My Central Conceit

Moving

2010-12-04T22:19:00.000-08:00

All future posts will be on my Facts and Fictions blog on Tumblr.

The life you want is never as interesting as the life you lead

2010-12-03T00:34:00.000-08:00

The life you want is never as interesting as the life you lead. The life you want is paper flat: 2 dimensional wishes for prosperity, a fiction of the future. It's been said a thousand times that fact is stranger than fiction. Because fiction requires that we understand it. It must be scaled down to fit in our heads. Fact is not restricted by the size of our understanding. It spreads out and defies the human mind to comprehend it. And still we haven't. We've looked at it through magnifying glasses and from outer space but still the intricacies escape us. The big bits too: like how to get along, and how gravity? But here and now in this magical world we do things that we can not understand for reasons we can't comprehend. The consequences will bounce down the halls of the future changing lives, perhaps even after the doer is dead and gone. The present isn't two dimensional, three dimensional or even four dimensional; for we hold multitudes of dimensions within us. Each feeling and thought colours our world and changes the way gravity works and the feeling of the grass. Reality is magical and fantasy is mundane.

Skipping (for Dad)

2010-12-03T00:09:00.000-08:00

There's a lot to be said about skipping stones

First there's the joy of the search

You walk to the rhythm of lapping waves

The sun riding high in the sky

Accompanied by a friendly autumn breeze

Acting the part of a conductor

As he gently rustles the harvest leaves and ruffles the water

Head down, you continue

Bending down to pick up the odd rock

Stopping to fit it, just right, to your hand

Then launching it

((.))

(.)

-((*))-

Across the pond before it splashes to a stop

More stones defy the depths

But no skip to brag to your brothers about

You continue

Searching for the ideal stone,

That flat, circular rock that fits your hand like they grew up together,

Occasionally stooping in joy only to find the rock in question is round on the bottom

Then, finally, you find it,

The stone your hand has been dreaming of

You hold it with reverence, turning it to find the perfect fit

And when you've found it you get low to the water

And launch it over mirror still water

Watching until it meets it's reflection

(((@)))

And splashes below the surface

An underwater skip my Dad used to call them

You hang your head, happy no one is around

Then walk again

Skipping the odd stone

But the all pale in comparison

And the sun hangs low painting the darkening sky

And your shadow has outgrown you

The problems that seemed so pressing have faded

And you've solved most of the political problems of the day

So with a sinking heart you decide,

But what's that?

Could it be?

You push pebbles aside to pick up a damp, dark stone

And it looks good

And it feels good

You turn it in your hand

To find that perfect grip

You wind up

And get real low

But no

It feels wrong

And like a pitcher you stand straight

Pondering the object in your hand and how best to throw it

Then once again you wind up

And get low

((((.))))

(((.)))

((.))

(.)

;

Before it slides into the water with nary a sound

But it's just you and your smile for miles around

So you make your way back to the car

Half an eye to the ground just in case

But deep down you don't find one

And as the sun begins to set

You're satisfied with your achievements

Because in the end you're happy

And in a world of dull office interiors

Joy is a product that is underproduced

untitled

2010-11-22T17:52:00.000-08:00

I'm going home to see the stars

City nights are gunpowder
The neon, noise and people
Like fireworks we explode
Drowning out the darkness

Now I'm going home to see the stars

The fantastic push
of the pent up energy
of thousands of people
intoxicates more than wine

But I'm going home to see the stars

That vaulted cathedral
of childhood memories
The bible black nights
and snow white stars

That's why I'm going home to see the stars

To see them salted across the sky
unfettered by noise and motion
to realize the vastness of the night sky
and the true size of my problems

To The Girl I Had A Crush On, (an unsent letter)

2010-11-19T06:14:00.000-08:00

How have you been doing? I was thinking of you today. This may come as a surprise as I never said told you, and, for reasons that I don't want to get into here, I never acted on it. Although some of those reasons seem silly now most of them were logical and I stand behind them even now. But that's not why I'm writing this letter. What brought you so forcefully to mind is I dreamt of you last night, and when I woke up it was as if I never left. I wouldn't even have remembered it but I slept poorly last night and the night is a blur of half remembered dreams and the dark interior of a strange room. In that strange stretched time of dreams we hung out for a long time. I don't remember what we were doing but in the end you put your cheek to mine in that fun, flirty way you have and I snatched a kiss. And now I miss you more than I should. It's funny how something as ephemeral as a dream can affect a person with feelings sturdy enough to colour the day. We're cities apart, and last I heard you were dating someone, but still the feelings persist, and no logic can dull them. It serves as a bitter reminder of all I left behind and raises regrets that I thought I had put to bed. And for some reason it pulled this letter from me. I won't send it. I wouldn't know the address to send it to anyways, and I it would add a strange new dimension to our relationship with no purpose. If this was a Hollywood movie I would fail at my new life here and move back, and you would be dating a jerk. We would find each other again, and, on the strength of this dream, you would dump your boyfriend and we would get together to live happily ever after in a montage. I've never liked those movies though. There's always one part where the man does something stupid and"nearly" loses the girl only to get her back a couple scenes later. So this unsent letter will have to do. I hope your boyfriend is treating you better then your last one. I'm still searching for someone like you here. That's an unfair statement, to everyone really, but not an untrue one. I'll look you up when I roll through town next. We'll catch up on old times.
Thinking of you,
A Good Friend.

A few thoughts

2010-09-20T21:18:00.000-07:00

The world (fear) is too much with me

The temporal aspects of the world cause fear. We don't want to lose what we have, whether it be the money in our pockets or the respect of a friend. Thus we cling tightly to what we perceive is ours. God, and his divine glory in us, is eternal. In him there is no fear because there is nothing lose, only change or movement. God is everything, so as long as we are in a relationship with God we have everything. That everything may change, but no matter what possessions or honour we may lay claim to it is all God's and will continue to be God's when we can no longer lay claim to it. Everything is available to us through God. It is no less, or more, available if it is in our hands or at the other end of the galaxy. All is God's. Thus "whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it."

