Chapter 2- Tuesday

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 I pulled my cellphone out in anticipation of playing Snake on my shitty outdated Nokia.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 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.

Optical Illusion

sweet optical illusion video. sorry it's taking awhile, but a new story is coming *soonish*

Here is something for all you brand freaks out there. The Logorama short film. It's it's nasty, it's cruel - but it is incredibly well made. I think it was a selection the Cannes Film Festival.

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.

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.

Ok Go!

Ok Go's new music video is incredible. They use a gigantic Rube Goldberg machine in a two-story warehouse. Unreal.

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?

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

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

Cyclical By Nature

My mother tells me the orchard of dead and twisted apple trees used to bloom in the spring. Past the sweeping fields of canary yellow dandelions sits a cemetery of looming wooden beasts. Once a source of nourishment, now a symbol of past life. Like the dilapidated headstones to the East. Crumbling above the bodies that once bloomed as well, but with life not fruit. Predominantly the remains of former soldiers. Like my grandfather and his father, all down the line of descendants. The soil of our fields tinged red with memory of past blood spilled in battle upon the fertile earth.
Some cycles preserve unbroken. This one did not persist, for my father is a cordwainer, a shoemaker. His mind contains knowledge of stitching and soles not of rifles and formations. Every shoe is a whisper of beauty, a painting, a monument. My father is in his own right an artist. Attention to detail with greater precision than Velasquez or van Gogh. Truth of form in the ways of a Bernini sculpture. Instead of pastels and clay, fine calfskin and Chamois leather are the agents for his creation.
The place, the time of my story do not really matter. The beginnings are consistent; fear, anger, opposition, war. The patterns are like, even with differentiated passions and no replication of exact characters. The molds so near the true person, the end product fits just as well.

They say if we do now know our history we are condemned to repeat it.
Human conflict, so often mindless.


The people of my village used to recite this poem in times of terrible hardship:

Unlike Barley and Corn
Seeds of fear grow best
Without sunlight and care
But in darkness and despair

It was meant to serve as a reminder how evil finds it's beginnings. They told me how to combat fear, blinding it with sunlight.
Without seeds of fear, the roots of war have no depth. The common man may prevent war just as easily as he tends to his garden. By pulling the shallow roots of the weed that is war until they shake loose of his land. Let the seeds take deep root, forget to pick them just once and the cycle repeats.

They say if we do not know our history we are condemned to repeat it. Ironic then, that by simply forgetting some of our history we would have nothing to fight about

In the Beginning

I'm new to the phenomena that is blogging, but I'm here to give it a shot. I envision this blog as a peek into my daily life, a place to vent my frustrations and especially to gain feedback for my writing. I am a passionate "scribe" and am constantly writing. Mostly fiction, poetry, short stories. If you're looking for some original work, you have come to the right place.