I have started my own website, so if you're reading this, go there instead:
www.athinkcloud.com
Monday, November 29, 2010
Monday, October 4, 2010
Tokyo Culture
They say that Japan is one of the few places in the world you could lose your wallet in the middle of the street and it would remain untouched for you to discover days later. The lost and found culture of respect. Perhaps fear?
I have a friend, she lived in Japan during the 1990's. She worked in a busy shop, nestled among the many businesses in downtown Tokyo. One day as she was walking in to work she saw a small black suitcase on the ground in front of the store. Thinking nothing of it, she went in and proceeded to work all day. After her shift was over, she saw the bag again, unmoved from the spot it had occupied that morning. A slight shuffle within caught her attention. A small noise from the bag strained to reach her ears against the bustling city. She disregarded it and went home.
The next day, upon arriving at work, the suitcase remained. This piqued her interest some, but she went to work. She left work. It was still there. She went home.
The pattern repeated a third day. Not one person touched the suitcase or even acted interested in its existence. As she left work that night, the luggage still stationary, she felt a small wave of unease and curiosity arise within.
On the fourth day, a stench began emanating from the bag. Fighting stronger urges to investigate, my friend worked and went home.
On the fifth day, the smell could no longer be ignored. She and one of her co-workers decided they had to examine the suitcase. There was no name on it, nor was there anything in the outer pockets. They unzipped the largest pocket deliberately, cautiously. The odor seeping out of the container was nauseating. She peeled back the now unzipped lid. The carcass of a baby lay in the center of the bag, its body bloated and discolored.
As she turned away, covering her face, a solitary tear rolled down the woman's cheek and landed upon the child's open palm.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
The Waver
Like most surgeons, Paul Murphy had a steady hand. Take your hand, flex it, hold it taut and horizontal in front of your eyes. After almost no time at all, you'll feel what surgeons call "the Waver." It is the moment when muscle disobeys command, despite even the most copious of efforts. It is a slip, but in surgery, there are no slips. "The Waver" is the reason you are not a surgeon.
He had built an empire beneath him. Chief surgeon of Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, he had a reputation for being the best. Like most surgeons, Paul Murphy had a steady hand, but Paul Murphy's hand was perpetually unfaltering--a redwood among palms.
Paul Murphy had a family he loved. They were his world, besides the hospital that is. Martha was his wife of 27 years, and she had blessed him with 3 children, two bright young boys, Jason, 14, Kyle, 17 and what he believed to be a literal angel, his 19 year old daughter Lillian.
At the hospital, in the community, he was respected. When you think of the greatest man in your life, he likely lies in the shadow of all that is Paul Murphy.
Tonight, Paul was at the hospital. Most nights, Paul was at the hospital. His position, his status demanded an enormous amount of work, and more than anything, his presence. Many of the regulars were off tonight, a fresh batch of interns meandered the sterile halls. Gurneys and EMT's rushed around, en route to point B. It was a busy night, but most were. In his office, Paul was reading a medical report.
Over the intercom, a woman's voice spoke, interrupting his focus, "Paul Murphy to the OR, Paul Murphy to the OR."
Paul drew in a deep breath, as he always did, preparing himself for the coming task. His name was called only when no other surgeon could handle an operation. He stood, he walked, while his mind, his body, they dialed in to the same frequency. A certain trance washed over Paul, as it always did, when he went into surgery.
At the OR, the Operating Room, Paul was greeted by a grim-faced intern.
"I'm sorry sir, no one else was available. This is urgent."
"Right, well what do we have?"
"Female, probably mid 20's, she was mugged downtown, shot twice--a graze wound to the shoulder, and one shot just above her heart. Plus trauma to the head and back including lacerations on her neck and torso. She came in about 5 minutes ago. The bullet is still lodged in her chest doctor. You're going to have to try and get it out while there's still time."
Paul washed his hands methodically and applied his mask, everything he did a picture of composure. He was the epitome of collected, he was after all, the best.
In the OR, several nurses were attending to the victim's various cuts. She was splayed out on the table, a light focused on her chest, her head and lower body hidden from view.
Paul began to work. He worked patiently, deliberately, as he always did. His hand was constant, unshaken. His tools made their way to the bullet that had lodged itself so precariously in the faceless woman's chest. 45 minutes into the operation, he had made significant progress, he was close. Pausing for a moment, he stepped back from the woman. A plastic bag, with the woman's jewelry, caught his eye. Paul was not easily distracted, but he thought for a moment he recognized something. He looked closer, too closely perhaps. In the bag was a necklace and on the necklace was a pendant, engraved with eloquent cursive writing, three letters:
LTM
In a frenzy, he grasped at the anesthetic mask covering the woman's face. Her eyes were closed in a medically induced slumber. As he pulled the mask away, his worst fears were confirmed.
The woman, his daughter, his angel. Lillian.
Paul Murphy lost his mind for a few minutes. Or he left it. I guess it doesn't really matter which, in the end.
He forfeited control of his body. He shouldn't have scrambled to get the bullet out. He had never let the situation control him, until then. His hands clutched tools, but not with confidence, they became foreign objects. Despite this, the tools pressed back into the incision, back towards the bullet.
The human artery system is a fragile one.
Paul Murphy's hands betrayed him. Paul Murphy's hands made one mistake in their career. Paul Murphy's hands, they wavered.
The Aorta is the largest artery in the human body. In their haste, Paul Murphy's hands slipped, as they never had.
Sharp metal, meet Aorta.
A cut, an accident.
Blood...so much blood.
Paul Murphy was the best. Paul Murphy isn't the best. People speak using the past tense these days, when describing Paul Murphy's prowess.
Take your hand, flex it, hold it taut and horizontal in front of your eyes. Is it shaking yet?
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
3.14159
His name was Nate. Or it was Jon. Or it was Dustin, or it was Collin. His name was just like all the others, copies of copies of copies. Titles passed down, becoming part of a new generation.
Call him what you want, it really doesn't matter. I'll call him Nate.
Nate used to drive out into the desert and get high. Super high.
He loved that. Just him and the desert. A cactus or two, sure. Mostly just land and sky and stars like you wouldn't believe. Unless you'd seen them.
One night, he was driving around. He did that a lot. Letting the marijuana smoke pour out of his mouth, he'd cruise the uncultivated dirt. It made him feel special. Like he mattered.
Nate was a genius. Sort of. His memory was more accurate than a camera's. His head had more storage space than a computer, than a hundred computers.
He used to drive around and recite Pi to himself. He loved the beginning. The 3, then the decimal. "Three point one four one five nine two six." A lot of people know Pi that far. He kept going though.
He saw things differently, especially when he smoked. He could see numbers. His thoughts turned into vivid screenplays, elaborate dramas, projected right between his eyes.
He was driving around the desert, smoking, letting the stars shoot without being fired. In his mind, Pi flashed across the screen.
Π =3.14159 26535 89793 23846 26433 83279 50288 41971 69399 37510 582097 49445 92307 81640 62862 08998 62803 48253
He would close his eyes, he never hit anything. He would hold the wheel steady and drive by feel, letting Pi consume his mind greedily.
3.1415926535897932384626433832795028841971693993751058209749445923078164062862089986280348253421170679
8214808651328230664709384460955058223172535940812848111745028410270193852110555964462294895493038194428810975665933446128475648233786783165271201909145648566923460348610454326648213393607260249141273
724587006606315588174881520920962829254091715364367892590360011330530548820466521384146951941511609...
Nate used to drive out into the desert and get high. Super high.
Tonight he was really elevated. Pi breezed past his tightly shut eyes. Numbers whirred and his foot pressed down on the accelerator, urging his '99 Nissan Maxima down loosely defined paths.
Nate never came to the end of Pi, because it didn't end. It never repeated. He used to think he was like Pi, special, unique, never repeating. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't. That doesn't really matter now, because tonight, he was really elevated. Even with his eyes closed the stars were fucking beautiful. He painted masterpieces, celestial landscapes in his mind. All the while numbers, Pi, zipped through his brain, through his camera brain, through his computer mind, through his genius.
5759591953092186117381932611793105118548
07446237996274956735188575272489122793818301194912
98336733624406566430860213949463952247371907021798
60943702770539217176293176752384674818467669405132
00056812714526356082778577134275778960917363717872
14684409012249534301465495853710507922796892589235
42019956112129021960864034418159813629774771309960
51870721134999999837297804995105973173281609631859
50244594553469083026425223082533446850352619311881
71010003137838752886587533208381420617177669147303
59825349042875546873115956286388235378759375195778
18577805321712268066130019278766111959092164201989
Nate used to drive out into the desert and get high. Super high.
Tonight, Pi ended. It stopped when it shouldn't have.
The numbers, they just ran out. For Nate, they had always continued if he wanted. Now though, he couldn't get them to scroll across his machine vision.
His eyes snapped open with a jolt of adrenalin. He was so surprised, he didn't react.
He no longer saw numbers, he no longer saw Pi. He only saw a man walking in his path. His Maxima tried in vain to avoid the inescapable.
Car and creature connected.
It was a simple math equation. A vehicle weighing over 4,000 Lbs. traveling 25 mph leaves Arizona at 11:37 P.M. 20 minutes later it strikes a man, now going 74 mph, and weighing the same.
Maxima = Vehicle Velocity x Total Weight
Vehicle Velocity (74) x Total Weight (4,000) = Steel Death.
Maxima = Steel Death
Steel Death + Man = Death
Maxima + Man = Death
Death > Man
As the car came sliding to a stop, a dust cloud kicked up by the tires enveloped the scene. The man had flown forward and lay motionless, illuminated by a broken headlight and a waning moon.
Nate tried desperately to make the numbers distract his mind. He couldn't do it. He...couldn't... do....it.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Kool-Aid Chronicles: a short story
Chapter 1
Monday.
Life is fucking short. Mortality is a bitch. I realized those things recently. I work at O'Hare International Airport in Chicago, ORD on your luggage tags. I'm a baggage chucker. I'm the asshole that mishandles and wrecks your luggage all day long. A guy I work(ed) with, Bernie Jacobs, died yesterday. A severe hemorrhage in the artery at the base of his brain. An aneurysm. He's dead. I was with him yesterday, and hours later, he's gone. We're born, and then we start dying.
I got a postcard from the future today. On the front of it there is a dark skinned girl wearing a flower necklace and a grass skirt. Above her head in bright orange letters outlined in yellow it says, "Aloha from Hawaii!" On the back, in black pen, someone had scrawled:
Transgression is progression. Let go.
