Nothing has changed. Seriously.

Update on my other vicarious lives:

The all knowing computer whipped my genetic code from its database. I no longer exist and miss myself already.

In a blizzard, a callous economic decision has placed my various troll identities into catatonic states. Revival any time soon is unlikely.

The Me inside my head turned into Sonic the hedgehog during a nap I took. I ran though an arching hall, much like the space station in 2001: A Space Oddyssey. However, the hall was filled with people meandering around like a sporting event was going on. I was dodging everyone really well. Then I woke up.

And there you have it. And entirely irrelevant post.

Dirt Roads

2006-01-04T14:08:00.000-08:00

The boy wasn't very bright. The villagers always laughed at him when he chased chickens all the while calling them pettycoats. He refused to swim in still water because breaking mirrors brought bad luck. They laughed. When ornate carriagies bounced their way though town, the boy ran along side doing cartwheels in the mud. The villagers only laughed if the carriage didn't stop.

But one did stop. The villagers formed a semi-circle around the door in an effort to properly greet the dignitary who had graciously stopped. They also attempted to hide the boy, smothering him with arms and torsos. The carraige door opened and out came a lavously dressed man. One long red feather flourished from his hat and white frills encased his jewel encrusted hands. The dirt face villagers in aprons and jerkins lowered their heads in deference, and, in doing so thought, "How polished this man's shoes are!"

Only one head remained upright. The boy looked at the man and grinned. It was a silly grin fit for moments like grinning at grunting pigs, caught fish, or pretty girls behind their backs. It was not a grin fit for royalty.

The villagers, who's eyes remained firmly on those shining shoes, were startled to hear a sword unsheathed. Afraid of feeling the sword sheathed in something so unpleasent as their bodies, the villagers huddled lower. "His shoes have little spikes!"

The boy kept on grinning. The man frowned. Usually a show of violence effectively restored a sense of propriety. And thus he spoke.

"Your name, boy," the man's frills shook as he spoke. Even so, the villagers couldn't take their eyes off the man's cleats.

"Einstein, sir!" the boy's grin grew brighter. The villagers never spoke to him. Who was this marvelous man?

"And what's your name, sir?"

"Sir Isaac Newton."

"What a fabulous name, sir! And what do you do? Shoot pheasants? Chase skirts?" the boy inquired with all the impertinence born in a stable.

Apparently the boy's grin and frank questions won the Sir Isaac Newton over. "Why, I am a great swordsman. The arc my weapon makes is...perfect."

"A swordsman, sir? I should have though you to be a scientist...Who would ever take to being skewered by a Newton? No no. You must give up weapons and count apples."

Sir Isaac Newton laughted. "A little kindness never hurt anybody," he thought as he flipped his fine sword over and presented it to the boy. "Besides, I have pleny of others."

The boy took the sword and gasped, "It's sharp!"

The villagers were right. He wasn't very bright.

The Gangway: A True Story

2005-12-17T20:11:00.000-08:00

They won't let me in my spaceship. Two in the morning, my alarm's wail still ricocheting off the inside of my skull, and they won't open the hanger doors. Database malfunction and they're working on it. Bullshit. The port techie wouldn't be out here explaining the problem to me if it was. He'd be half buried in wires, talking to every data cluster in the system and sweating like an unplugged ICE runner.

Damn it's cold! The port techie says repairs to the database should be done soon but his polyfiber coat, authentic fur hat, temp-reg boots, and heavy mittens say otherwise. He's staying put. For a while. All I brought was my sweat towel; normally reserved for close encounters with neuron stars and sudden solar flares that over task my ship's temp-reg system. Wrapping it around my shoulders and neck doesn't do much but it's better nothing.

Wouldn't be so bad if the cold was natural. Icy winds and winter are nice when you're standing on real earth. But drafts in stations freeze every part of a man. The metallic echo of winds slashing around corners numbs ears and its processed bite could kill. I think I chipped a tooth. Jaws won't stop chattering. The port techie could hear them if his fur hat wasn't pulled down over his ears.

If I could get in the hanger everything would be alright. Ports strictly control hanger climates. With repairs going on and dismantled ships about, if the climate rises too much nav-chips begin to fry, pilots sue, and ports lose money. Too low a climate and pilots take their business elsewhere, so every hanger's temperature is fixed: nice, comfortable, and profitable.

But they won't let me in my spaceship. Can't be a grudge. I haven't stopped here enough. A mechanical problem, I guess. The port techie hands me a neural chip programmed to signal me when the problem is solved and suggests I find a warmer pasture to wait in. While I appreciate his begrudged honesty, I haven't seen a pasture in decades.

Home Again, But Always Home

2005-12-10T19:19:00.000-08:00

I was born in the great country of Canada, a land of clean streets, low crime rates, and friendly diverse people. In Toronto, I made childhood friends and we played in a white wooded park near my house. I first learned to bike ride down my street who's length has dwindled with time.

I turned seven in the U.S.A. At the time my father attended Trinity College in Chicago, the same city where he received his undergraduate education. My parents met in Chicago, love bloomed, blossomed into marriage, and many years later returned to its native plot. I loved Chicago, its hustle, its schools, its parks, and the friendships it granted.