The Prophet as scapegoat

All prophets, whether secular or divine, are maligned. That is the risk or speaking Truth. Lies consistently make their way to the top. Lies give gain to their creators. Lies put people over people and allow them to make claim on other people's work. Lies allow people to step on others, to lift themselves up in balloons of hot air. By speaking the truth it takes the life out of the lies that have been painstakingly built up to benefit those in power. That, however, does not necessarily convince anyone that the lies are lies. The truth must be bashed into people's skulls. It is violent and unpleasant. The prophet therefore takes the pain of society onto him or herself to make the truth known in hopes that future generations will see the lies as lies and will be able to move forward. Therefore the pain of the prophet is equal to the truth s/he speaks.

Some feedback?

2010-09-20T21:16:00.000-07:00

I remember when we first met. It wasn't that memorable of a meeting so I'm sure I've embroidered it along the way, polished it up after it was tarnished for the first few years. You were unremarkable then. We were unremarkable then. The bar springs easily to mind, as I frequented in those days. I can feel the heaviness in the air, hear the jostle of the young crowd, feel their shoulders bump up against me as I push towards the bar. All that is clear from repeated viewings, but then the night took a very small turn. An unremarkable turn, except for you. I didn't know it then. You were talking with June, probably trying to get into her pants. It's all you thought about those days, you admitted it to me yourself. Her face is of the time, but yours always comes from later on in our relationship, some anachronism from the future.

It was June that waved to me, no doubt trying to escape your attentions. So I came over and we talked. You introduced yourself and I promptly forgot your name. I remember I forgot your name because the next time we met I did my best to dance around your name so my ignorance wouldn't be revealed. But that first night, when I came over to talk to June you quickly faded away. I smile when I think about how young you were then, how easily deterred. I can hardly imagine what you were like then, a boy fresh out of high school still enamoured with the new world that bars had opened up to you. You were in love with the mess of people I think, and the loose morals that the liquor required. To think of you this way seems almost heretical. I know you would protest the word but it is the closest approximation I can pull out of my brain.

I don't remember how you came to be in our group. My guess is, and I apologise if I'm off, but my guess is that you just started to tag along because you thought we were cool. We were after all upper-classmen. We could, and quite often did, quote Nietzsche, and Marx. We had read Hemingway and Fitzgerald. Some of us were even writing poetry that had been published in anthologies. I can see how that would have been impressive to a young man fresh out of high school. I remember you on the outskirts of our little circle well we drank absinthe and smoked our clove cigarettes. And talk until we got kicked out about all manner of 'intellectual' things. Hell, we were infatuated with ourselves and we half knew the lie that sat under our intellectualism. I can see why you found us attractive, as straightforward and sincere as you are.

And when you got back from that trip, oh that trip. What it did to you I'll never know. Not just because you won't tell me, but it scored deep. Somewhere so deep I can't, no maybe won't, go. It scares me sometimes. It scares me that somewhere someone touched you that deep. It scares me to think that someday someone will reach down there in me and touch me too.

The first time I saw you after you came home: that is a meeting I will never forget. This time the setting is hazy. Once again we were at a bar I believe. I was there with some of my friends and I saw you come in the door. Even from that distance, sitting half way across the room, I could see that you changed. I wasn't sure how, but I knew. It wasn't that I couldn’t put my finger on what had changed about you, like when someone gets a haircut and there's this nagging thought in the back of your brain saying something has changed, it was that the change was so big that I couldn't comprehend it. Not in the first five minutes anyway.

Does it catch your imagination?

clickety-clack

2010-09-19T04:16:00.000-07:00

Clickety-clack, clickety-clack
A train rolls in and
heels tap out the rhythm of movement in time with the
Clickety Clack
"All aboard"
The halls resound as people scatter and gather
The fire erupts and the speed picks up
clickety-clack
back into the countryside
Conversations roll with the hills
Clickety-clack
"tickets, tickets"
The conductor shouts over the wailing horn
as his heels drum out their tattoo
counterpoint to the train
staccato laughter rings out of the window
and it's all forward
as the engine begins to glow
the smoke pours out a single dull grey rail against the sky
and the noise of movement swallows up the pastoral sounds
of the birds and the bees
Clickety-clack
Likesome typewriter writing poems of movement across the face of the earth
between cultures and countries and colours
with the same noise that invades skulls to bounce around and around and
click
ety
clack
us into a new world and a new time until we're suffused with knowledge
and we
clickety clack
back out once again

Change

2010-09-12T05:16:00.000-07:00

Summer unwinds us from it's soft, stifling embrace
leaving hot skin exposed to cool air.
Soon she'll be gone for good,
her side of the bed cooling with the breeze
from a window that was left open
and the door she didn't shut.
The melancholy emptiness of Autumn
will steal over in unwatched moments,
until the breeze blows cold
and you flip up your collar
and move on.

2010-09-08T00:33:00.001-07:00

Take me he said, smiling at the beast. You can have the breath from my lungs, but no more.

A falling out

2010-09-08T00:31:00.001-07:00

I've had a falling out with the day

Night and I have separated

because of an ongoing affair with my computer

and work that occupies my time at all hours

Each excursion marked by the awkward pause of my exit,

a surprise meeting with a recently left lover.

"Hello sun" or "Hi moon"

I cast my eyes about

squinting, trying to get my bearings

I don't know where to look,

what to say…

What topics are out of bounds?

Do I ask if she's doing well?

Common courtesy escapes me

I lower my eyes, my brow shading my eyes

and forge ahead.