It was dated six days from today, Sunday. I was confused by it, to say the least. The girl on the front doesn't stop smiling, it's annoying. Processing all of this was not going well for my head and the all-too-familiar grinding started. The rusty gears of my mind strained and scratched against one another in an attempt to make sense of the present events. Instead of giving in to my rationale, I did what I do best. I grabbed the clear brown plastic bottle off the counter in the kitchen and screwed the child-proof cap off. The comforting sound of pills colliding with container soothed me instantly. I poured out six chalk white Vicodin on the table. I hesitated.
Wilson, Sam was printed on the side of the bottle. My grandpa Sam died 6 years ago. Through a clerical error, he was never reported as deceased. Thus, his social security checks continued to come and his open Vicodin prescription started to become extremely lucrative.
I poured out three more for good measure and moved to the refrigerator. Grasping the handle, I tugged lightly until the seal broke and the door swung open, revealing a rainbow of sorts within. Ten or so jugs of brightly colored drink sat arranged upon the refrigerator shelves, the contents of which were concocted with extreme care and precision. I clutched the handle of a pitcher that contained a bright red liquid. I filled a tall glass to the brim, stooping and closing one eye to see the meniscus of the drink, softly curving. A smile crept across my face, slow at first, until it became a giant grin racing between each ear. It was a smile of anticipation. Let me explain something. Some people are passionate about knitting or cooking or Sudoku. I like pills, and I fucking love Kool-Aid.
I took the pills in one hand and the glass of Cherry Kool-Aid in the other. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9. The pills slid down my throat, the cold liquid chasing them in close pursuit. I reclined in my La-Z-Boy, letting the wave of nothingness engulf me.
When I was younger and we lived in Virgina my family would go to the beach a short drive from our house. I would search ceaselessly for shells. When I found them, I would press the open end of the shell to my ear and listen to the ocean. These days I can hear it whenever I want, if I take enough pills. Nine should do the trick.
Somebody has a case of the Mondays.
Chapter 2
Tuesday.
My day off from wrecking handling traveler's baggage.
I clutched my list of things to get in one hand as I walked to the grocery store. On the crumpled piece of paper, there was a total of three or four words, depending on how you define Kool-Aid.
Pharmacy
Sugar
Kool-Aid
I never was one for variety.
Upon entering the store, I instantly realized I had to use the bathroom, and badly. Annoyed with myself for not going before leaving my house, I veered left towards the Men's room. A diet of various frozen and microwavable meals keeps my digestive system constantly on edge. I entered what promised to be the typical dirty public restroom, I wasn't disappointed. Inside, there were three stalls. Statistically, the stall closest to the door gets the most use and is thus the dirtiest. This in mind, I quickly walked towards the second stall. I pulled my cellphone out in anticipation of playing Snake on my shitty outdated Nokia. As I opened the door, the mobile device slipped from my hand and smacked against the tiled linoleum floor. It bounced hard and slid beneath the third stall. Swearing loudly, I marched around to the other stall. Pulling the creaky metal door closed behind me, I picked up my slightly chipped phone off the stained floor, unbuttoned my pants and disposed myself upon the cold plastic toilet seat.
Some of the best art and the most profound thoughts are scattered among the public bathrooms of the world. There's something enticing about the anonymity of a bathroom stall. Some men are emotionally and artistically in tune when taking a shit, or something like that.
No longer feeling in the mood to play with my phone, I slipped it into my pocket and heaved a deep sigh, ready to relax. That's when I saw it. Directly in front of me, on the stall door, was what appeared to be a short paragraph, written in black marker. It looked fresh. What was most unsettling, was the handwriting. I'd seen it somewhere before, and very recently. My eyes studied it from the top, reading the first line.
Do you believe in free will?
Unconsciously, I felt my head nod a little.
Do you believe in God?
Again, I felt myself nodding to a bathroom door. My eyes followed the words farther down the door, reading on.
If you believe in God and free will, then it follows that you believe God does not control you. No predestination. We control ourselves. It means one thing:
God watches T.V.
God cannot intervene in free will. God can only observe. Supposed omnipotence has become a diluted form of omniscience. Watching us, watching T.V. All day. One person to the next.
Change the channel.
Change the channel.
This begs the question though, what if God could only watch one channel until it was cancelled, what if
At this point, my ass was completely off the toilet seat as I leaned forward and craned my neck to read the last few lines. The writing stopped abruptly, the author had seemingly been cut short by the end of the door. A feeling of unease spread through my body. Without knowing why, I hurriedly stood up and exited the bathroom. I walked quickly, my pants still undone, pulling them up as I scurried from the restroom. Wanting to put as much distance between myself and the store, I decided to forego my list and get home as swiftly as possible.
As I approached my dingy little excuse for a house, I noticed the mailman had come. Hoping for some distraction, I reached into the plastic box and pulled a stack of envelopes from within. I stood at the end of the walkway leading to my house, thankful for the sense of normalcy that had begun to return to my chest and head.
Bill.
Bill.
Magazine subscription renewal.
Bill.
The fucking Golden Gate Bridge. “Greetings from San Francisco!” plastered across the front. The machine of my mind stirred to life. The feeling of security moments ago had fled, only to be replaced by one of inexplicable dread. Almost in slow-motion, I turned the card over to the back. It was dated 5 days from today. As I read the words penned across the reverse side of the postcard, I literally felt my heart drop in my chest.
the remote is broken.
I became a third person observer in my own body. My mind whirred, frantically trying to comprehend. I must have stood there for five minutes, my heart pounding, inhaling short choppy breaths. The world stopped moving for the first time in my life and noise ceased to exist. That's when I heard it.
The screaming.
At first indiscernible, my feet lead me towards the house and the sound became clearer. The noise carried on continuously, changing pitch like a siren. As I opened the door and moved towards the kitchen, the screaming became unbearable. I searched for the unearthly screech until I found the source: the clear brown plastic bottle on the kitchen table. I reached out and snatched it, depressing the cap and turning simultaneously, defeating the child-proof cap. The white lid detached from the bottle, revealing the medication within. Pouring out a handful of pills, I seized the refrigerator door and yanked. In one fluid motion I pulled a pitcher of Kool-Aid from the shelf. Without bothering to find a glass, I dropped the pills into my waiting mouth and flushed them down my throat with a gulp of green Kool-Aid, Lemon Lime. The screaming halted
The world became silent once again, except for the faint dull of the ocean in my ears.
Chapter 3
Wednesday.
Good morning. Sort of.
A deafening clap of thunder echoed through the air and shook the window panes. It was a harsh beginning of what would prove to be the longest fucking morning of my life. Squinting once, twice, I sat up and tried to recall what had occurred to lead me here, in the living room, where I was splayed out awkwardly across the couch. I stood up, yawning and running my hand through disheveled brown hair. Gazing around the room, I saw it. There. On the counter acting as a coaster to an empty glass, was the postcard. My heart rate instantly accelerated and the recollection of the bathroom, the postcard, the screaming, it all hit me like a well-placed sucker punch. I reeled backwards, knocked onto the couch by the sheer weight of the previous night's events.
Skip to me riding the Green Line from Cicero. On the train questions buzzed thorough my head. One kept resurfacing over and over though.
What the fuck?
Skip to me pretending to be normal, going to work. National threat level today: Orange, how comforting. At O'Hare, I slipped three or four pills in my mouth, to forget. I may be an airport employee, but my real work is done in construction. Painkillers are like bricks. I take them to build a wall. The wall stops my feelings, fears, all the bullshit from penetrating my consciousness. They keep me isolated.
Skip to me not caring about your luggage from FLG, LAX, PBI. Flagstaff, Arizona, Los Angeles, California, West Palm Beach, Florida. Rain drops slide down big glass windows. Boeing 737-900's roar down the runway. Numbers, abbreviations, I do not care.
Skip to me opening my mailbox. My head hoping and my heart dreading for the inevitable. Reaching in, I pulled out what I knew would be there. “Howdy from Texas!” I didn't turn the postcard over. I extracted a lighter from my pocket. Flames licked the sides of the card and the message on the back was reduced to ash.
Skip to me crying in my living room. A glass of Strawberry Kool-Aid rests on the coffee table, half empty. A bottle of pills is tipped over, half full.
Take a deep breath. Hold it. You feel in control; you could breathe at any time. Feel that tension in your lungs. The slight burn of the oxygen in your chest. Now imagine you're at the bottom of the fucking ocean. The surface is 50 meters above. You're halfway to drowning. The panic sets in. Your calm, collected breath is now incomprehensible fear. The slight burn has turned to a fierce pain. The edges of your vision start to blur. The blur turns black. The sense of inevitability and helplessness overtakes you. Welcome to my fucking world, every minute of every day, until I take my pills. And you wondered why I hear the ocean when I close my eyes.
Exhale.
Chapter 4
People assume tragedy is the pretext to insanity. What they fail to understand is a different phenomenon. Sometimes, insanity precedes tragedy. Sometimes tragedy, trauma, catastrophic occurrence, they are born of delusion.
Thursday morning.
I dreamt in dead languages last night, Sumerian, Aruá. Don't ask me how I know this. The birds singing outside reminded me that regardless of my life, they and the rest of the world continued on unbothered.
A red blinking in my peripherals caught my attention, the answering machine, I had a message. I pressed the playback button and a woman's voice spoke to me. She called me sir, and told me the book I had placed on hold was in at the public library. I didn't put a book on hold. Ominous isn't the right word, but it's the only one I can think of.
The Breakfast of Champions Addicts, Kool-Aid and pills. Liquid motivation to wash down my pharmaceutical stress relief. Tangerine, just to clarify. Against my better judgement, albeit impaired, I ventured in the direction of the library, it wasn't far away. The Vicodin occupied my attention between destinations. I exited my house, and then I arrived. My consciousness was consumed and buzzing. A man sat on the steps of the large stone building, his disheveled clothing and obvious disregard for hygiene contrasted sharply with the grandeur of the library. He said something to me. He seemed like he meant it. I couldn't hear him over the waves crashing in my head.
Through the glass doors, past the book drop, to the desk. The woman there assisted me in locating the work I had allegedly put on hold. She handed me a book that would be gray haired and decrepit if it were alive. I sat alone in a dark corner, breathing deeply, contemplating. The geriatric pages sent a cloud of dust into the air when I pried them open. There was no title, just an author; Friedrich Nietzsche. There was two pages of writing, the rest were blank. With an irregular heartbeat and a clouded mind, I read on.
THE MADMAN
Have you not heard of that madman who lit a lantern in the bright morning hours, ran to the market place, and cried incessantly: "I seek God! I seek God!"---As many of those who did not believe in God were standing around just then, he provoked much laughter. Has he got lost? asked one. Did he lose his way like a child? asked another. Or is he hiding? Is he afraid of us? Has he gone on a voyage? emigrated?---Thus they yelled and laughed.