But Chicago lasted two years and served as a short, vibrant chapter in the story of my life. My father graduated and in the preceding job hunt the city of Champaign snared my father, for as the hunter chooses the deer the job chooses the man. Where the doe goes the fawn follows. I was destined for Champaign, my educator, my boss, my longest home.

Unfortunately, in Champaign I failed to replace the friends I had left in Toronto and Chicago. JBU, my college albeit at first not by choice, filled the void with the best people I’ve ever known. The character and love sown and shown breaks me. My friends are smart and caring. They enjoy life and still find the will to suffer through it. They are real, and because JBU is their home so it became mine.

Even so, when opportunity knocked and offered overseas travel and promised vistas to view, I embraced it, and luckily opportunity is an obliging fellow. Russia was my destination, a strange land with unknown people speaking unknown words. Three months I lived and breathed Russian air, words, and life. Russians are deeply hospitable people free with their food and open with their lives. And thus a place grows dear.

A wise sage once said, "Home is where the heart is," and he was right. But in every place my physical heart resides, my true heart leaves something of itself behind. In Canada I left roots deep within her soil, remnants of memories and deep sentiments. My heart melted in Chicago and in Champaign it firmed and found a lasting foundation. To my friends at JBU my heart I freely gave. Russia weaved its way in and as I left my ties to that troubled, beautiful country never released and force my own heart to tear itself free.

My heart is shattered and my homes are many, yet I am a more complete person for it.

Purely for Entertainment

2005-11-02T06:46:00.000-08:00

For pure entertainment:

(Written in Class, or, more exactly, just after class.)

Oh, there once was a man named Stan.
Who lived in a rusty old van.
He hit his head, and now he's dead.
The end of an unknown man.

(Written now so the above catastrophe won't feel so lonely)

Poems are words made hearts.
Poems are emotions made flesh.
Poems think and feel as people do
Get lonely sometimes. Poems do.

(To add to the rapidly growing cesspool of literary incapability.)

Voices behind speak with unknown words
as the cue ball strikes eight,
Fingers strike keys. "Where am I?"
Voices beside speak with unknown words
clouded with thick cigarette smoke.
Fingers strike keys. "Where am I?"
Voices above speak with unknown words
Muffled by shuffling, sliding chairs.
Fingers strike keys. "Where am I?"
Voices in front speak with known words
Unknown clarity shatters a self.
So fingers strike keys. "Who am I?"

(This next on I'm actually rather proud of. Seriously.)

Roses are read.
Violence is blue.
Form is a prison.
But what else is new?

(I'll let you in on a secret. I said I was proud of the above poem BEFORE I wrote it.)

We Must Try, Eh?

2005-10-03T06:00:00.000-07:00

Oh Long Forgotten World,

Hi. You're all expecting some explination of my time here in Russia. What I've been doing, what I've seen, who I'm talking to, how many times I've almosted died crossing the street. 198. But that's besides the point.

The point is, I can't bring myself to write such a post. I can't boil my experience down to simply, "Hi everyone, spent the afternoon looking at an Orthodox Church that was modified into a bread factory during Communism. Now we're returning the building to its original form. Oh, and I've learned some Russian. Read some wonderful books." While all those things are true, they only sketch out my experience in crude lines, marred by erasor marks. In simplifying, I'd be deleting vital parts of my experience.

"So why don't you try to explain the whole experience? Take some time and write about it," said one skeptical, theoretical reader. I don't try because the whole experiences is rather personal, emotional, and mostly undescribable to the uninitiated. Perhaps in words, face to face.

Who am I kidding. When I get back, paraphrases and shortened descriptions will flow freely from me. I'll have to say something, won't I? "Russia was awesome. I had a great time." True, but not entirely. "I saw churches with mosaics from the floor to its 350 foot high cupola." True, but I also saw emotions, thoughts, and heartbreak in that Cathedral. "I read Bulgakov's Master and Margarita" I did, but I fail to mention why it's a masterpiece, and what I didn't understand about it. "I like and enjoy everyone in my group." But each person carries an personality, hopes, dreams, different beliefs, and annoying habits/querks. "Yes, I missed home." But how much, who, and what did I miss? Can I explain it and why? No. Not here at least.

So to those dear ones at home, I'm experiencing stuff. Now there's a statement I can get behind.

Kyle

Curse: A Working Title

2005-07-26T17:33:00.000-07:00

Part I

If one was to glance casually southward down Broadway Blvd. at approximately five o’clock one warm Friday evening, two facts would have settled deeply into the subconscious of the observer. Now facts have a tendency to settle differently according to a complex and varied set of rules most of which are dependant on how significant and shocking the observed fact is at the time. Significant but normal facts settle like an elderly gentleman lowering himself into an evening chair, and our first fact would have made the elderly gentleman’s chair creak only slightly.