Nothing is forever

2010-09-06T01:57:00.000-07:00

The city is crumbling. Friends fall away, creating little avalanches of memories tumbling to nostalgic irrelevance. Companies and travel pluck off both enemies and acquaintances to parts unknown. Towers fall taking favourite restaurants and communal wells until you stand alone on a mole hill that was once a mountain, surveying a new world. So you pull on your boot and head out into this new jungle and create again what you once had.

Makes clowns of us all

2010-09-05T20:06:00.000-07:00

In compliance to the machine
I clothe myself as a clown
burying dignity under
yards of polyester,
individuality under
swathes of rayon.
And stretch to match,
tooth for tooth,
the smiles of coworkers

Hands out for tips
I beg with
cloying conversation and
put on friendliness
I perform for you
because you are money
and I the worker.
You the mark
I the grifter.

Struggle

2010-08-16T00:55:00.000-07:00

The sound of battle
floats over the hill.
It had moved on,
leaving the bodies
still as the earth
to which they return.

A flutter of black wings
calls attention to a man.
Untouched he walks through the dead.
He cocks his head
listening to the cacophony of war
and walks safely behind.

fuzzy details

2010-07-31T04:32:00.000-07:00

They slip past unnoticed
like carpenter ants or termites
life goes blithely by
and the roof stays above you
and the walls around you
and all is good
until the details have gnawed away
the solid base of the big picture
and it comes crashing down
around your ears

leading

2010-07-25T05:11:00.000-07:00

What's the meaning
of this 10 dollars?
Slipped from sweaty palm
to sweaty palm.
Increased freedom? dinner?
encouragement from God?
The livings and die-ings
the comings and goings
of relationships, insects,
relatives and moneys
all come freighted
(or so it seems)
with meanings too subtle.
Upon these
(butterfly breath) meanings
I place my decisions
placing ideas on intracicies set to topple
betting on shadows and breezes
on coffee grounds and cigarette ash.
In this fickle world of faith
I place my future.

Settling

2010-07-23T01:31:00.000-07:00

The faces of classmates and childhood friends

grow more familiar each year.

Faces and stomachs grow
Rounding up over cheekbones and trouser tops

With each pound, growing to resemble

The clerk at London Drugs,

The hotel night manager,

The owner of the corner store
That have always existed.

Stomachs and jowls sag

weighing down their owners,

keeping them seated in office chairs and la-z-boys.

Swimming through time

2010-06-29T23:18:00.000-07:00

the day swims in and out

today, then tomorrow and finally yesterday

time bends and creaks its
unwieldy frame around my mind

a boa of continuity,

bending me to its will

now and then

present and past

etc.

always it drags me forwards

in figure eights too complex to understand

the past reaches out to the present

and the future pulls a U-y and crashes into the now

the now is never but was and will be

the watch was mans effort to control the fluid

to put it between bars of hours and days

which works, until you think

and time bends in sickening ways

until days have no meanings

and you sleep in the afternoons and take tea at midnight

At the station

2010-06-15T02:19:00.000-07:00

in that muddled place between reality and sleep, in T.S. Eliot's shadow. Between thought and action, I neither move nor think. My plane is about to arrive and it has just left depending on your point of view. We could sit here talking of the paradoxes I am experiencing all day but I won't bore you. The thing that scares me is the Devil always meets you at the crossroads, at the in between times and the choices. This is not superstition, this is fact, They say the devil is in the details and they're half right, the devil's in the choices, and the details require so many that you're bound to screw up and give him that crack he's looking for so he can come and ____ your party. Here I sit, unable to make that decision, to close the gaps. My mind is too fogged and my body is empty. Why can't they just open the gates and let me ride free, propel me to my destination so I can begin my decisions again. I can't sit here waiting to meet him. It's sunset somewhere in this world and I can feel the lion prowling nearby, that well-dressed dandy in snakeskin loafers who keeps his mouth in the shadows as he talks so you can't see his forked tongue. You know him when you shake hands with him, those dry hands that make a rasping sound as he slides his hand into yours, pulling you in just a little closer and smiling like he's already got your windpipe. Watch out my friend. Make you decisions and don't linger, keep away from the crossroads and most of all don't go out during sunset; night's bad enough, don't compound it with the slow faze in and out of sunset. My plane's here, I've got to go. If I stay here any longer I'll lose my resolve, I can feel it slipping away already. Never let that voodoo man get you with his promises, remember that.

A world of frills

2010-05-23T19:36:00.000-07:00

My muse isn't here yet. She's late again. Just give her a few minutes; I'm sure she'll be here soon. No, I can't just start. What do you think I'm some day labourer? I make Art: and Art can not be made to 'toe the line.' Just wait. You'll love it when she comes.Don't worry about her, she'll make it. There she is, coming through the door. Yes, I see it now. I know exactly what you need. What? No. This. Is. Art. Art doesn't need rules. It's stream of consciousness. This is now. If you wanted ease of understanding and concise work you could get some schmuck off the street. But you got me because you want high quality work. Work that gets inside you and works from the inside out. You wanted that visceral feel that not just everyone can give. That's because I'm not a professional. how many times do I have to tell you? I'm an artist. The run on sentences are intentional. No, the spelling mistakes aren't. This is just a rough sketch, I'll get someone else to correct it afterwards. Comma splice? Yeah, those are intentional too. You just don't understand. I need to get an audience that understands. Just be quiet for a minute. No, wait it's not working.I'm gonna chuck it. I'm finished. Come back tomorrow, maybe I'll be able to get you something then. No, I can't just write it. Just go.