The madman jumped into their midst and pierced them with his eyes. "Whither is God?" he cried; "I will tell you. We have killed him---you and I. All of us are his murderers. But how did we do this? How could we drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the entire horizon? What were we doing when we unchained this earth from its sun? Whither is it moving now? Whither are we moving? Away from all suns? Are we not plunging continually? Backward, sideward, forward, in all directions? Is there still any up or down? Are we not straying, as through an infinite nothing? Do we not feel the breath of empty space? Has it not become colder? Is not night continually closing in on us? Do we not need to light lanterns in the morning? Do we hear nothing as yet of the noise of the gravediggers who are burying God? Do we smell nothing as yet of the divine decomposition? Gods, too, decompose. God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him.
"How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it? There has never been a greater deed; and whoever is born after us---for the sake of this deed he will belong to a higher history than all history hitherto."
Here the madman fell silent and looked again at his listeners; and they, too, were silent and stared at him in astonishment. At last he threw his lantern on the ground, and it broke into pieces and went out. "I have come too early," he said then; "my time is not yet. This tremendous event is still on its way, still wandering; it has not yet reached the ears of men. Lightning and thunder require time; the light of the stars requires time; deeds, though done, still require time to be seen and heard. This deed is still more distant from them than most distant stars---and yet they have done it themselves.
I read it again.
Then I read it again.
And again.
And again.
Confused isn't the right word, but it's the only one I can think of.
This was a coincidence. It couldn't be relevant to the bathroom, to the mail, to the pain. In frustration, I dashed the book against the table. It resulted in a resounding crack, a nebulous of dust, and a paper rectangle that fluttered to the floor. I was at odds with myself, still pretending coincidence existed. Deliberately, I reached down, apprehension coursing through my body, making my fingers shake. I haltingly clutched for what looked like a photo under the table. As I pulled it nearer my face, the masquerade of coincidence fully crumbled. Fuck Seattle.
I recognized the handwriting on the back of the postcard as if it was my own.
New values must replace the divine order. The death of God will allow human creativity to fully develop. You are the madman. The time is coming.
Fear isn't the right word, but it's the only one I can think of.
Chapter 5
Friday?
Escape.
–verb
1. to slip away from or elude (pursuers, captors, etc.): He escaped the police.
2. to succeed in avoiding (any threatened or possible danger or evil): She escaped capture.
I woke up in the woods. Shafts of light cut through the canopy above, a creek meandered through the ground below.
I walked. And walked. Everything was blurry, morphed as if viewed from alien lenses. After some time, I stopped. Not knowing why. Just understanding it was of great importance I do so. On a fallen tree I sat and rested. And after a time, an indefinite amount it seemed, down from the branches floated a bumblebee. It ceased its activity on a branch near my face. The eyes stared at me intently, as if bubbling with a hidden intelligence. Breaking our temporary vision lock, the bee rose from the branch and flitted near my ear. The buzzing increased steadily, making the hairs on every inch of my body stand at attention. I sensed the delicate legs of the insect graze the insides of my ear and burrow deep into my lobe. All the while, an incessant, steady, irrevocable buzz surged into the right side of my cranium. It made my eye twitch half shut. And the noise didn't stop. It clawed my insides out until time and consciousness melted away. Then there was nothing. It was gone. Relief. Something, a slight noise, barely discernible from the white noise. Then the volume increased. It became audible. A buzzing. A deep echoing buzz that caused me to rock back and forth as my eyes rolled back into my head.
I woke up in my bed. Rays of light forced their way through the blinds, miscellaneous trash scattered the floor. Warm relief seeped through me like whiskey on a cold night. The buzzing was gone.
Time between pills, between trips, was slipping together. Dreams became reality. Reality became hell. Escape.
A frail 10 speed in my garage served as my getaway vehicle. I made my way with nothing but a healthy amount of pills and a water bottle filled with Black Cherry Kool-Aid. I pedaled. Sweat dripped down my nose, my muscles strained and cried out for rest. I came to a point where the path diverged into a forest. Setting my bike down behind a Chokeberry Bush I took a deep draught of sugary drink and added milky white medication. I felt the pills floating like boats on the Kool-Aid in my mouth. I ported the ships home, to my waiting throat, and continued on foot. After some time I came to a tree that rested horizontally on the ground. Sitting, I removed pills and drink from the sack on my back. Drink, pill, swallow. Drink, pill, swallow. Repeat. After the fourth repetition. I heard a noise that made the hair on every inch of my body stand at attention. Deja-vu jolted me like a cold shower. I met eyes with the slight creature, the bumblebee. It drifted lazily from above me, stopping on a branch. Time stopped, or sped up, or slowed. I'm not sure. The bee, having sufficiently stared through me, alighted upon the ground. As I focused though, I saw it was near something that shouldn't be in the woods. I wasn't aware the United States Postal service delivered to forest paths.
"Hello from BEEautiful Hidalgo, Texas! Killer Bee Capital of the World!"
How fitting.
Embrace it, lest beauty be mistaken for the repugnant.
Before I had an opportunity to consider the words, I felt the lightest of touches on the inside of my ear. It was followed by an unbearable buzzing. A drone, in more ways than one. And my eye twitched, and I was staring at the inside of my head. Then, nothing. I passed out. I woke up. Time was nondescript. I began though, at a certain point, to truly listen to the previously insufferable hiss in my ear. I focused my sense of hearing and closed my eyes. The buzzing finally made sense. Realization broke me like a sunrise does a dark sky. As I lay there on the forest floor, everything was clearer. In my head I did not hear the ocean, I heard the bee. It was no longer the intolerable noise, but a symphony. Whether the sound had become an orchestra, or if it had been one all the while, I did not know. The only feeling coursing through my content mind was appreciation, because the music was fucking beautiful.
Chapter 6- Saturday
Saturday.
I work Saturdays. In the midst of the unexplainable, the impossible, the airport kept me believing in reality. Life becomes simpler when all one does is throw bags onto conveyor belts. Grab, throw. Grab, throw. Grab, throw. A rhythm builds and I forget. I disregard everything. Like the pills, this monotonous pattern isolates me. Then a break, a change. A respite means time to think, to feel. I don't want to feel anymore. I prefer the all-consuming nothing.
In the bathroom I continued my process. Grab, throw. Grab, throw. I lose count. My mouth is the conveyor belt, pills are the luggage. Grab, throw. Grab, throw. I'm damn good at my job.
After my shift ends I clock out and walk towards the luggage carousel. I stand in the emptying baggage area. It's late, only a few stragglers hang around collecting their bags. One man catches my eye. He's tall, with flawless pasty skin that seems to glow. Broad, strong shoulders highlight an unusually muscular back . He is immaculately dressed in a dark pinstripe suit. As a simple black bag whirs toward him on the conveyor, he extracts it with little effort. When he turns away our eyes meet, he smiles slightly. Is he...walking directly at me? Yes.
Hello he says, with a look that usually accompanies friendship.
Hello, do I know you?
I'm Gabrielle, call me Gabe for short, and no we haven't met, but I've heard so much about you.
I'm confused, what's going on, can I help you?
You can help us all. But don't worry, my purpose here is to deliver you a message.
I stared blankly, almost defiantly, all the while knowing the time for ignorance had long since passed. I began to perspire. Gabe smirked, handing me an envelope. I quietly ripped it open with deliberate movements. Inside was something that shocked me, although it certainly shouldn't have. A postcard. "The City that Never Sleeps!" and a photo of the Brooklyn Bridge. The ink was still wet.
The strand of my existence is in your grasp. You are humanity. The choice is now. Meet me on this bridge at dusk tomorrow.
This will all be over soon Gabe assured me.
His hand reached out, lightly squeezing my neck, almost...lovingly. The moment seemed to drag on. Like a dam breaking, an onslaught of tears poured from the enigmatic man's eyes. Composing himself, his eyes lingered for a moment longer on mine and he pivoted, walking towards the door. There was a peculiar bulge in the man's suit where his shoulder blades should have been. Something powerful was flexing on his back as the man marched away. I doubted my initial reaction, it couldn't be, were those...wings?
Chapter 7
Sunday.
The Sabbath, how appropriate. As I stepped off the plane I got a breath of the damp New York air. Next day tickets are easy to come by when you're an airline employee. Hello JFK--the airport--not the president. A walk through baggage claim made me cringe as I flashed back to the previous day's events. In the lobby a large group of people stood huddled around a television likes hobos to a fire, jockeying for position. I approached the assembly and listened to the woman on the station. She told us of erratic weather in the area that was baffling meteorologists. A click, a video flashed across the screen. Grainy and shaky, we watched a bizarre light show, the clouds seemed to part, spilling light on to a hulking steel structure below, a bridge. The audio began to increase as the camera man gasped. The water was swirling, jumping from the estuary below and into the sky, forming a cyclone of sorts. Micro lightning storms littered the footage. An audible scream erupted from the television speakers and the video cut out suddenly.
I had seen enough. The group around me began to whisper excitedly, I took it as an exit cue.
A 20 minute taxi ride down 278 West placed me within walking distance of the Brooklyn Bridge. My eyes confirmed the television report. Sky and earth seemed to be forming a union, differences between the pair became less than discernible. I continued on foot, the bridge unhurriedly came into focus. As I approached the massive suspension bridge, a dense fog settled over the landscape, obscuring the New York skyline, decreasing visibility to several feet, isolating the madness. At the entrance to the bridge I discontinued my march. I had encountered no one and the bridge was unexpectedly closed. Knowing such coincidences weren't coincidence at all, I inhaled the moist air indulgently, absorbing what could be my final moments. From my small rucksack I produced a bottle of pills, a bottle of Kool-Aid. Tropical Punch, my favorite flavor. Special occasions warrant such behavior. I poured the pills in my mouth, I poured the Kool-Aid. Like a well choreographed dance, everything was perfect, I'd had practice. I closed my eyes, letting the sound of the ocean sweep over my senses. I opened them. I walked.
The mist danced around me as I journeyed to the center of the giant metal framework. I walked, trapped in my five foot bubble of vision, oblivious to the world around me.
Without warning I arrived. What I saw did not make sense, although not much had recently. I knew I was at my destination, because I saw Him. He was standing precariously, albeit confidently, upon the pedestrian railing. I couldn't look directly at Him, when I tried, my eyes began to burn and my lids would snap shut. He seemed to glow. Not like you or I, not like the moon, reflecting light, but creating it. He was a source, not a recipient. His back was to me, He faced the unforgiving space in front of Him, arms spread out slightly. The water rested ominously 120 feet below. He spoke to me. Well, not to me, more in me. He spoke in me, I heard Him in my mind, I felt Him.