Simply put, the first significant but not shocking fact noticed when gazing down Broadway was this: Broadway St. had far to many billboards, electric lights, and store signs. The combine energy output required to light Broadway could have powered a small island. Britain, perhaps. As a very large cities main commercial and cultural drag, Broadway Blvd enjoyed celebrity status which, for streets, typically means being mentioned constantly in traffic reports. At all hours, and especially at five on a warm Friday night when couples dined at sidewalk café’s, when hipsters began to wait for their concerts nine o’clock opening, when taxi’s lined the street waiting, honking, and generally scrambling to find the next fare, Broadway was crammed with people of all kinds.

Another kind of fact comes as shocking but insignificant and can be described as small children: loud, self-centered, sometimes adorable, sometimes not, but ultimately leaving one wondering when they will grow up and contribute to society. The second fact could be classified as loud, self-centered and probably not adorable nor hideous. But that small child apparently grew to be a Nobel prize winner. It’s resounding shock could have fried entire colonies of chickens and supplied KFC and Popeye’s Fried Chicken for years.

On this beautiful Friday evening, only one person walked down Broadway Blvd. One, single, solitary, lonesome figure. The figure was cursed, so it makes sense that if one took more than a cursory glance down Broadway Blvd and watched this man make his weary way north up the street, a third fact made itself evident. Get of the street. Everyone else did. So can you.

The man wore a light jacket colored black, faded jeans, and white shoes. He was young, thin, pale, and his wispy black hair hung just above his eyes as if swept by the wind. Had the hipsters been out he would have fit right in. His appearance was vaguely attractive. Perfectly normal. And cursed.

Evidently, his curse transcended the modern conceptions of curses. Current wisdom, informed by science, defines curses as socially unacceptable words and therefore finds curses a nebulous, unfixed concept. Or at least as nebulous and undefined as societies are. This man wasn’t cursed because someone swore at him, which if we hold to conservative standards had probably happened at some point. No, this man’s curse was on par with whatever happened to the Cubs baseball team, the Titanic, and the United States efforts to depose Fidel Castro from his dictatorship and his life.

He couldn’t remember how he became cursed. If witches had brewed some devilish potion or chanted incantations over him then it hadn’t been very exciting, because he apparently sleep through it. What he does remember was one morning waking up in his bedroom, shuffling sleepily downstairs, and finding his house devoid of all life. It had not been a good morning.

And now he walked deserted streets. Survival was not a problem. Nobody came close enough to stop him from taking what he needed from stores and he only had to find a home with a door unlocked to get a bed. Heck, if every door was lock he just broke a window. No one ever tried to stop him. They were to far away.

So by the time the man with pale skin and black hair walked up the brightly colored and cluttered street of Broadway Blvd, he was conditioned to a cursed silence. As he walked, he paused to look in shops, lingered over pictures of people especially young ladies, and generally wore a resigned, sad expression. He came to the corner of Broadway and 5^th, where our hypothetical observer of facts had long deserted their post, and walked calmly across the street through the Don’t Walk sign. He stopped on the north west side of the intersection in front of a corner tea shop called Olde Towne Tea and took a folded note from his jeans pockets. He stood with note in hand for ten minutes, fidgeting with the edges of the letter. Finally he bent and placed it under the door. When he stood, his back seem more hunched, and his gait quickened as walked purposefully west on 5^th St towards a setting sun.

In fifteen minutes, people began to return to Broadway, oblivious to why they had suddenly gotten up and left. Residue of terror oozed on the boarder of nearly everyone’s consciousness. Further south, the owners of The Bitter Palace, evening home of hipsters and audiophiles alike, struggled to reassure a band who had just arrived that, yes, this was the right street and, yes, there would be a crowd. Don’t judge the band to harshly. When they had arrived the street had been nearly empty.

Movies Times Four

2005-07-24T20:50:00.000-07:00

My parents left for the week, as well as my sister, leaving me home alone. Of course, solitude at home means one thing, movies. I have watched four this weekend, and these four movies have somehow divided themselves into three groups.

The first category is "entertaining but crap" and it contains our first selection: Aliens V. Predator. I expected almost nothing out of this movie and quite happily got what I was looking for. There is action, but it is lumbering and clumsy where it should be smooth and deadly. A human survives, which would never happen, and I am truly sorry if I spoiled the movie for anyone by revealing that detail. However, I was entertained because, well, I find the Aliens, whom I root for unceasingly, entertaining to the highest degree. And I didn't expect much, which I have already mentioned is a good thing when approaching such movies.

The second category is "entertaining but not as mindblowing as the T.V. Show." Cowboy Bebop: The Movie champions this category. The story was subpar when compared to the T.V. show, but Spike's action scenes make up for any lack of plot substance. Once again, here I looked only for quality animation, excellent well known characters, and superb fighting scenes. The movie contained all three aspects I require, and I was satisfied. Not blown away, but satisfied.