Food television

2010-05-20T03:08:00.000-07:00

The television blue, like gravy, flows over the face of the open mouthed drooling man. His saliva glands pump the viscous fluid until his mouth is full and overflowing. He breathes through the slightly open mouth in quick clean gasps feeding his pumping lungs and free flowing blood. He leans forward as the action on the t.v. crescendos and the chef slowly slides the food into her own mouth and lets out a low moan. NO physical needs were met, the man watching is not fulfilled, nor is the chef cooking the food. It is an act of anticipation; anticipation for an act that will never be done. Nothing meets the pure joy of anticipation, so in anticipation of anticipation the man watches distilling modern life into something palatable; for if nothing will satisfy then why try? Simply anticipate.

The free and easy life of a footloose tortoise

2010-05-18T11:12:00.000-07:00

A tortoise crawls along barren dust, slowly moving to a destination only God and the animal itself knows. You can see each leg rise, push forward then drop to the ground. The claws dig into the dry soil, leaving ruts where the tortoise passes. Onward at the speed of life the tortoise crawls. Free to go where it will and trapped by it's destination, it always moves forward. If you wanted to you could outrun it, be where it wants to be before it gets there. You could pick it up and move it back five feet to watch it scrape itself over the same ground. And yet it will continue like an implacable force of nature. In the distance, a days walk for the tortoise, a short jaunt for you, lay lions watching the curiosity slowly draw closer. You can see one of the lies get to it's feet and walk over to the intrepid, moving shell. The tortoise hunkers down for the storm of teeth and claws. But not even this beast can stop the tortoise for long, for soon the lion loses interest in the plainly inedible animal, and the tortoise continues it's walk, implacable as an avalanche and free as a hobo, compelled forever on the razor edge of concentration. Singleminded in it's dedication towards traveling, wherever that may be to; perhaps the perfect traveler.

Braindead @ sunrise: The life of a nightshift clerk

2010-05-10T22:23:00.000-07:00

Sunrise from the wrong end of the day is an interesting phenomena: a combination of midnight tired and early morning cheer; an orange juice at midnight or a beer for breakfast. It confounds societal time slots. For a night on the town sunrise can add spice to the end of the night, a sign that you vanquished the black space of night, to the early riser it can act as a stimulant to push you into the day. But to the night worker sunrise is sunset: not quite the end of the but time to settle down with a beer and relax with the morning's traffic and a nearly useless weather report. Then the weekend comes and it's not the staying up that's difficult, it's the going to bed or getting up early enough to meet your friends for lunch. Suddenly a beer in the morning is fine but anything before three is a sign of real alcoholism taking hold. Or maybe that doesn't matter anymore.

The Ark

2010-04-05T14:23:00.000-07:00

For as the body without the spirit is dead, so faith without works is dead also.

-James 2:26

Two Old testament patriarchs built arks. Noah built his ark to carry his family and a pair of each of the land dwelling creatures to safety over the rough waters of the flood and Moses built the Ark of the Covenant to carry god's words with The Nation of Israel to maintain God's blessings over His people. Both of these are works of man, done at the direction and behest of God, to save themselves. It was the Ark that sheltered Noah and his family from the flood and it was The Ark at the front of the army when the Israelites took over Jericho with the blast of a trumpet.

It seems that many people become cagey when talking of how a persons actions affect their standing with God. It was Paul that said we are justified by faith, and Abraham received his justification through his own faith, however we are not simply spiritual creatures. Which is not to say that we are saved through our actions. The two Arks were a precursor for the greatest collaboration between God and man: the man Jesus Christ. He is The Ark through which each one of us is carried through the tribulations of our lives, self- and other-made, to the paradise with God; it is in him where we find our freedom.

Like wise we are justified through our faith. But Noah was chosen to build the ark because he was righteous and so too was Moses faithful to God; they still had to build their Arks. Our arks, like the 'Ark' that is Christ is our very own lives, built not to buy us our salvation but to ensure God's victory in our lives here on earth. God did not choose to put Noah and his animals on a high mountain, nor did he tell Moses that the world around him was a suitable temple for Himself, because it is through the works of man that God reaps victory in our world. Far from being scary to the believer it should encourage us all to build for ourselves an ark so that our lives will be victorious.

Catch it

2010-03-23T22:39:00.000-07:00

On a fine day I
toss my net
and through it escapes
the birds and the small mammals
the branches of the trees
and gravel of the path

So I retreat to my study
to weave the net again
tighten the grid
and strengthen the twine

I study my craft
and practice my sport
to some I tutor and from some am taught

Until next time when I
throw my net of words
and the dew of the morning
and lights first rays
the motes of the air
and the sap of the trees
escape me

So I retreat to my study

An ode to the car

2010-03-04T20:24:00.000-08:00

The metal mount is dying
become senile in it's old age
unaware of it's own identity
It's faster in it's senility but
Alzheimer's has taken it's personality
Taken it's noise an explosions
and tamed them, broken them until
the living mount has become a transportation device
an a to b appliance
We used to be such a great pair
The cowboy and the fire eating mount
It's revolving steel hooves shod in rubber
In great explosions we would hurry forth
until an explosion rendered it useless
until we rolled up our sleeves and cured what ailed it
But now we have it on a steady stream of electronic meds
to even out it's moods and calm down it's wild temper
And we've nearly succeeded in making it change
we've nearly killed it