You came, He whispered solemnly. He did not yell, but his voice resonated deep within, shaking me to my core.
I want to end this, whatever it is, I spoke or thought, I'm not sure which.
I know. It has been difficult for both of us I imagine. You seek answers, I am here to provide them. This will not be easy, are you ready?
Tentatively, I nodded my head. Even though He wasn't facing me, I knew He understood.
My time with you, with my children has been approaching an end. Akin to an apprentice surpassing his master, humans believe they have reached beyond me. I am a distraught parent, disgusted, terrified, in awe of my creation. My interaction has eclipsed productivity. Humankind is converging to a point of complete liberation. At a crossroads you sit; turn towards stagnation or progress towards limitless potential. I leave you with a choice. I know it is not fair, but alas not much is. My fate in your hands, much as life has been in mine, I turn the tables, I reverse the roles.
I felt myself stagger. My mind was buzzed and delusional. What was He saying?
I sense your apprehension, but I have not come to judge. I am sick. Terminally ill one could say. The poison that is modern life has eaten away at my very being. What was once a lingering doubt has blossomed into a flower of certainty. My presence is unappreciated, unwanted, hated. It was always I who stressed the importance of patience with my creation, but alas it seems my creation has lost patience with me. It is my time to go.
The weight of His words was more than I had ever known. I shrieked out in protest. My voice became a high pitched wail that was swallowed as the winds around me began to gust with a new fervor.
Humanity has failed me. It seems omnipotence does not guarantee love.
Tears slid down my cheeks in earnest.
It began to rain, lightly pouring on us. His chest heaved, exhaling a ferocious burst of wind.
I'm sorry! I cried.
Please, don't! I pleaded desperately.
Goodbye.
He jumped.
I dropped to my knees. My eyes fixated on the spot where He had been standing. I turned away as He cut through the air, hurtling towards death. With the power of an imploding nuclear device, He made contact with Earth. The lightning, the fog, the cyclones, the chaos, it all ceased. There was only...nothing.
A single bumblebee landed on the railing where God once stood.
A postcard, this one from the present, rode the wind into my hand. It's only fitting that the front was a picture of my home, "The Windy City!"
The back, black pen blood formed apologies of a divine origin.
I am sorry.
I reached for my pills, to stop the buzzing. To hear the ocean.
I screwed the top off the container. In my rush, it dropped from my hand. The Kool-Aid slid out of my rucksack.
The pills bounced. The Kool-Aid bottle broke.
The pills rolled. The Kool-Aid poured out.
The pills jumped off the bridge. The Kool-Aid pooled on the walkway, blood red.
And I was alone, so alone.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Chapter 6- Saturday
Saturday.
I work Saturdays. In the midst of the unexplainable, the impossible, the airport kept me believing in reality. Life becomes simpler when all one does is throw bags onto conveyor belts. Grab, throw. Grab, throw. Grab, throw. A rhythm builds and I forget. I disregard everything. Like the pills, this monotonous pattern isolates me. Then a break, a change. A respite means time to think, to feel. I don't want to feel anymore. I prefer the all-consuming nothing.
In the bathroom I continued my process. Grab, throw. Grab, throw. I lose count. My mouth is the conveyor belt, pills are the luggage. Grab, throw. Grab, throw. I'm damn good at my job.
After my shift ends I clock out and walk towards the luggage carousel. I stand in the emptying baggage area. It's late, only a few stragglers hang around collecting their bags. One man catches my eye. He's tall, with flawless pasty skin that seems to glow. Broad, strong shoulders highlight an unusually muscular back . He is immaculately dressed in a dark pinstripe suit. As a simple black bag whirs toward him on the conveyor, he extracts it with little effort. When he turns away our eyes meet, he smiles slightly. Is he...walking directly at me? Yes.
Hello he says, with a look that usually accompanies friendship.
Hello, do I know you?
I'm Gabrielle, call me Gabe for short, and no we haven't met, but I've heard so much about you.
I'm confused, what's going on, can I help you?
You can help us all. But don't worry, my purpose here is to deliver you a message.
I stared blankly, almost defiantly, all the while knowing the time for ignorance had long since passed. I began to perspire. Gabe smirked, handing me an envelope. I quietly ripped it open with deliberate movements. Inside was something that shocked me, although it certainly shouldn't have. A postcard. "The City that Never Sleeps!" and a photo of the Brooklyn Bridge. The ink was still wet.
The strand of my existence is in your grasp. You are humanity. The choice is now. Meet me on this bridge at dusk tomorrow.
This will all be over soon Gabe assured me.
His hand reached out, lightly squeezing my neck, almost...lovingly. The moment seemed to drag on. Like a dam breaking, an onslaught of tears poured from the enigmatic man's eyes. Composing himself, his eyes lingered for a moment longer on mine and he pivoted, walking towards the door. There was a peculiar bulge in the man's suit where his shoulder blades should have been. Something powerful was flexing on his back as the man marched away. I doubted my initial reaction, it couldn't be, were those...wings?
I work Saturdays. In the midst of the unexplainable, the impossible, the airport kept me believing in reality. Life becomes simpler when all one does is throw bags onto conveyor belts. Grab, throw. Grab, throw. Grab, throw. A rhythm builds and I forget. I disregard everything. Like the pills, this monotonous pattern isolates me. Then a break, a change. A respite means time to think, to feel. I don't want to feel anymore. I prefer the all-consuming nothing.
In the bathroom I continued my process. Grab, throw. Grab, throw. I lose count. My mouth is the conveyor belt, pills are the luggage. Grab, throw. Grab, throw. I'm damn good at my job.
After my shift ends I clock out and walk towards the luggage carousel. I stand in the emptying baggage area. It's late, only a few stragglers hang around collecting their bags. One man catches my eye. He's tall, with flawless pasty skin that seems to glow. Broad, strong shoulders highlight an unusually muscular back . He is immaculately dressed in a dark pinstripe suit. As a simple black bag whirs toward him on the conveyor, he extracts it with little effort. When he turns away our eyes meet, he smiles slightly. Is he...walking directly at me? Yes.
Hello he says, with a look that usually accompanies friendship.
Hello, do I know you?
I'm Gabrielle, call me Gabe for short, and no we haven't met, but I've heard so much about you.
I'm confused, what's going on, can I help you?
You can help us all. But don't worry, my purpose here is to deliver you a message.
I stared blankly, almost defiantly, all the while knowing the time for ignorance had long since passed. I began to perspire. Gabe smirked, handing me an envelope. I quietly ripped it open with deliberate movements. Inside was something that shocked me, although it certainly shouldn't have. A postcard. "The City that Never Sleeps!" and a photo of the Brooklyn Bridge. The ink was still wet.
The strand of my existence is in your grasp. You are humanity. The choice is now. Meet me on this bridge at dusk tomorrow.
This will all be over soon Gabe assured me.
His hand reached out, lightly squeezing my neck, almost...lovingly. The moment seemed to drag on. Like a dam breaking, an onslaught of tears poured from the enigmatic man's eyes. Composing himself, his eyes lingered for a moment longer on mine and he pivoted, walking towards the door. There was a peculiar bulge in the man's suit where his shoulder blades should have been. Something powerful was flexing on his back as the man marched away. I doubted my initial reaction, it couldn't be, were those...wings?
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Chapter 5- Friday
Friday?
Escape.
–verb
1. to slip away from or elude (pursuers, captors, etc.): He escaped the police.
2. to succeed in avoiding (any threatened or possible danger or evil): She escaped capture.
I woke up in the woods. Shafts of light cut through the canopy above, a creek meandered through the ground below.
I walked. And walked. Everything was blurry, morphed as if viewed from alien lenses. After some time, I stopped. Not knowing why. Just understanding it was of great importance I do so. On a fallen tree I sat and rested. And after a time, an indefinite amount it seemed, down from the branches floated a bumblebee. It ceased its activity on a branch near my face. The eyes stared at me intently, as if bubbling with a hidden intelligence. Breaking our temporary vision lock, the bee rose from the branch and flitted near my ear. The buzzing increased steadily, making the hairs on every inch of my body stand at attention. I sensed the delicate legs of the insect graze the insides of my ear and burrow deep into my lobe. All the while, an incessant, steady, irrevocable buzz surged into the right side of my cranium. It made my eye twitch half shut. And the noise didn't stop. It clawed my insides out until time and consciousness melted away. Then there was nothing. It was gone. Relief. Something, a slight noise, barely discernible from the white noise. Then the volume increased. It became audible. A buzzing. A deep echoing buzz that caused me to rock back and forth as my eyes rolled back into my head.
I woke up in my bed. Rays of light forced their way through the blinds, miscellaneous trash scattered the floor. Warm relief seeped through me like whiskey on a cold night. The buzzing was gone.
Time between pills, between trips, was slipping together. Dreams became reality. Reality became hell. Escape.
A frail 10 speed in my garage served as my getaway vehicle. I made my way with nothing but a healthy amount of pills and a water bottle filled with Black Cherry Kool-Aid. I pedaled. Sweat dripped down my nose, my muscles strained and cried out for rest. I came to a point where the path diverged into a forest. Setting my bike down behind a Chokeberry Bush I took a deep draught of sugary drink and added milky white medication. I felt the pills floating like boats on the Kool-Aid in my mouth. I ported the ships home, to my waiting throat, and continued on foot. After some time I came to a tree that rested horizontally on the ground. Sitting, I removed pills and drink from the sack on my back. Drink, pill, swallow. Drink, pill, swallow. Repeat. After the fourth repetition. I heard a noise that made the hair on every inch of my body stand at attention. Deja-vu jolted me like a cold shower. I met eyes with the slight creature, the bumblebee. It drifted lazily from above me, stopping on a branch. Time stopped, or sped up, or slowed. I'm not sure. The bee, having sufficiently stared through me, alighted upon the ground. As I focused though, I saw it was near something that shouldn't be in the woods. I wasn't aware the United States Postal service delivered to forest paths.
"Hello from BEEautiful Hidalgo, Texas! Killer Bee Capital of the World!"
How fitting.
Embrace it, lest beauty be mistaken for the repugnant.