Two movies reside in category three entitled "Freaking awesome foreign films" The first movie I viewed in this category is titled The Twilight Samurai. Now when I think of samurai movies, images of disembodied heads and limbs with a touch of humor parade before my eyes. Zatoichi, another samurai movie, actually there are several but I have only seen the most modern film, fits the cliche generalization perfectly, but not Twilight Samurai. It is first and foremost a drama about a petty samurai's struggles with love, work, politics, and his children. There are only two fight scenes, which were well done, but they are only a subpoint of this movie. The actors are excellent, the plot and character intriguing, and the movie is beautiful. It has a warm, nostalgic, and weary feel to its shots that fits perfectly with the plot and characters. Superb movie, and I recommend it.

The second movie in the "Freaking Awesome Foreign Films" category is titled "Noi." The film centers around a boy from northern Iceland. The cinematographer washed the colors out, and, being in Iceland, the colors are therefore mostly white, grey, and blue. The film is funny and terribly sad at the same time. It is also slower than I expected, but not to the point of boredom. The main character of the movie has distinct features and is one of the more interestingly conceived characters I've ever watched on screen. This movie is also highly recommended.

It's One A.M. and I Feel Like Writing

2005-07-09T22:49:00.000-07:00

But no matter how much one feels like doing anything, sometimes circumstances block the doing to force a sitting. A seat is a seat, a place wait. A place to rest. A place to sit and not do.

Some things are done sitting, and one's seat, for some, morphs into a prison, and, for others, transforms into a hall of old, happy dreams. But, just sometimes, circumstances block the doing and force a sitting. And a seat is a seat, a place to wait. A place to rest. A place to sit, and not do.

Some seats are soft, comfortable and a joy, and the seat becomes a holiday, a blessed vacation. Other seats are brittle and hard with high ridges and too low valleys. And somethimes circumstances block the doing and force a sitting. A seat is a seat, a place to wait. A place to rest. A place to sit and not do.

On some seats, passengers wait for planes, rest in buses, and students sleep in classes. On other seats, prisoners wait for parol, potatoes enervate on couches, and parents wait anxiously for sons and daughters. For sometimes circumstances block the doing and force a sitting. A seat is a seat, a place to wait. A place to rest. A place to sit, and not do.

And sometimes, just sometimes, a seat is the only place circumstances require.

Rise

2005-06-30T19:14:00.000-07:00

Eyelids open to a white ceiling. Not completely white though. Places are gray and others slighly yellowed from water or age or something. A finger twitches. The pinky pinky finger, to be exact, twitches for a minute or so, as if some otherworldly force compelles that solitary finger to incessantly struggle against sleep. Eyelids and pinky fingers. The only external body parts moving. And the insides are moving slow.

What of waking thoughts? A tidal wave at low tide. Fireworks on a black night. A newly opened oven, stuffed with sweets, in a sterile kitchen. A chance meeting with a lost, loved, relative. Thoughts overwhelm like old emotions as pungent as inimitable baking goods. It's sensory overload of the mind.

Birds, small birds, chirp cheerily outside. Creation woke earlier and gently requests for company. The invitation is broad in scope. Nature isn't a picky host, all that's required is life, to simply be alive. A twitching finger, open eyelids, wonderous thoughts, and an all incompassing invitation. Tough to turn down.

Now if only I can get these blasted warm covers off.

The Unprepared Visitor

2005-06-20T18:47:00.000-07:00

"Last night I was about to throw it all away." Elliot Smith

I came by on a Friday night in high summer(1). Glowing clouds hid a ruddy semi-set sun, and as I entered through the front door, its rays cast a long shadow over my face. The halflight warmed my back, the only warmth likely for me that evening.

You sat on a worn, green couch with deep cushions. Soft light from the lamp on the antique oak endtable highlighted your face and hid the lower points of your satin contour. The lamp also revealed a table cluttered with glamour magazines, book review journals, and dirty dishes. A weak fragrance, pinesole, barely masked a distinct funk from the soiled carpets and half finished meals. It smelled like home.

She smiled when I entered. Not at all what I was expecting. I stopped just inside the door, lingering in the warmth of the sun and her quivering smile. She put down an old tome, yellow with age. She loved old books and ancient words, and behind the couch on the far wall sat a bookcase. Its shelves held volume after volume of leather bound books kept in excellent condition. The bookcase was clean, freshly dusted, seemingly in step with the occupants priorities.

The weathered book was placed upon the flowery green pattern of the cushion beside her hips. She stood up, and I started. What was happening? An unfaithful, disrespectful, disheveled dump of a man had crossed the only threshold his heart feared. I was petrified. Was her warmth but a show? Could I detected any stiffness in her gait or hardened anger in her gaze? Only my eyes fruitlessly moved, searching for the signs I so expected. My fear and her potential anger rooted my feet to the gritty fake wood of the entryway floor.

One step and two. Three steps then four.

And a tears began to stream from her eyes.

Five steps then six. A seventh and an eight.

She only came within five steps of me. The sun had set on that Friday night in high summer, and I bolted for the door. I leaped down the five steps of the wooden porch flight chipped by time. Never did I return her gazed which I'm sure followed me out the whitewashed gate and down a narrow street lit by harsh blue streetlamps. The prodigal husband had returned to have live, searing coals heaped upon his head.