The bottomless hole

2010-02-20T21:47:00.000-08:00

There was, well, is, a bottomless hole near where I grew up. Me and my brother found it one day in late summer when the grass was knee deep and we were running, paying more attention to the game we were playing then the ground we were running on. I stepped into it and had to claw my way out. I lay on my back after that shaking from a continued feeling of slipping into that blackness. My brother came over and stared down the hole; 'I can't see the bottom.' The hole nearly overtook me there. As soon as I got back I limped back with my arm over my brother like they do in the movies; I felt like a hero. After my leg healed back up we went out there again to look into the hole that nearly took my life. We stared down there, throwing pebbles down and putting our ears to the hole to listen for the sound of it hitting the bottom. That was when we put forward the hypothesis of the bottomless hole. We got more ambitious as the sumer progressed to fall. We drew up mathematical equations, figuring if we could calculate the speed of the rock and divide it, or times it (our grip on math was pretty loose) by the time it took to hear the sound we could figure out how deep it was. The only problem was no matter how quite the day was we could never hear the rocks hit the bottom. Winter put an end to our scientific enquiry; the snow covered the hole and made it a bit to dangerous to find it again. The next spring we dragged our father, the wisest man we knew, to the hole to help us figure it out. He just looked at it and shrugged, 'looks like a hole to me.' We asked him how he would go about finding the bottom. He told us to lower a rope down till it hit the bottom. A couple weeks later we grabbed the longest rope we could find and lost it down the hole to keep the rocks company. We just kept lowering it, not feeling the bottom, until it snaked it's own way through the darkness to search out the bottom for itself. Luckily Dad didn't have much need for ropes and wouldn't notice its absence for years to come. We even saved up for our own rope from our own allowances, but no matter what we did the bottom continued to be elude us. The years went by and we continued to gather around it. When things went wrong we would go and sit beside this miracle. It gave us comfort. Our lives in some ways revolved around that hole; I drank my first strong liquor there, we mourned our grandmother there, I even took girls there (I'm sure they were confused by the choice). The hole became many things to us, it was a metaphor for girls when we discovered them, a metaphor for death when our Grandma passed. It became a metaphor for everything, a metaphor for life. Even after we moved out we would come back to stand by it. After a while my brother lost his interest. He doesn't believe it's bottomless anymore; not really. We still call it the bottomless hole, but he'll smile when he says it. He doesn't come back as often now; I've maintained my pilgrimage yearly, much to the consternation of my family. Maybe someday if I make my millions I'll buy the longest cyber-optic cable in the world and lower it down with a light just to see. But then again maybe I'll leave it for some other child to find, as long as they don't fall down it.

A Bawdy Love Poem (from an oilman to his wife)

2010-02-08T14:44:00.000-08:00

Your breasts and your thighs my dear
Your steaks and your pies my dear
are equally delicious
in their depths

Your laughter and lips
The hair between your hips
makes a welcome
that never grows cold

a working writers wish

2010-02-04T01:25:00.000-08:00

and i write here

on this skin of foolscap

lines crossing lines

ink and scars

like some ill-treated notebook

watermarked and torn

so that some years on

when my tongue is gone

they can read my story

and know that I lived

constant flow

2010-02-01T12:43:00.000-08:00

lanterns and fires on concrete banks

people turned grey and moth-like by the night and light

float like embers flowing upwards on drafts of hot air

a bridge spans the night sky in the water

people staring down at blinking stars

a river flowing over a river

the fluorescent bright banks of the river selling

everything and nothing at all

lubricating the flowing crowd with activity and alcohol

and islands of street vendors create eddies of people

and clouds of steam smelling of the food you now want

and the light punctuates the darkness with an exclamation point

and the periods of silence interspersed with question marks of sound

all flowing like the river

that holds the activity in its breast

The Library

2010-01-29T12:24:00.000-08:00

Rows of choices line the stacks each positioned, just so, spines set out to hide secrets. Each one a possibility, a new adventure to take. Through rows and rows stacks unreel themselves offering up limitless potential, each one obscured by the other, each one potentially better than the last. Choices must be made. Choose to have that adventure and not have that one; to learn that and not learn that. Lifetimes worth of books stand waiting to be read, to be explored and understood. Choose wisely, there's only so many you can read, but choose quickly there's only so much time and choose with purpose.

Between

2010-01-16T11:45:00.001-08:00

In the white space
between the concrete
the reader to the writer speaks

The Word

2010-01-13T01:53:00.000-08:00

In the beginning was the Word
And the Word was with God
And the Word was God

The word was given
And it was rejected
The Word was given
And He was rejected

The word (was) corrupted
And It is incorruptible

Through the word
Salvation
and
Destruction
Spread

Through Him all things were made
Without Him nothing was made that has been made

The Good and the bad
Tyranny and pacifism
Love and death

Was created and
Is re-created

And in a word
we bring about persecution
And in the Word
He brings about Salvation

Tonight We Worship Our Youth (an aborted creation)

2010-01-04T19:48:00.000-08:00

From the tops of mountains we've ascended,

limbs charged still,

with cigarettes dangling from our lips

we mock the feeble grasp of death.

Emboldened by chemicals we throw ourselves from cliffs,

safe in the knowledge of our own boundless ability to heal.

Youth is our power

and tonight we worship ourselves.

Practice makes perfect

2009-12-04T01:17:00.000-08:00

You can do this, It's all you've got left in this life.

I'm aware I'm talking to my self like I'm in a movie. I don't know if it's because I've watched too many movies and I'm mimicking them or if this is how one would normally talk in a situation like this. All I know is it feels right.

My reflection stares back at me from the bathroom mirror. I look deep into my own eyes like I imagine I would if this were a movie. I get less answers from those eyes than I want.

I dress in those clothes I've seen a million times. I just bought the suit jacket today, but the rest of the clothes have been purchased when I've recognized them at a mall or a bazaar. The guns are the strangest parts of my collection, and strangely no more difficult to procure than the rest of the ensemble. Two 9mm automatics with Catholic imagery I got in Mexico from what must have been religious gangsters.

Once dressed I exit my dirty room, close the door and walk to the next door. I've seen this part too. I didn't know why I hesitate until now. But I do. I stop and think of all the twists and turns that have brought me here today; and then I knock.

I draw my right-hand gun from under my left arm and hold the silenced muzzle to the door.

1-2-3-4

It was years before I counted to time the thing out. I don't know if I knew it was me doing it then but it returned so often I felt that I should know it intimately.

I shoot two bullets through the door and spin back to my right.