Before I had an opportunity to consider the words, I felt the lightest of touches on the inside of my ear. It was followed by an unbearable buzzing. A drone, in more ways than one. And my eye twitched, and I was staring at the inside of my head. Then, nothing. I passed out. I woke up. Time was nondescript. I began though, at a certain point, to truly listen to the previously insufferable hiss in my ear. I focused my sense of hearing and closed my eyes. The buzzing finally made sense. Realization broke me like a sunrise does a dark sky. As I lay there on the forest floor, everything was clearer. In my head I did not hear the ocean, I heard the bee. It was no longer the intolerable noise, but a symphony. Whether the sound had become an orchestra, or if it had been one all the while, I did not know. The only feeling coursing through my content mind was appreciation, because the music was fucking beautiful.
Escape.
–verb
1. to slip away from or elude (pursuers, captors, etc.): He escaped the police.
2. to succeed in avoiding (any threatened or possible danger or evil): She escaped capture.
I woke up in the woods. Shafts of light cut through the canopy above, a creek meandered through the ground below.
I walked. And walked. Everything was blurry, morphed as if viewed from alien lenses. After some time, I stopped. Not knowing why. Just understanding it was of great importance I do so. On a fallen tree I sat and rested. And after a time, an indefinite amount it seemed, down from the branches floated a bumblebee. It ceased its activity on a branch near my face. The eyes stared at me intently, as if bubbling with a hidden intelligence. Breaking our temporary vision lock, the bee rose from the branch and flitted near my ear. The buzzing increased steadily, making the hairs on every inch of my body stand at attention. I sensed the delicate legs of the insect graze the insides of my ear and burrow deep into my lobe. All the while, an incessant, steady, irrevocable buzz surged into the right side of my cranium. It made my eye twitch half shut. And the noise didn't stop. It clawed my insides out until time and consciousness melted away. Then there was nothing. It was gone. Relief. Something, a slight noise, barely discernible from the white noise. Then the volume increased. It became audible. A buzzing. A deep echoing buzz that caused me to rock back and forth as my eyes rolled back into my head.
I woke up in my bed. Rays of light forced their way through the blinds, miscellaneous trash scattered the floor. Warm relief seeped through me like whiskey on a cold night. The buzzing was gone.
Time between pills, between trips, was slipping together. Dreams became reality. Reality became hell. Escape.
A frail 10 speed in my garage served as my getaway vehicle. I made my way with nothing but a healthy amount of pills and a water bottle filled with Black Cherry Kool-Aid. I pedaled. Sweat dripped down my nose, my muscles strained and cried out for rest. I came to a point where the path diverged into a forest. Setting my bike down behind a Chokeberry Bush I took a deep draught of sugary drink and added milky white medication. I felt the pills floating like boats on the Kool-Aid in my mouth. I ported the ships home, to my waiting throat, and continued on foot. After some time I came to a tree that rested horizontally on the ground. Sitting, I removed pills and drink from the sack on my back. Drink, pill, swallow. Drink, pill, swallow. Repeat. After the fourth repetition. I heard a noise that made the hair on every inch of my body stand at attention. Deja-vu jolted me like a cold shower. I met eyes with the slight creature, the bumblebee. It drifted lazily from above me, stopping on a branch. Time stopped, or sped up, or slowed. I'm not sure. The bee, having sufficiently stared through me, alighted upon the ground. As I focused though, I saw it was near something that shouldn't be in the woods. I wasn't aware the United States Postal service delivered to forest paths.
"Hello from BEEautiful Hidalgo, Texas! Killer Bee Capital of the World!"
How fitting.
Embrace it, lest beauty be mistaken for the repugnant.
Before I had an opportunity to consider the words, I felt the lightest of touches on the inside of my ear. It was followed by an unbearable buzzing. A drone, in more ways than one. And my eye twitched, and I was staring at the inside of my head. Then, nothing. I passed out. I woke up. Time was nondescript. I began though, at a certain point, to truly listen to the previously insufferable hiss in my ear. I focused my sense of hearing and closed my eyes. The buzzing finally made sense. Realization broke me like a sunrise does a dark sky. As I lay there on the forest floor, everything was clearer. In my head I did not hear the ocean, I heard the bee. It was no longer the intolerable noise, but a symphony. Whether the sound had become an orchestra, or if it had been one all the while, I did not know. The only feeling coursing through my content mind was appreciation, because the music was fucking beautiful.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Chapter 4- Thursday
People assume tragedy is the pretext to insanity. What they fail to understand is a different phenomenon. Sometimes, insanity precedes tragedy. Sometimes tragedy, trauma, catastrophic occurrence, they are born of delusion.
Thursday morning.
I dreamt in dead languages last night, Sumerian, Aruá. Don't ask me how I know this. The birds singing outside reminded me that regardless of my life, they and the rest of the world continued on unbothered.
A red blinking in my peripherals caught my attention, the answering machine, I had a message. I pressed the playback button and a woman's voice spoke to me. She called me sir, and told me the book I had placed on hold was in at the public library. I didn't put a book on hold. Ominous isn't the right word, but it's the only one I can think of.
The Breakfast ofChampions Addicts, Kool-Aid and pills. Liquid motivation to wash down my pharmaceutical stress relief. Tangerine, just to clarify. Against my better judgement, albeit impaired, I ventured in the direction of the library, it wasn't far away. The Vicodin occupied my attention between destinations. I exited my house, and then I arrived. My consciousness was consumed and buzzing. A man sat on the steps of the large stone building, his disheveled clothing and obvious disregard for hygiene contrasted sharply with the grandeur of the library. He said something to me. He seemed like he meant it. I couldn't hear him over the waves crashing in my head.
Through the glass doors, past the book drop, to the desk. The woman there assisted me in locating the work I had allegedly put on hold. She handed me a book that would be gray haired and decrepit if it were alive. I sat alone in a dark corner, breathing deeply, contemplating. The geriatric pages sent a cloud of dust into the air when I pried them open. There was no title, just an author; Friedrich Nietzsche. There was two pages of writing, the rest were blank. With an irregular heartbeat and a clouded mind, I read on.
THE MADMAN
Have you not heard of that madman who lit a lantern in the bright morning hours, ran to the market place, and cried incessantly: "I seek God! I seek God!"---As many of those who did not believe in God were standing around just then, he provoked much laughter. Has he got lost? asked one. Did he lose his way like a child? asked another. Or is he hiding? Is he afraid of us? Has he gone on a voyage? emigrated?---Thus they yelled and laughed.
The madman jumped into their midst and pierced them with his eyes. "Whither is God?" he cried; "I will tell you. We have killed him---you and I. All of us are his murderers. But how did we do this? How could we drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the entire horizon? What were we doing when we unchained this earth from its sun? Whither is it moving now? Whither are we moving? Away from all suns? Are we not plunging continually? Backward, sideward, forward, in all directions? Is there still any up or down? Are we not straying, as through an infinite nothing? Do we not feel the breath of empty space? Has it not become colder? Is not night continually closing in on us? Do we not need to light lanterns in the morning? Do we hear nothing as yet of the noise of the gravediggers who are burying God? Do we smell nothing as yet of the divine decomposition? Gods, too, decompose. God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him.
"How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it? There has never been a greater deed; and whoever is born after us---for the sake of this deed he will belong to a higher history than all history hitherto."
Here the madman fell silent and looked again at his listeners; and they, too, were silent and stared at him in astonishment. At last he threw his lantern on the ground, and it broke into pieces and went out. "I have come too early," he said then; "my time is not yet. This tremendous event is still on its way, still wandering; it has not yet reached the ears of men. Lightning and thunder require time; the light of the stars requires time; deeds, though done, still require time to be seen and heard. This deed is still more distant from them than most distant stars---and yet they have done it themselves.
I read it again.
Then I read it again.
And again.
And again.
Confused isn't the right word, but it's the only one I can think of.
This was a coincidence. It couldn't be relevant to the bathroom, to the mail, to the pain. In frustration, I dashed the book against the table. It resulted in a resounding crack, a nebulous of dust, and a paper rectangle that fluttered to the floor. I was at odds with myself, still pretending coincidence existed. Deliberately, I reached down, apprehension coursing through my body, making my fingers shake. I haltingly clutched for what looked like a photo under the table. As I pulled it nearer my face, the masquerade of coincidence fully crumbled. Fuck Seattle.
I recognized the handwriting on the back of the postcard as if it was my own.
New values must replace the divine order. The death of God will allow human creativity to fully develop. You are the madman. The time is coming.
Fear isn't the right word, but it's the only one I can think of.
Thursday morning.
I dreamt in dead languages last night, Sumerian, Aruá. Don't ask me how I know this. The birds singing outside reminded me that regardless of my life, they and the rest of the world continued on unbothered.
A red blinking in my peripherals caught my attention, the answering machine, I had a message. I pressed the playback button and a woman's voice spoke to me. She called me sir, and told me the book I had placed on hold was in at the public library. I didn't put a book on hold. Ominous isn't the right word, but it's the only one I can think of.
The Breakfast of
Through the glass doors, past the book drop, to the desk. The woman there assisted me in locating the work I had allegedly put on hold. She handed me a book that would be gray haired and decrepit if it were alive. I sat alone in a dark corner, breathing deeply, contemplating. The geriatric pages sent a cloud of dust into the air when I pried them open. There was no title, just an author; Friedrich Nietzsche. There was two pages of writing, the rest were blank. With an irregular heartbeat and a clouded mind, I read on.
THE MADMAN
Have you not heard of that madman who lit a lantern in the bright morning hours, ran to the market place, and cried incessantly: "I seek God! I seek God!"---As many of those who did not believe in God were standing around just then, he provoked much laughter. Has he got lost? asked one. Did he lose his way like a child? asked another. Or is he hiding? Is he afraid of us? Has he gone on a voyage? emigrated?---Thus they yelled and laughed.
The madman jumped into their midst and pierced them with his eyes. "Whither is God?" he cried; "I will tell you. We have killed him---you and I. All of us are his murderers. But how did we do this? How could we drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the entire horizon? What were we doing when we unchained this earth from its sun? Whither is it moving now? Whither are we moving? Away from all suns? Are we not plunging continually? Backward, sideward, forward, in all directions? Is there still any up or down? Are we not straying, as through an infinite nothing? Do we not feel the breath of empty space? Has it not become colder? Is not night continually closing in on us? Do we not need to light lanterns in the morning? Do we hear nothing as yet of the noise of the gravediggers who are burying God? Do we smell nothing as yet of the divine decomposition? Gods, too, decompose. God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him.
"How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it? There has never been a greater deed; and whoever is born after us---for the sake of this deed he will belong to a higher history than all history hitherto."