-----------------------------------------

1. The first line taken with permission from Christopher Wood.

The Weekend

2005-05-31T21:30:00.000-07:00

My extended family are wonderful people and in general good cooks, so I enjoy traveling to Iowa to sample the pleasures of good company and food. Grandma and Grampa's house is different now from what it use to be. In a distance, fading past, my cousins and I would scale the walls of the old, decaying barn on the farm, feed the dogs with scraps, and climb the low branches of the maple tree near the house. Activity, motion, and noise all aptly described our play, but the pace has slacked of late. Wiffleball baseball with the younger cousins and golf were our only physical activities all weekend. This time the couch beckoned, as did a book. Yet, while the pace has lessened, the people I love are still there.

Time catches us all, and softly, seemingly blindly, carries us along a hidden path. Pay heed to the quiet chimes of the grandfather clock, for Father Time practices tough love.

Of Anakin and Death

2005-05-18T15:29:00.000-07:00

The hideous red glow of Anakin’s lightsaber flashed, narrowly missing Death's skull. Death's black robes swished softly as he twirled and brought his light-scythe to bear. In rapid fashion, Anakin and Death parried the others blows and counterattacks. The two combatants ignored the sulfurous, molten lava a mere thirty feet below them. Both lightsaber and lightscythe flashed perilously near the single cable beneath the combatants feet. The weapon play rose to a furious pitch, and in a final clash the two came together, lightsaber and scythe crossed. Sweat pored down their blackened faces. Anakin’s brow furrowed. He reached deep with his emotions, called all his anger, despair, and pain to channel the force to a maximum. Just before Anakin began his final, devastating attack, Death laughed and stepped back. Puzzled, Anakin pushed forward to deliver the ending blow, but stopped midstroke as Deaths laughter increased.

"What’s so funny?" Anakin asked quietly, his tremendous temper nearing its boiling point.

Death fought his laughter for a few moments and managed to utter between blasts of laughter, "Why, this fight is so pointless." Laughter took him. He composed himself, stood straight, and with as much of a smile a skeleton could muster said, "I'm death, you see. All this time we've been fighting you didn't realize one important fact. I can't die."

Anakin face contorted, confused. And then paled as Death's lightscythe sliced the single cable keeping both bodies from falling into the molten lava. Anakin's hands clawed empty air in a vain attempt for a lifeline. Death simply leaned back and relaxed.

"Serves you right. You're picking bad odds when you choose to fight Death."

Stories In Bed

2005-05-16T20:46:00.000-07:00

(Begin Preamble)
Is anyone else disturbed when they click on the "new web-blog" to start a new post and instead of their nice black and orange background, one is forced to write in a harsh white environment? I would be much more comfortable if the page xanga used for weblog entry displayed the same colors as my site.
(End Preamble. Begin Amble)

I want to write a story this summer. It will be as long or short as I feel necessary, but I hope for a long short story. A novel-light, if you will.

The idea came to me in bed, where all my best thinking takes place. If I could write with my head pressing upon a soft down pillow, eyes closed, and covers heating my curled body, I would. The problem is obvious. In such a relaxed setting, I would fall asleep, and for every nap perhaps a sentence or two would be written. I also would write well in the shower, but the problem of electricity, water, and me combine to make the option less appealing. However, in bed, I construct much of the plot for my as of yet unwritten stories.

The story centers on a character, male or female though I will probably make it male, who has always lived in the shadow of a mountain or cliff. He was raised and lived in a small village near by this foreboding cliff. As he progresses in age, the man feels a draw to the mountain and as a final adventure before retirement or senility, the man decides to backpack around the base of the cliff. To his surprise, the man finds a stair carved from the stone of the cliff, and he climbs. The cliff is tall, so tall its peak or top is constantly shrouded in clouds, so the man is wasted when he gets to the top. At the top, the man finds a modern home unlike those in the village inhabited by another man who could be mistaken for his twin. His twin identifies himself as Death, or the mans one personal Death. Death explains to a shocked old man how when a life is born so too is born a death. At this point, the two go talk in front of the fire place.

I haven't decided if the two will talk first and then Death will introduce himself, or the opposite, but that is the premise. The story will try to contain some quality dialogue and philosophical musings, but it will take me where it wants to go, philosophy or not.
Actually, the story will say, "You don't have the will or patience to write me, do you?"
I sadly respond, "I doubt it."
Thus sayith the story, "A pity. In that case, I don't want to go anywhere." And so the story, having spoken with Death, dies.

But for those whose hopes keep company with that elevating drug marijuana, I will try my best. Nirvana is not far off. Cheers.