5-6-7-8

Bullet riddle the door leaving the structure compromised enough that I can kick through like a hero from the movies. As I step through the door I draw my left-hand gun from under my right arm.

Man to the left and I don't even have to look. I hold the gun and shoulder height at 90 degrees to my body and fire one shot. He's dead.

Simultaneously I shoot a man on my right crouched down. I have to have my gun tilted at about a 30 degree angle and my arm out at maybe a fifteen degree angle out. I know I've hit him before I've even pull the trigger. Spin to the left, shoot. Three steps forward and shoot through the door.

I use no more than one bullet per person. There's not that many people and it's done in a matter of seconds. People lay scattered around the room in unnatural positions and I can barely tell whether I'm sleeping

This is where the dream ends though, and thus so to does my foreknowledge. I know I reach the holy door without getting killed but I don't know what's behind it. It opens. I've still got bullets in my gun but I don't know if I should raise them or not. I don't know what to do now. Wouldn't the dream have told me if there were more bad guys?

I didn't know why I was doing this till now. She comes out through the door battered and scared, pleading at me with her eyes. But what now?

Goodbyes

2009-12-01T22:42:00.000-08:00

They come in groups, at farewell parties or at tumultuous points in our lives. We gather together and split apart leaving spaces that no one knew were there. A chill follows warmth and loneliness follows gatherings. A strange feeling of nothing to do and no reason to do anything takes the place where friends once dwelt. Slowly others gather round to make new places and new friends are sought out to bring the proper amount of spontaneity and noise back into our lives.

Flavours of stress

2009-11-29T00:12:00.000-08:00

She comes home from work a mess of nervous. Four meetings tomorrow and deadlines lined up like bowling pins have her in a continual state of fight of flight. She bounces between the two with barely a pause. She reminisces about her days of unemployment and the stress free days of sitting around the house. In those days she wanted to work so bad that she would stay up at nights writing and re-writing her resume and cover letter. She was falling behind her classmates from university with every passing day. What would they say about her now? She reminisced about her university days when she didn't worry about the future and all she thought about was her cute boyfriend and the weekend ahead. Of course deadlines of a different sort plagued her days then. Assignments and petty arguments drove her to drink on the weekends. And when she would lie in bed hungover she would reminisce about her days in high school when her only worry was the cute boy in her class and whether her father would embarrass her when he picked her up. Maybe the future would be better, be stress free. Retirement is where it's at she decides and lies in bed thinking about the stress free days of senility.

The Art of Lonely Cooking

2009-11-25T18:20:00.000-08:00

The key here is to stay away from anything fancy. No one wants a candle lit dinner for one or a feast to savour by yourself. It's like drinking alone, largely frowned upon by polite society. Simplicity is the theme.

Portion size and ease of creation also hold sway in this underutilized skill. It's few that can truly enjoy the simple art of eating alone. It takes a strong person to walk the line between gluttony and austerity that eating alone demands. It's too easy to live on the greasy portions of McDonalds or slip into a rut of beans on rice when one eats alone. This takes the joy out of life. One must learn how to enjoy food without conversation.

Portion control becomes difficult as one lacks the conversation to slow down the intake of the food. Thus one might finish, and not feeling full eat something more only to feel overly full half and hour later, or, on the flip side, one might quit eating while still a little hungry anticipating this reaction of his belly, but then a half hour after he has finished his meal his stomach still growls and he is forced into scavenging in the kitchen for something to fill the corners.

Some would argue that this art is useless and company and food don't actually have anything to do with each other. But I disagree eating with people is natural, eating alone must be learned.

in absentia

2009-11-24T16:52:00.000-08:00

I pace my apartment trying to get my brain to work. Photoshop sits staring at me through my flat screen monitor with a half done project covering the screen like some tattered rag. The screen dims, then winks off by itself. I wiggle the mouse and it comes alive again. Nervous energy overwhelms me and I leave the room to scavenge through my fridge. The carrots are starting to wilt and the potatoes are beginning to sprout. I should use them but I can't pull enough together to make anything out of it. The potato chips on the cupboard are stale but it's my last bag so I finish it off. The yogurt's nearly finished so I grab a spoon out of the sink, rinse it off and eat the rest out of the container. Feeling a little better I go back to my computer to find it sleeping. I wiggle the mouse to bring it back to attention. The internet icon beckons me, but it's fruitless. I turned off my internet last month and the only open network exists just to tantalize me while being mysteriously unconnectable. The screen winks off again.

"Damnit."

The sound breaks the silence and recedes. Maybe I need a little music, something to break the monotony of the apartment. I open iTunes and flip through my catalogue trying to find the right song for my mood. Double click and the music pours through tiny computer speakers. But I can't think now. The project mocks me and my thought flees at the sound of music. It peaks out from where it's hiding but they doesn't get far before it's chased away by the music. The music stops and the single lonely thought pops out again to rattle around in my brain. The screen winks off again.

Callabo

2009-11-21T00:43:00.000-08:00

Photo courtesy of Mystery Reflex

He was practically dancing his feet were so itchy. He stood in a group of people at the train station. Each person had at least one piece of luggage in their hands, some, having both hands full, were kicking along a third piece at their feet. The talked in loud voices and expansive gestures as the waited in the line for their tickets. He was the only silent one, constantly shifting on his feet.
His face told stories of excitement at the hubbub around him and a certain sadness, as sad at leaving someone behind.
They got to the ticket booth and one of the men approached the window and ordered all the tickets. He handed over his credit card when asked and in return got a book of tickets for the group. Excitement was mounting in the group and you could see it affect the young man. His grin was wider now and his feet seemed to be detached from his body they moved around so much.
The man with the tickets gathered the group around and told them now was the time. A small cheer went up. Now they were ready and best be heading on to the platform to meet the train.
The group turned as one and made their slow way to the gate. Upon arrival they made a somewhat orderly line and got their ticket from the man with the tickets and went through the automated gates. Each went through, baggage in hand or kicked along at their feet.
When the woman in front of the man with the itchy feet got up to the leader he gave her the second last ticket and our man put down the luggage and gave her a hug. After that she was followed through the gates by the leader.
He stood there, just outside the gates till she left and waved goodbye as she disappeared on the train.