Here the madman fell silent and looked again at his listeners; and they, too, were silent and stared at him in astonishment. At last he threw his lantern on the ground, and it broke into pieces and went out. "I have come too early," he said then; "my time is not yet. This tremendous event is still on its way, still wandering; it has not yet reached the ears of men. Lightning and thunder require time; the light of the stars requires time; deeds, though done, still require time to be seen and heard. This deed is still more distant from them than most distant stars---and yet they have done it themselves.
I read it again.
Then I read it again.
And again.
And again.
Confused isn't the right word, but it's the only one I can think of.
This was a coincidence. It couldn't be relevant to the bathroom, to the mail, to the pain. In frustration, I dashed the book against the table. It resulted in a resounding crack, a nebulous of dust, and a paper rectangle that fluttered to the floor. I was at odds with myself, still pretending coincidence existed. Deliberately, I reached down, apprehension coursing through my body, making my fingers shake. I haltingly clutched for what looked like a photo under the table. As I pulled it nearer my face, the masquerade of coincidence fully crumbled. Fuck Seattle.
I recognized the handwriting on the back of the postcard as if it was my own.
New values must replace the divine order. The death of God will allow human creativity to fully develop. You are the madman. The time is coming.
Fear isn't the right word, but it's the only one I can think of.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
A Collaboration
I began a two-person story today with Nate Anderson, I'll keep you updated on the progress of it as we go. The premise is, he writes a page/chapter sends it to me, I write one/send it to him and so on. Should be sweet.
Also, I have begun chapter 4 AGAIN. I lost it when my hard drive burnt out.
Lots soon.
Also, I have begun chapter 4 AGAIN. I lost it when my hard drive burnt out.
Lots soon.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Chapter 3- Wednesday
Wednesday.
Good morning. Sort of.
A deafening clap of thunder echoed through the air and shook the window panes. It was a harsh beginning of what would prove to be the longest fucking morning of my life. Squinting once, twice, I sat up and tried to recall what had occurred to lead me here, in the living room, where I was splayed out awkwardly across the couch. I stood up, yawning and running my hand through disheveled brown hair. Gazing around the room, I saw it. There. On the counter acting as a coaster to an empty glass, was the postcard. My heart rate instantly accelerated and the recollection of the bathroom, the postcard, the screaming, it all hit me like a well-placed sucker punch. I reeled backwards, knocked onto the couch by the sheer weight of the previous night's events.
Skip to me riding the Green Line from Cicero. On the train questions buzzed thorough my head. One kept resurfacing over and over though.
What the fuck?
Skip to me pretending to be normal, going to work. National threat level today: Orange, how comforting. At O'Hare, I slipped three or four pills in my mouth, to forget. I may be an airport employee, but my real work is done in construction. Painkillers are like bricks. I take them to build a wall. The wall stops my feelings, fears, all the bullshit from penetrating my consciousness. They keep me isolated.
Skip to me not caring about your luggage from FLG, LAX, PBI. Flagstaff, Arizona, Los Angeles, California, West Palm Beach, Florida. Rain drops slide down big glass windows. Boeing 737-900's roar down the runway. Numbers, abbreviations, I do not care.
Skip to me opening my mailbox. My head hoping and my heart dreading for the inevitable. Reaching in, I pulled out what I knew would be there. “Howdy from Texas!” I didn't turn the postcard over. I extracted a lighter from my pocket. Flames licked the sides of the card and the message on the back was reduced to ash.
Skip to me crying in my living room. A glass of Strawberry Kool-Aid rests on the coffee table, half empty. A bottle of pills is tipped over, half full.
Take a deep breath. Hold it. You feel in control; you could breathe at any time. Feel that tension in your lungs. The slight burn of the oxygen in your chest. Now imagine you're at the bottom of the fucking ocean. The surface is 50 meters above. You're halfway to drowning. The panic sets in. Your calm, collected breath is now incomprehensible fear. The slight burn has turned to a fierce pain. The edges of your vision start to blur. The blur turns black. The sense of inevitability and helplessness overtakes you. Welcome to my fucking world, every minute of every day, until I take my pills. And you wondered why I hear the ocean when I close my eyes.
Exhale.
Good morning. Sort of.
A deafening clap of thunder echoed through the air and shook the window panes. It was a harsh beginning of what would prove to be the longest fucking morning of my life. Squinting once, twice, I sat up and tried to recall what had occurred to lead me here, in the living room, where I was splayed out awkwardly across the couch. I stood up, yawning and running my hand through disheveled brown hair. Gazing around the room, I saw it. There. On the counter acting as a coaster to an empty glass, was the postcard. My heart rate instantly accelerated and the recollection of the bathroom, the postcard, the screaming, it all hit me like a well-placed sucker punch. I reeled backwards, knocked onto the couch by the sheer weight of the previous night's events.
Skip to me riding the Green Line from Cicero. On the train questions buzzed thorough my head. One kept resurfacing over and over though.
What the fuck?
Skip to me pretending to be normal, going to work. National threat level today: Orange, how comforting. At O'Hare, I slipped three or four pills in my mouth, to forget. I may be an airport employee, but my real work is done in construction. Painkillers are like bricks. I take them to build a wall. The wall stops my feelings, fears, all the bullshit from penetrating my consciousness. They keep me isolated.
Skip to me not caring about your luggage from FLG, LAX, PBI. Flagstaff, Arizona, Los Angeles, California, West Palm Beach, Florida. Rain drops slide down big glass windows. Boeing 737-900's roar down the runway. Numbers, abbreviations, I do not care.
Skip to me opening my mailbox. My head hoping and my heart dreading for the inevitable. Reaching in, I pulled out what I knew would be there. “Howdy from Texas!” I didn't turn the postcard over. I extracted a lighter from my pocket. Flames licked the sides of the card and the message on the back was reduced to ash.
Skip to me crying in my living room. A glass of Strawberry Kool-Aid rests on the coffee table, half empty. A bottle of pills is tipped over, half full.
Take a deep breath. Hold it. You feel in control; you could breathe at any time. Feel that tension in your lungs. The slight burn of the oxygen in your chest. Now imagine you're at the bottom of the fucking ocean. The surface is 50 meters above. You're halfway to drowning. The panic sets in. Your calm, collected breath is now incomprehensible fear. The slight burn has turned to a fierce pain. The edges of your vision start to blur. The blur turns black. The sense of inevitability and helplessness overtakes you. Welcome to my fucking world, every minute of every day, until I take my pills. And you wondered why I hear the ocean when I close my eyes.
Exhale.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Chapter 2- Tuesday
Tuesday.
My day off fromwrecking handling traveler's baggage.
I clutched my list of things to get in one hand as I walked to the grocery store. On the crumpled piece of paper, there was a total of three or four words, depending on how you define Kool-Aid.
Pharmacy
Sugar
Kool-Aid
I never was one for variety.
Upon entering the store, I instantly realized I had to use the bathroom, and badly. Annoyed with myself for not going before leaving my house, I veered left towards the Men's room. A diet of various frozen and microwavable meals keeps my digestive system constantly on edge. I entered what promised to be the typical dirty public restroom, I wasn't disappointed. Inside, there were three stalls. Statistically, the stall closest to the door gets the most use and is thus the dirtiest. This in mind, I quickly walked towards the second stall. I pulled my cellphone out in anticipation of playing Snake on my shitty outdated Nokia. As I opened the door, the mobile device slipped from my hand and smacked against the tiled linoleum floor. It bounced hard and slid beneath the third stall. Swearing loudly, I marched around to the other stall. Pulling the creaky metal door closed behind me, I picked up my slightly chipped phone off the stained floor, unbuttoned my pants and disposed myself upon the cold plastic toilet seat.
Some of the best art and the most profound thoughts are scattered among the public bathrooms of the world. There's something enticing about the anonymity of a bathroom stall. Some men are emotionally and artistically in tune when taking a shit, or something like that.
No longer feeling in the mood to play with my phone, I slipped it into my pocket and heaved a deep sigh, ready to relax. That's when I saw it. Directly in front of me, on the stall door, was what appeared to be a short paragraph, written in black marker. It looked fresh. What was most unsettling, was the handwriting. I'd seen it somewhere before, and very recently. My eyes studied it from the top, reading the first line.
Unconsciously, I felt my head nod a little.
Again, I felt myself nodding to a bathroom door. My eyes followed the words farther down the door, reading on.
At this point, my ass was completely off the toilet seat as I leaned forward and craned my neck to read the last few lines. The writing stopped abruptly, the author had seemingly been cut short by the end of the door. A feeling of unease spread through my body. Without knowing why, I hurriedly stood up and exited the bathroom. I walked quickly, my pants still undone, pulling them up as I scurried from the restroom. Wanting to put as much distance between myself and the store, I decided to forego my list and get home as swiftly as possible.
As I approached my dingy little excuse for a house, I noticed the mailman had come. Hoping for some distraction, I reached into the plastic box and pulled a stack of envelopes from within. I stood at the end of the walkway leading to my house, thankful for the sense of normalcy that had begun to return to my chest and head.
Bill.
Bill.
Magazine subscription renewal.
Bill.
The fucking Golden Gate Bridge. “Greetings from San Francisco!” plastered across the front. The machine of my mind stirred to life. The feeling of security moments ago had fled, only to be replaced by one of inexplicable dread. Almost in slow-motion, I turned the card over to the back. It was dated 5 days from today. As I read the words penned across the reverse side of the postcard, I literally felt my heart drop in my chest.
I became a third person observer in my own body. My mind whirred, frantically trying to comprehend. I must have stood there for five minutes, my heart pounding, inhaling short choppy breaths. The world stopped moving for the first time in my life and noise ceased to exist. That's when I heard it.
The screaming.
At first indiscernible, my feet lead me towards the house and the sound became clearer. The noise carried on continuously, changing pitch like a siren. As I opened the door and moved towards the kitchen, the screaming became unbearable. I searched for the unearthly screech until I found the source: the clear brown plastic bottle on the kitchen table. I reached out and snatched it, depressing the cap and turning simultaneously, defeating the child-proof cap. The white lid detached from the bottle, revealing the medication within. Pouring out a handful of pills, I seized the refrigerator door and yanked. In one fluid motion I pulled a pitcher of Kool-Aid from the shelf. Without bothering to find a glass, I dropped the pills into my waiting mouth and flushed them down my throat with a gulp of green Kool-Aid, Lemon Lime. The screaming halted
The world became silent once again, except for the faint dull of the ocean in my ears.
My day off from
I clutched my list of things to get in one hand as I walked to the grocery store. On the crumpled piece of paper, there was a total of three or four words, depending on how you define Kool-Aid.
Pharmacy
Sugar
Kool-Aid
I never was one for variety.