(End Amble. Begin Post amble.)
Tomorrow, my brother and I are scraping, smoothing, and applying the proverbial elbow grease to some drywall so some washed up and washed out painters can do their jobs. I hate housework, and this comes close. But I need the spending money, since I don't see a dime of the money I make moving pianos. My father takes it all to combat my ever increasing debt to him. Sigh.
(End Post amble)
(End Post)

Sonic Royalty

2005-05-12T13:17:00.000-07:00

"When there's nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire." Your Ex-lover Is Dead by Stars

Looking for good music this summer? Whats that? I can't hear you. Ah, good. An empahtic yes. I was hoping you would be enthusiastic. It makes my job easier. Hum?? Oh, I'm a music salesman obviously, and a damn good one too. Because I have my finger on the pulse of the music industry and can find the diamonds hidden by the ruff, uncut stone. Ok, Ok, I'll get on with the salespitch. Seesh, I was only building suspense. No need to be violent. Now, my roommate would describe these next three bands as emo, but pay no mind, because he calles everything emo. Fine! I'll give you the names, gosh. The first band is called Stars, and they hail from montreal. Montreal also houses the second band, named Arcade Fire. The third band, from London, titled themselves Bloc Party. I only have one real pitch for these bands, and that is to tell you to listen to them. Give these bands a chance, and your ears and brain will crown you king. Yes, if you listen to these bands, you will finally be the master of your own domain. Delay, and increase your mortal danger.

How is it warmer in Illinois than in Arkansas?

2005-05-08T21:06:00.000-07:00

I drove home Saturday, stopped once for gas, and fused my back over the nine hour drive. When I left Arkansas, it was warm with a touch of cool. The entire ride home my car's airconditioning sheltered me from the outside world and as I drove north I remained oblivious to climate changes. I rolled into the driveway, turned my pint-sized car off, and opened the door. Warm, sticky air greeted me, to my great suprise. That's disgusting! Illinois should be cooler, more hospitable! What a strange twist of fate it is that I, who loves cool weather, must suffer more in Illinois than Arkansas.

Besides the weather, I am looking forward to summer. My brothers likely will force me to be more active, I will be making money, buying books and CD's, and working half the hours I did last summer. Delightful. Also, I have a more extensive network to keep in touch with friends online, staving off loneliness as best as possible.

During the drive home, some teachings from philosophy class caught hold of me and I decided to be more intentional with my time. Last summer I, when I wasn't working, I spent a fair amount of time watching t.v. I enjoy t.v., but it partially dictated my life. A touch of discipline should go a long way in improving my Russian language skills as well as my general knowledge of literature. The problem is, I think I've tried this discipline thing before and it very quickly devolved into undisciplined. Perhaps I should try harder? Get an accountability partner to whom I will lie too and avoid being disciplined anyway? Likely my drive to be disciplined will die, and so it goes.

However, I will read the remaining Sandman comics. Nothing can stop me. I am a man on a mission who cannot be derailed, slowed, or otherwise sidetracked. When life throws me something I am passionate about, I become very disciplined. Life usually pitches me things impossible to make a career in without crazy talent. Like writing creatively, or art. My life will end with me publishing a few lackluster history books and articles, with hundreds of equally lackluster and unprintable works of art on hold at various disreputable publishing houses. Sounds fun to me actually.

I will post more about my summer exploits later, after the exploits happen, as this is only the first full day I've been home. Later.

Is Anything Worth Saying?

2005-05-05T21:10:00.000-07:00

I got this big box on my bed. It's Axis and Allies. I won it during my final in World War II, because we, the British, destroyed all others. Well, mostly the axis.

My roommate has the t.v. on right now. Discovery is airing homemade mini-dragraces scooting down their wooden tracks. Its called powertool racers. Stupid...

Anyway, I now own the complete game...

Wait. The show is back on. They have a special class of dragracers! Dangerous. Racers powered by CO2 tanks and even bigger CO2 tanks! Sigh.

The chances I will play Axis and Allies remain slim. My family doesn't play complicated games, and I have gained a bad reputation for refusing to play games with my family. Card games, board games, any games. I don't like playing...

No! NO! You must be joking. The stupid show has feminists dragracing queens. They called their racer the "Tramp On Wheels," to represent their sex at the competition. You have got to be joking. The racer comes with a head, a wig, and everything. The drama!

Watching t.v. while writing posts makes things interesting and provides for interesting content.

I might sell the game on ebay. The extra cash would be nice. But what is it with modern culture? How can shows like PowerTools Dragracer draw any audience? My philosophy professor would cite Kierkegaard's austetic life of boredom and its search for anything remotely interesting. But that cannot be the reason. The shows are too stupid to sate anyones boredom!

On a similar note, I can't wait for Star Wars III! Grown men moving things with their minds and fighting with colorful high powered lasers!

One must pick their stupidity carefully.

Serious Considerations

2005-04-14T22:21:00.000-07:00

Fact #1: Everybody loves something.
Fact #2: Not everybody loves something useful.

Think of 1984. Remember the part with rats? When I say everybody loves something, everybody loves something like everybody hates a 1984 rat. This inverted rat, this something, inspires, burns with desire, and refuses to be shunned. Something is holy.

By useful, I mean utility. Useful cloths, shelters, and feeds. Something useful can be made a career. It brings home the proverbial bacon.

Desires are filled because people have put in the work and effort to create them. On one side of desire is passive reveling. The other side houses active motion.

For every story read, there was one written.
For every meal eaten, one was prepared.
For every successful business, a plan was created and pressed.
For every game enjoyed, a designer.
Behind every movie hides script, actor, and setting.
Every quality flight requires a pilot.
Every picture denotes a photographer.
And within every grand painting lives an equally grand artist.