New weird

2009-11-18T21:28:00.000-08:00

"You take care now"
The sun was setting in the park and I was late going home again. I'd spent too many hours sitting on this bench talking lately and my wife was beginning to wonder why I was always late.

"Yeah you too. Tell your wife I said hi. On second thought that might not be the best idea."

"No, you're probably right."

It was a small town and being as it was such I knew just about everyone there was to know. Comes from being a cop so long I suppose, but it also makes my job more difficult. If I was a lawyer I'd be pulled for conflict of interest on every case, but in this town that's unescapable. Take this here case. He was almost my brother-in-law before he got too wild. We both look a little worn out now. We both got grey hair and faces betraying our age. We could be brothers, we're probably cousins. But time marches on and we make our choices and then there we are staring at each other separated only by the law. Then he took it too far on whiskey and meth and ended up killing his wife, and though he didn't know it then, his unborn child. When something like that happens it tends to rip away any past, at least for the moment.

"I suppose I should thank you."

"I don't think that's really the case."

"I wasn't doin' nobody no good though. It's easy to see when I don't got whiskey clouding my brain. I've learned a lot since then."

"Good to hear."

"You know I don't know if I can keep doin' this. It gets harder every time you know that."

"Yeah. I guess time does that. Destroys all your ties after a while."

"Hey, you ever hear of how my Grandpa saved a women from a building fire?"

"You're just full a stories now aren't you?"

"It's all I got to do sometimes you know. We just sit around swapping stories. Couple of really old guys have some of the most interesting stories around. Guys so tied to this here bit a land that they've got stories going back for ever."

"Doesn't sound like it's too bad eh?"

"Nah. It can get boring and repetitive though. I suppose after a while I'll be able to move on from that whole thing."

"And then where?"

"Don't know. Not back here though."

We both share a bittersweet chuckle.

"Anyways I really got to go though."

"Yeah I know. There's only so much time you can sit around talking to ghosts of the past."

I put on my jacket and walk away. You know when I caught him I nearly shot that son of a bitch. Figured it's what he deserved. But I made my mind up not to. Vengeance is mine saith the Lord. Turns out the state thinks so too. For all that I would of shot him it hurt when I watched him in that chair.

Underground parking garages are another world

2009-11-18T15:30:00.000-08:00

In artificial lighting and stale air four-wheel drones zip in and out of a forest of concrete pillars and squat metal structures. Human activity is cut to a minimum. They zip forth from metal conveyances to exits and back. It's not a human's world down here in the harsh fluorescent light.
Back and forth these drones go ever searching for yellow lines boxing in an empty expanse of grey concrete. Oversized vehicles squish in to undersized squares in a competition to see who can stop the fastest.
Keen eyes gaze from inside vehicles searching, always searching. Minutes tick by as the same vehicles pass the same vehicles.
The world is squished to two dimensions, hemmed in by concrete over and under. Sandwiching between it these ever wandering beasts of metal. There's no mind down here just ever present vigilance for that one open spot, the space between yellow lines.
And then one of the sleeping beasts awakes. Eyes light up and the world is put on pause as the beast begins it's preparations to leave the space.
Once all is secure it moves out while another squeezes into the space and a third try to sneak past on it's a unfulfilled quest and a forth goes away with shattered expectations.
Then out of the depths of the metal beast people get out and scurry toward the lights past slow moving metal objects.

Something I've been working on

2009-11-09T16:39:00.001-08:00

I am the Lord of Dream

that unscientific wonderland of the mind

The ruler of power and weakness.

For sleep and dreams are fleeting and vital

Those poor few for whom sleep is denied

And dreams only ambition

Steadily lose their connection to reality

and float off into a grey suburb of purgatory

Yet what would happen were the world to

if only for a split second, lie awake?

Many a dream have I pondered this

as women go to school naked and men fail to run from pursuers.

My older siblings Death and Life always get the attention

Like most twins they move in sync throughout the world,

bringing happiness and sorrow in equal measure.

Such a serious duo for a weighty task

But what am I but the prince of The Small Death

and the queen of your ambitions?

What is life without sleep?

And where goes the arrow of your timeline without ambition?

It is with considerably more humour

that I go about my work

toying with the sentiments and sorrows

of the rulers and the ruled.

In laughter and sorrow I dance through harlequin halls

In this ever-changing country of dream

As the world changes I too change

and as the world stays so too do I

With joy I maintain my contradictions

It's the privilege and obligation of dreams to do so.

How else can you see around the corners of this world

except by a twisting of the mind so sever as to pop your arm out of its socket?

It is in opposition and contradiction we live and thrive.

People point it out in the history books

and strive to eradicate it through more research

But they can't

And they never will

For in the heart

Where you fall in sleep

Nothing is so simple as fact

Curate my life

2009-09-30T23:53:00.000-07:00

People treat their lives like an art gallery. They choose each piece, sometimes carefully, sometimes a little haphazardly. But each piece has it's own meaning, it's own thing it brings to the table.

First you start with your personal affects. It's the easiest bit, the bit you have the most control over. What does the cut of that trouser leg say about my life? How does that tshirt speak to who I am? Does that band make me look fat? Does that book say what I want it to say?

Once you've got that conquered you move onto your friends. You lure them in with your books, tshirts and wit. Collect them all. What tv show do you want to be in? Make sure you have the funny friend to highlight your sense of wit. Grab the smart one so your deep discussions can impress those around you. And of course you must have that best friend to let people know you're dependable and friendly.