Upon entering the store, I instantly realized I had to use the bathroom, and badly. Annoyed with myself for not going before leaving my house, I veered left towards the Men's room. A diet of various frozen and microwavable meals keeps my digestive system constantly on edge. I entered what promised to be the typical dirty public restroom, I wasn't disappointed. Inside, there were three stalls. Statistically, the stall closest to the door gets the most use and is thus the dirtiest. This in mind, I quickly walked towards the second stall. I pulled my cellphone out in anticipation of playing Snake on my shitty outdated Nokia. As I opened the door, the mobile device slipped from my hand and smacked against the tiled linoleum floor. It bounced hard and slid beneath the third stall. Swearing loudly, I marched around to the other stall. Pulling the creaky metal door closed behind me, I picked up my slightly chipped phone off the stained floor, unbuttoned my pants and disposed myself upon the cold plastic toilet seat.
Some of the best art and the most profound thoughts are scattered among the public bathrooms of the world. There's something enticing about the anonymity of a bathroom stall. Some men are emotionally and artistically in tune when taking a shit, or something like that.
No longer feeling in the mood to play with my phone, I slipped it into my pocket and heaved a deep sigh, ready to relax. That's when I saw it. Directly in front of me, on the stall door, was what appeared to be a short paragraph, written in black marker. It looked fresh. What was most unsettling, was the handwriting. I'd seen it somewhere before, and very recently. My eyes studied it from the top, reading the first line.
Do you believe in free will?
Unconsciously, I felt my head nod a little.
Do you believe in God?
Again, I felt myself nodding to a bathroom door. My eyes followed the words farther down the door, reading on.
If you believe in God and free will, then it follows that you believe God does not control you. No predestination. We control ourselves. It means one thing:
God watches T.V.
God cannot intervene in free will. God can only observe. Supposed omnipotence has become a diluted form of omniscience. Watching us, watching T.V. All day. One person to the next.
Change the channel.
Change the channel.
This begs the question though, what if God could only watch one channel until it was cancelled, what if
At this point, my ass was completely off the toilet seat as I leaned forward and craned my neck to read the last few lines. The writing stopped abruptly, the author had seemingly been cut short by the end of the door. A feeling of unease spread through my body. Without knowing why, I hurriedly stood up and exited the bathroom. I walked quickly, my pants still undone, pulling them up as I scurried from the restroom. Wanting to put as much distance between myself and the store, I decided to forego my list and get home as swiftly as possible.
As I approached my dingy little excuse for a house, I noticed the mailman had come. Hoping for some distraction, I reached into the plastic box and pulled a stack of envelopes from within. I stood at the end of the walkway leading to my house, thankful for the sense of normalcy that had begun to return to my chest and head.
Bill.
Bill.
Magazine subscription renewal.
Bill.
The fucking Golden Gate Bridge. “Greetings from San Francisco!” plastered across the front. The machine of my mind stirred to life. The feeling of security moments ago had fled, only to be replaced by one of inexplicable dread. Almost in slow-motion, I turned the card over to the back. It was dated 5 days from today. As I read the words penned across the reverse side of the postcard, I literally felt my heart drop in my chest.
the remote is broken.
I became a third person observer in my own body. My mind whirred, frantically trying to comprehend. I must have stood there for five minutes, my heart pounding, inhaling short choppy breaths. The world stopped moving for the first time in my life and noise ceased to exist. That's when I heard it.
The screaming.
At first indiscernible, my feet lead me towards the house and the sound became clearer. The noise carried on continuously, changing pitch like a siren. As I opened the door and moved towards the kitchen, the screaming became unbearable. I searched for the unearthly screech until I found the source: the clear brown plastic bottle on the kitchen table. I reached out and snatched it, depressing the cap and turning simultaneously, defeating the child-proof cap. The white lid detached from the bottle, revealing the medication within. Pouring out a handful of pills, I seized the refrigerator door and yanked. In one fluid motion I pulled a pitcher of Kool-Aid from the shelf. Without bothering to find a glass, I dropped the pills into my waiting mouth and flushed them down my throat with a gulp of green Kool-Aid, Lemon Lime. The screaming halted
The world became silent once again, except for the faint dull of the ocean in my ears.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Chapter 1- Monday
Monday.
Life is fucking short. Mortality is a bitch. I realized those things recently. I work at O'Hare International Airport in Chicago, ORD on your luggage tags. I'm a baggage chucker. I'm the asshole that mishandles and wrecks your luggage all day long. A guy I work(ed) with, Bernie Jacobs, died yesterday. A severe hemorrhage in the artery at the base of his brain. An aneurysm. He's dead. I was with him yesterday, and hours later, he's gone. We're born, and then we start dying.
I got a postcard from the future today. On the front of it there is a dark skinned girl wearing a flower necklace and a grass skirt. Above her head in bright orange letters outlined in yellow it says, "Aloha from Hawaii!" On the back, in black pen, someone had scrawled:
Transgression is progression. Let go.
It was dated six days from today, Sunday. I was confused by it, to say the least. The girl on the front doesn't stop smiling, it's annoying. Processing all of this was not going well for my head and the all-too-familiar grinding started. The rusty gears of my mind strained and scratched against one another in an attempt to make sense of the present events. Instead of giving in to my rationale, I did what I do best. I grabbed the clear brown plastic bottle off the counter in the kitchen and screwed the child-proof cap off. The comforting sound of pills colliding with container soothed me instantly. I poured out six chalk white Vicodin on the table. I hesitated.
Wilson, Sam was printed on the side of the bottle. My grandpa Sam died 6 years ago. Through a clerical error, he was never reported as deceased. Thus, his social security checks continued to come and his open Vicodin prescription started to become extremely lucrative.
I poured out three more for good measure and moved to the refrigerator. Grasping the handle, I tugged lightly until the seal broke and the door swung open, revealing a rainbow of sorts within. Ten or so jugs of brightly colored drink sat arranged upon the refrigerator shelves, the contents of which were concocted with extreme care and precision. I clutched the handle of a pitcher that contained a bright red liquid. I filled a tall glass to the brim, stooping and closing one eye to see the meniscus of the drink, softly curving. A smile crept across my face, slow at first, until it became a giant grin racing between each ear. It was a smile of anticipation. Let me explain something. Some people are passionate about knitting or cooking or Sudoku. I like pills, and I fucking love Kool-Aid.
I took the pills in one hand and the glass of Cherry Kool-Aid in the other. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9. The pills slid down my throat, the cold liquid chasing them in close pursuit. I reclined in my La-Z-Boy, letting the wave of nothingness engulf me.
When I was younger and we lived in Virgina my family would go to the beach a short drive from our house. I would search ceaselessly for shells. When I found them, I would press the open end of the shell to my ear and listen to the ocean. These days I can hear it whenever I want, if I take enough pills. Nine should do the trick.
Somebody has a case of the Mondays.
Life is fucking short. Mortality is a bitch. I realized those things recently. I work at O'Hare International Airport in Chicago, ORD on your luggage tags. I'm a baggage chucker. I'm the asshole that mishandles and wrecks your luggage all day long. A guy I work(ed) with, Bernie Jacobs, died yesterday. A severe hemorrhage in the artery at the base of his brain. An aneurysm. He's dead. I was with him yesterday, and hours later, he's gone. We're born, and then we start dying.
I got a postcard from the future today. On the front of it there is a dark skinned girl wearing a flower necklace and a grass skirt. Above her head in bright orange letters outlined in yellow it says, "Aloha from Hawaii!" On the back, in black pen, someone had scrawled:
Transgression is progression. Let go.
It was dated six days from today, Sunday. I was confused by it, to say the least. The girl on the front doesn't stop smiling, it's annoying. Processing all of this was not going well for my head and the all-too-familiar grinding started. The rusty gears of my mind strained and scratched against one another in an attempt to make sense of the present events. Instead of giving in to my rationale, I did what I do best. I grabbed the clear brown plastic bottle off the counter in the kitchen and screwed the child-proof cap off. The comforting sound of pills colliding with container soothed me instantly. I poured out six chalk white Vicodin on the table. I hesitated.
Wilson, Sam was printed on the side of the bottle. My grandpa Sam died 6 years ago. Through a clerical error, he was never reported as deceased. Thus, his social security checks continued to come and his open Vicodin prescription started to become extremely lucrative.
I poured out three more for good measure and moved to the refrigerator. Grasping the handle, I tugged lightly until the seal broke and the door swung open, revealing a rainbow of sorts within. Ten or so jugs of brightly colored drink sat arranged upon the refrigerator shelves, the contents of which were concocted with extreme care and precision. I clutched the handle of a pitcher that contained a bright red liquid. I filled a tall glass to the brim, stooping and closing one eye to see the meniscus of the drink, softly curving. A smile crept across my face, slow at first, until it became a giant grin racing between each ear. It was a smile of anticipation. Let me explain something. Some people are passionate about knitting or cooking or Sudoku. I like pills, and I fucking love Kool-Aid.
I took the pills in one hand and the glass of Cherry Kool-Aid in the other. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9. The pills slid down my throat, the cold liquid chasing them in close pursuit. I reclined in my La-Z-Boy, letting the wave of nothingness engulf me.
When I was younger and we lived in Virgina my family would go to the beach a short drive from our house. I would search ceaselessly for shells. When I found them, I would press the open end of the shell to my ear and listen to the ocean. These days I can hear it whenever I want, if I take enough pills. Nine should do the trick.
Somebody has a case of the Mondays.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
New Story
I started a new story a few days ago. It's about postcards. I'm hyper-busy this coming week, but I'm going to try to write a chapter a week starting spring break (this weekend). Wish me luck.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Starry Eyed Surprise
Some stories begin "Once upon a time..." Those stories end "happily ever after" though. This is a story with a beginning, middle, and beginning. When this story ends it's truly just the start of another
In the beginning there was God. Now let me clarify, when I say beginning, I damn well mean it. No time, space, matter. Simply presence. I don't mean the white haired, white skinned God of Catholic kids growing up. Not the robust Buddha, or hailed Allah. Humankind is so vain to assume God is of human form. God is faceless, lacking physical vehicle. Now this piece of information is out of the way, let us continue our tale.
In the beginning, there was God. God is not He, She, or It. God is God. God was suspended. God Was, Is, and Will Be. God was not a floating mist, or wispy smoke. At some point in being, not time, God felt an enormous amount of energy flow through God, ebbing and flowing. The energy expanded within God. It strained against God’s presence. It swelled once, twice, and burst. All of the planets erupted into existence from God's being. No particular order to the distribution, seemingly random. God's presence Was everywhere in the universe.
