Draw

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

"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

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

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

(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

"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.