I love many things. But for most, my love is passive. Failure is not an option when no action occurs. Every tried to get a couch potato to exercise? It is equally hard to instill passion in passive desire.

Depth

2005-04-08T22:34:00.000-07:00

I had a conversation a while ago about depth which at the time left me a bit disillusioned and frustrated. The conversation was relatively short in duration, but I have always remembered it.

My family owns a piano moving company so a major part of my informative years involved sitting in a truck driving to a move. I usually napped or read during the trips. Due to my reclusive nature, I typically refrained from speaking. But every once in a while I tried to open up and hold conversations with whoever was in the seat next to me. This time my brother was at the helm.

I don't remember how the conversion begin, but my memory picks up with me stating some life aspirations. I described how I wanted to be a thinker and write books on such topics. My brother, upon hearing, inquired after some specifics. What kind of things would I write about? The obvious answer of course was "Deep things." I was feeling particularity clever with my next phrase, "Ya, deep things. Like what is depth?" I was inwardly congratulating myself for thinking of something I believed to be a sufficient answer when my brother began to chuckle and stated that thinking about depth wasn't deep at all. Honestly, I was taken aback. Philosophical depth seemed like a truly intelligent thing to consider. The problem was, I couldn't explain why I thought that. The only thing left to do was sit in silence and steam. Its a bit annoying to explain what you want to do later in life and have your example shoved back in your face. It's even more annoying to have no response.

I still think depth was a pretty good answer. Later, for one of my classes, I had to read a book called Moral Wisdom and Good Lives by John Kekes who had a significant section dealing with what he conceived depth to be. Did I know that at the time? No. But I get the feeling that most people don't consider depth to be deep at all. Depth, to most, has a simple definition. That which is not shallow. Such a definition doesn't describe or define depth at all. It is too pat and contained to fully describe a term meant for something extensive and incontainable. The more one actually considers what depth is, beyond simply that which is not shallow, the more there is to consider.

The previous post contains a story. It is by Kierkegaard. I didn't mention it in the last post because I didn't know at the time. Forgive me.

Out to Prove Ones Sanity

2005-04-02T22:52:00.000-08:00

Recently I heard an interesting anecdote, maybe a parable, that reality promptly proved valid. It reads as follows.

A man had been held in a mental institute for fifteen years. Eventually, through good behavior and improvement during his sessions with a psychologist, the man was granted his freedom. Not dull, this man knew that once he entered the world at large, he would be judged poorly for his lengthy internment in a mental hospital. The impending judgment bothered the man greatly. In the weeks prior to his release, the man considered various options or methods he could employ to prove, undeniably, his complete sanity. Upon careful consideration, the man decided that upon his release he would express a confirmed truth. Once the world knew he understood truth, then no one would deny his sanity.

The day came and the man left. Having little money, he began to walk to the nearest train station. The streets on the way were crowded. In the middle of a particularly thick cluster of people near the busiest intersection, he decided to prove his sanity.

And shouted at the top of his lungs, "The world is round!"

Those nearest looked at him like he was crazy.

Thus ends the story.

A few days after I heard this story, I came across an individuals website. This individual claimed to be a Christian, and, in step with their perceived duty to enlighten the world, they viciously attacked anyone expressing contrary views. The individual made copious use of both profanity and bible quotations, mixed with libel and judgment, to spread their brand of the gospel. Now, I question nearly all of their proclaimed theology, but I question the method of persuasion even more. They are like the man in the story, only instead of yelling, "The world is round!" they declares it flat. What possible good will it do to present truth if it is packaged so carelessly that no one pays it any attention? Some people, like the individual on the internet and the man in the story, are really out of step with reality.

The Crushing Weight of Continuity

2005-03-28T21:28:00.000-08:00

I love the title for this post, but am having a terrible time discerning why. The story behind it is a common exerience i.e. driving for nine hours straight, and was meant to reveal why after long car trips wear people down. Words, however, escape me because I am extremely tired. The mental effort of keeping my car on the road robbed me of all my mental reserves. The state of continual focus on a scene of pavement, trucks, and skid marks took all my cognitive abilities except those of the sensory perceptions. Mental strength and endurance parallel physical attributes. Both must be exercised or they will be lost, and apparently I need more practice.

Story One:
There once was a boy who thought very little. As he lay on his bed, his mind raced across a field of nothing. He could stand, eat, listen, and sometimes follow simple directions.

One day, the boy woke to his mothers call.
His mother said, "Come." He came.
His mother said, "Eat." He ate.
His mother said, "Listen!" And he thought about it.
"Do I have too?"
His mother smiled. That was a beginning.

A few months later, the boy climbed into bed at night. His mother tucked him in and turned off the lights. As he lay under the sheets, his mind raced over fields of color.

Story Two:
There once was a boy who moved very little.
His father kindly kicked him off the couch and made him play something.
The boy moved more.

Gotta love short stories. Short short stories.