God discovered happiness. It was terribly dark though.
In the lonely dark universe God was suspended once again. Vastly alone. Soon after the planets though, God felt another pulse of energy. This one more powerful and intense. It ripened within God until the entire universe shook with energy. The energy grew silent for one moment, then surged from God's being. And then there was light.
Beauty. God discovered awe. Reverence, veneration, stupefaction, admiration.
God's presence pressed into the universe. Searching the planets. They were all wonderful to God. Eventually, God came to Earth. God found the seeds of life crying for help. God nurtured the seeds until they were self-sufficient.
God discovered excitement.
God felt life grow, change, evolve. God was not watching this all from a space station view of Earth. Don't forget, God Was, Is, and Will Be. God was a part of all of this, not a third-party observer. Eventually, Humans arrived. They consumed God's presence.
God discovered love.
Humans did not know God truly. They misunderstood God. They pressed their ideals upon one another. God seeped back into suspension. Time passed, of no great concern to God. Time is not of great importance to God. Rulers, walls, rose. Rulers, walls, fell. God intervened in the affairs of the universe occasionally. Not many were able to feel God. God felt, feels, and will feel all though.
One day is not of great recollection to God. One day is less than a blip. All the same though, one day God felt another presence. The presence was foreign, almost like another entity. God Was, Is, and Will Be all, but his attention is not equally proportioned. God felt into this entity, more energy than God had ever felt since the universe sprang from God. It was a human boy, brimming with passion. God spared no attention, all of it focused on him, a part of him. The boy’s thoughts dripped into God's presence.
"If you're out there God, listen to me. I have great difficulty coming to terms with your existence. I'm sorry I'm so skeptical... I really am. I cannot help my doubt though. Of your reality there is not much tangible evidence. My real issue is how my parents, my church, the media, they all tell me what to believe. I am sorry I am not an obedient servant, but I don't really think you are a God who demands obedience. I believe you demand only life. I just wish I could have faith."
God wanted faith. It was in the nature of God's being. God's presence craved it, not greedily, but desired it still.
God discovered sadness. Inability to stop the cruel pains of Humans poison God's presence. The universe tensed with God's sadness, God's submission to emotion.
God felt energy pulse within. God felt the complex structures of a life being formed. The framework of a girl, perfect in every way for the boy. Every anatomical fabrication with detail, plus a mind filled with love, intellect, and understanding. The girl sprang forth from God's presence. Before she alighted upon Earth, God beckoned forth two stars from God’s being. These God placed, one behind each eye. And her eyes shone with light.
The girl came to be on Earth. The boy desperate for answers took one look at her. Her presence enveloped him. He looked in her eyes and saw the stars. Those eyes dragged him in. They were intoxicating to him, leaving him breathless. She was his flower, not ephemeral, but lasting. The boy was sure of God’s existence every time he looked into the Girl's eyes.
And this is just the start of another story, just beginning.
In the beginning there was God. Now let me clarify, when I say beginning, I damn well mean it. No time, space, matter. Simply presence. I don't mean the white haired, white skinned God of Catholic kids growing up. Not the robust Buddha, or hailed Allah. Humankind is so vain to assume God is of human form. God is faceless, lacking physical vehicle. Now this piece of information is out of the way, let us continue our tale.
In the beginning, there was God. God is not He, She, or It. God is God. God was suspended. God Was, Is, and Will Be. God was not a floating mist, or wispy smoke. At some point in being, not time, God felt an enormous amount of energy flow through God, ebbing and flowing. The energy expanded within God. It strained against God’s presence. It swelled once, twice, and burst. All of the planets erupted into existence from God's being. No particular order to the distribution, seemingly random. God's presence Was everywhere in the universe.
God discovered happiness. It was terribly dark though.
In the lonely dark universe God was suspended once again. Vastly alone. Soon after the planets though, God felt another pulse of energy. This one more powerful and intense. It ripened within God until the entire universe shook with energy. The energy grew silent for one moment, then surged from God's being. And then there was light.
Beauty. God discovered awe. Reverence, veneration, stupefaction, admiration.
God's presence pressed into the universe. Searching the planets. They were all wonderful to God. Eventually, God came to Earth. God found the seeds of life crying for help. God nurtured the seeds until they were self-sufficient.
God discovered excitement.
God felt life grow, change, evolve. God was not watching this all from a space station view of Earth. Don't forget, God Was, Is, and Will Be. God was a part of all of this, not a third-party observer. Eventually, Humans arrived. They consumed God's presence.
God discovered love.
Humans did not know God truly. They misunderstood God. They pressed their ideals upon one another. God seeped back into suspension. Time passed, of no great concern to God. Time is not of great importance to God. Rulers, walls, rose. Rulers, walls, fell. God intervened in the affairs of the universe occasionally. Not many were able to feel God. God felt, feels, and will feel all though.
One day is not of great recollection to God. One day is less than a blip. All the same though, one day God felt another presence. The presence was foreign, almost like another entity. God Was, Is, and Will Be all, but his attention is not equally proportioned. God felt into this entity, more energy than God had ever felt since the universe sprang from God. It was a human boy, brimming with passion. God spared no attention, all of it focused on him, a part of him. The boy’s thoughts dripped into God's presence.
"If you're out there God, listen to me. I have great difficulty coming to terms with your existence. I'm sorry I'm so skeptical... I really am. I cannot help my doubt though. Of your reality there is not much tangible evidence. My real issue is how my parents, my church, the media, they all tell me what to believe. I am sorry I am not an obedient servant, but I don't really think you are a God who demands obedience. I believe you demand only life. I just wish I could have faith."
God wanted faith. It was in the nature of God's being. God's presence craved it, not greedily, but desired it still.
God discovered sadness. Inability to stop the cruel pains of Humans poison God's presence. The universe tensed with God's sadness, God's submission to emotion.
God felt energy pulse within. God felt the complex structures of a life being formed. The framework of a girl, perfect in every way for the boy. Every anatomical fabrication with detail, plus a mind filled with love, intellect, and understanding. The girl sprang forth from God's presence. Before she alighted upon Earth, God beckoned forth two stars from God’s being. These God placed, one behind each eye. And her eyes shone with light.
The girl came to be on Earth. The boy desperate for answers took one look at her. Her presence enveloped him. He looked in her eyes and saw the stars. Those eyes dragged him in. They were intoxicating to him, leaving him breathless. She was his flower, not ephemeral, but lasting. The boy was sure of God’s existence every time he looked into the Girl's eyes.
And this is just the start of another story, just beginning.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Ok Go!
Ok Go's new music video is incredible. They use a gigantic Rube Goldberg machine in a two-story warehouse. Unreal.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Heaven
I once read a story about death. In this story some astronauts are exploring Venus. They venture near the surface and record video of all the past humans living in bliss upon the planet. Martin Luther King, Buddy Holly, Marilyn Monroe, they're all there. Fucking and laughing. This place is the new-age Garden of Eden. Utopia, Paradise, Heaven. Everyone's nude, drinking, having sex without actual reproduction. The best part is, God encourages it. The governments of the world sanction "mass-emigration". They don't like to call it suicide, because it's merely moving onto the next stage. Death is the new life. The rationale is if everyone dies together we can leave this painful place. Skip a step in the refinement process. Collect that $200 without passing Go, without even playing the game. Little "do-it-yourself" kits with Lemon flavored Cyanide pills.
Prepare to evacuate body in 5...4...3...2...1...
We all hope there's a life after this one, but what if there isn't? What if the only life after this is the fly larvae in your rotting carcass? What if the only "after-life" is the life your body gives when you're gone? What if that martyr who told us "we'd see him again in the next life" is just matter decomposing in a box six feet under? What if instead of worrying about the next life, people started living the life they have right now?
Prepare to evacuate body in 5...4...3...2...1...
We all hope there's a life after this one, but what if there isn't? What if the only life after this is the fly larvae in your rotting carcass? What if the only "after-life" is the life your body gives when you're gone? What if that martyr who told us "we'd see him again in the next life" is just matter decomposing in a box six feet under? What if instead of worrying about the next life, people started living the life they have right now?
His Arms
I start to write
Not worried about time
My entire being
It echos in my mind
The philotes of my being
Decay
Tear
Flay
All that I have seen
It starts to fade away
I fall
And fall
Into his arms
I have searched
But have not found
My sacrificial head
Remains uncrowned
The thorns upon my head
They cut and bleed
The path to martyrdom
Is a twisted one indeed
So just fall
And fall
Into his arms
All I want is legacy
Last beyond my years
This is not prophecy
Of everlasting tears
The greeks say life
Was born of Chaos
Thought can destroy
Destruction is mayhem
And mayhem is Chaos
This swap is not fiction
Deliver us from reality
What a contradiction
That destruction equals life
It's easier to fall
And from the womb
To start to crawl
Into the tomb
And just fall
Into his arms
And fall
Fall
Into his arms
Not worried about time
My entire being
It echos in my mind
The philotes of my being
Decay
Tear
Flay
All that I have seen
It starts to fade away
I fall
And fall
Into his arms
I have searched
But have not found
My sacrificial head
Remains uncrowned
The thorns upon my head
They cut and bleed
The path to martyrdom
Is a twisted one indeed
So just fall
And fall
Into his arms
All I want is legacy
Last beyond my years
This is not prophecy
Of everlasting tears
The greeks say life
Was born of Chaos
Thought can destroy
Destruction is mayhem
And mayhem is Chaos
This swap is not fiction
Deliver us from reality
What a contradiction
That destruction equals life
It's easier to fall
And from the womb
To start to crawl
Into the tomb
And just fall
Into his arms
And fall
Fall
Into his arms
Monday, March 1, 2010
YHWH
The master of empathy
Oh he can empty me
Or rob me, if you must
Of anger, fear and lust
Miles and miles he walks
But never in his own shoes
Hours and hours he talks
And always of the truth
He told me of transcendence
It is experienced, not acquired
And spoke of independence
That which is so often desired
I mentioned to him my dreams
Those fantasies of the night
He explained what they mean
To my surprised delight
I didn't know who he was
But I'll never forget that day
In my memory it stays because
it was then I felt Yahweh
Oh he can empty me
Or rob me, if you must
Of anger, fear and lust
Miles and miles he walks
But never in his own shoes
Hours and hours he talks
And always of the truth
He told me of transcendence
It is experienced, not acquired
And spoke of independence
That which is so often desired
I mentioned to him my dreams
Those fantasies of the night
He explained what they mean
To my surprised delight
I didn't know who he was
But I'll never forget that day
In my memory it stays because
it was then I felt Yahweh
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