Ode to the Victors: Movement One

2005-03-26T19:07:00.000-08:00

Arizona basketball fans mourn. Your vaulted team, favorites of many a sportscaster, were handed a crushing, season ending loss. No doubt you believed in Stoudamire and Frye, both brilliant players. With only a few minutes to go, you confidently assessed the game situation and declared your team victor.

At that time, I did too. But we were all wrong.

Miraculously, the Illini battled to the last basket. Deron Williams made threes; Luther Head stole inbound passes and finished strong. Yes, as the fat lady waltzed on stage, the Illini basketball team tripped, grappled, and drove her offstage with a flurry of shots. Much like the unconscious fat lady behind the curtains, Arizona was stunned.

Illini 90 - Arizona 89 in overtime.

Eat it.

The Weapons of Love

2005-03-24T15:58:00.000-08:00

I was chilling in Borders Bookstore today, reading as much manga as I could fit in before my mother came to pick me up. Blade of the Immortal, King of Hell, Hellsing, Samurai and Executioner, and Berserk were all on the reading list. Even a cursory glance at my selections should reveal my personal preference of high action. Assassins, samurai, and knights all dwell within those excellent pages. Mother came, sadly, and we went to pick up my father at church. As mother and I pulled up, my father turned the lights off in his office, indicating that he saw us and would come out soon. As it was raining outside, mother and I sat in the car and waited. And waited. Well, we didn't wait very long, but when you expect someone to come out in five seconds, two minutes is an eternity. Mother was getting a little impatient, and began to inquire about my father whereabouts.

Allow me to transcibe our conversation.

Mother: Where could your Father be?
Me: I don't know. Maybe he was ambushed by assassins.
Mother: No...
Me: I'm serious! The assassins turned off the lights as we pulled up to hide the gruesome details.
Mother: Well, you better go in and check. Let me know how long it will take.
Me: How long what will take?
Mother: Defeating the assassins.
Me: Oh. That shouldn't take too long. I'll likely use a few knives and skillfully disable them.
Mother: Why don't you disable them with love?
Me: How do you kill someone with love?
Mother: Well, you just need to change them with your love.
Me: Like the difference between life and death change?
Mother: Go get your father.

As you can tell, I had assassins and violence on the brain. And remember the next time assassins attack, defeat them with love.

A Cloud of Mystery

2005-03-23T06:59:00.000-08:00

Have you ever moved a piano? Knowing the way pianos are usually moved, you should remember if you had, but, for those who have never experienced the wonders of this particular physical labor, allow me to describe due process. Imagine getting six of your strongest friends stacked around this massive object. A few simple steps follow. First of all, with six people around the piano, the fastest anyone can move is a shuffle. Second, since pianos have enough handholds for two, the remaining four people do nothing and only serve to threaten the balance in the air. Then come stairs or any other obstacle presenting itself in the middle of the path to and from the moving truck. Amatur movers consider the move to be successful if the piano can only receive a single wound to the structure of the piano like, say, breaking off a leg, and five superficial injuries like scratches, dents, and scrapes. Getting off with no damage is more akin to a miracle. That is the way people believe pianos should be moved.

And people are crazy.

Suprising as it may sound, there is a better way! For many there is only one step: call a professional piano mover. What's that I hear? You want to know how to move a piano without all the hassle? If you follow this one simple rule, your next piano move will be 100 times easier. Never carry the piano. Carrying a piano is about the dumbest thing you can do. The only reason you pick up the piano is to set it on and off a set of wheels called a dolly. From there you roll it everywhere it needs to go. Yes, there's a reason pianos only have two handholds. Only two people are needed! Two people are fully capable of rolling most pianos around any obstales. Stairs? No problem. Outside porch flights are perfect for ramps. Inside stairs require the piano to be placed on a skide and then slide up the stairs, but never, ever, carried up the stairs.

Yesterday I moved thirty one pianos. My father and I are machines. We were setting up a steinway sale, and at one point my father calculated we moved a grand piano from the truck into the store and set it up, lire and all, in about ten minutes per piano. You too are capable of such feats. All you need is experience, equipment, and the ability to remember one rule. Never, under any circumstance, carry a piano.

The Soundings of a Glorified Crow

2005-03-21T22:15:00.000-08:00

Under the gun.

It is my distinct pleasure to welcome the random viewer to my blog. Allow me to begin the obligatory introduction and explanation of myself and this site. My intentions are to inform the masses. Topics will range from discussions on life and philosophy to exciting descriptions of the mundane.

Who am I joking?

Actually, I am more like a solitary raven. Just one big beautiful bird squawking, garnering no respect, and commonly associated with the evil crow.

In reality, being associated with a crow isn't that bad. Most people classify crows as pests, and they probably are. However, animals are pests for two reasons. First, when animals flourish then they become pests. Second, if animals are intelligent and skirt around the common human conception animal stupidity. Crows are smart, more so then the rest of their feathered brethren and also numerous. With two strikes, crows cannot avoid humanities negative stereotype. If only we could look past labels to the real heart of the creature. Crows and their bigger, most likely dumber, cousin the raven rock and should be revered.

In short, I named the blog Ravens Haunt because ravens reign and haunt sounds nice.