Now keep going. The girl/boyfriend is important, you've only got one so choose wisely. Keep your standards high so everyone knows you're good enough to have caught and kept the best person in the room.

After that it gets expensive. Choose your house. Are you urban and edgy? Make sure to choose a city and neighbourhood to highlight that. Or are you earthy and rural? Get that natural looking house just on the outskirts of that town up north.

We want each person who enters our life to look around in awe at each of the things we placed there. To take a careful look at all the things we've put there, all the things we've consumed, and be able to see who we are. To understand us. Not just that we like a band, but why we like that band. We're talking through everything we buy or do. So make sure next time you enter someone's gallery you take a good look and try to understand. And maybe, even if they don't mesh with the rest of your space, let them have a small space. It'll show off your generosity, or maybe it will increase your generosity. Either way is nice.

if heaven and hell decide they both are satisfied

2009-09-09T20:59:00.000-07:00

There's a Death Cab for Cutie song that's been going through my head. Pause here for a moment. Listen to the song and read the lyrics if you're not familiar.

If you're at all a romantic the song probably puts chills up and down your spine. If however you're a bit of a realist you're probably scoffing at the naivete of the romantics.

I will at times lay claimto both those attributes so the song has me sneering while the hair on my forearms stand on end. It's a bit of a weird sensation.

It's an ode to a love that goes beyond the grave. In the failure of religion he will be the one to save his love when she goes into the night. I can not believe that I will ever be saved by a girl. It's too much pressure to put on a person. We're too messed up to put all our fears and failures onto another person. The excessive expectations have probably been the cause of many broken relationships. You enter thinking that you will be fixed, completely changed by your love. NAd then after the first week, month, year you realize that she too has problems. And then you start to look at other girls, and in the bit of mystery that each person has you read the solutions to all your problems, and so the cycle starts again.

But I want to be saved by that love, which is the root of my discomfort with this song.

So then come God the husband of the church and the answer to my question.

I've never been a fan of the idea of heaven. It's always seemed so boring, but maybe that's because I'm selfish. Now I'm all for karaoke, but I've never fancied an eternity in a choir. It just doesn't sound like that much fun. But holding to your love in the blackest of rooms doesn't actually sound that bad.

so listen again, but think instead of the lover of your soul making this claim, and somehow heaven starts to make sense.

A bad poem cause I haven't posted.

2009-08-26T00:57:00.001-07:00

If lights could speak

The lights of the planes get lost the stars

And the twinkle is mirrored in the house lights

And streetlights down below.

Each one has a million stories to tell

Locked in burning gasses and

Shimmering filaments.

A business-suited man on his way to Chicago,

A mother putting her child to bed,

A sweaty-palmed man with full pockets

Beneath a street lamp.

Each more important than

Any odyssey or lyric put to 4/4 time.

Write

2009-08-17T15:33:00.000-07:00

The days end in so many ways, but the beginnings are set in stone. Wake up, internet, coffee, breakfast, shower. After that the day begins to unfold along it's natural course. It's the one part of the day that I can take full control of my life. After that it begins to slip and work, friends and other demands require attention. I have to go grocery shopping, or head in to work a little early. Bikes need fixing and friends need talking to. The day never unfolds under my control. There are always little things that spring from my grasp. People that make the day worse, or better. Or simple act mis-acted so the results are unconventional. By night the day has had it's way with me and I sit, up too late again, exhausted by the demands of my world. The adventure of the day is nice, but sometimes I think the mornings to myself offer more rest than the night's sleep did.

Worries

2009-08-04T01:59:00.000-07:00

My greatest fear is to be found naked in my bathroom far past my prime, after I have been in there for two or three days decomposing in the heat and the moisture. I guess I wouldn’t be embarrassed at that point if you believe what the atheists/agnostics/believers tell you. I would already be in heaven or hell or purgatory, sent on to my next life, or just disappear. Maybe swallowed into the universal consciousness. Either way I don’t think my dead, unsightly naked body would be that embarrassing to me.

So why do I worry about something that probably won’t happen? And even if it does happen I won’t care. I don’t know. It kind of wraps up everything I find reprehensible though. And to go out in a way that is so opposite of how I like to think that I’m living, it’s enough to drive anyone crazy.

Think about that dead, ugly, overweight, rotting, naked corpse. A, it’s naked. It’s such a vulnerable state. B, too old, vulnerable again. C, it’s such a bother to everyone to break down some bathroom door just to drag out your ugly rotting corpse, and to add to that you’re unsightly and naked. Gross. So not only are you vulnerable, but a draw on the energy of everyone around you. Ever since I was a kid I was told to be two things, tough and self-reliant, and I guess that death counteracts all of that.

Funny though, isn’t it, I mean this will never ever matter. But sometimes I worry about it.

Sitting on the porch

2009-07-25T17:17:00.001-07:00

It’s that kindof day. Where Dogs whine and bark to be let out and scratches at the door as manifestations of the itchy feet and cats are nowhere to be seen. A day when the bonds that hold you down drag like cement shoes and the humidity bears down on you like lead rain. The world is dull with opportunity.

Clomp

Clomp at five metres your new shoes give your feet blisters.

Clomp

At ten your shirt is soaked.

Clomp

At fifteen you can barely move. And you look back and the house beckons with promises of crisp iced tea in the refrigerator, and ice in the freezer beside chocolate dipped revels. And you can’t make it any farther because you’re too tired. And there’s things to be done today. And besides you can leave anytime.

So you slog your way back. The tea feels new and alive in your throat, and the ice cream wakes you up and you’re almost ready to go, but the newspaper beckons with possibility. All the possibilities in the world in the weekend edition. You pick it up and flip through. Everything that can be done overseas and under seas. You catalogue them in the back of your mind safe for when you make you’re getaway.

Then you look up and the sun is fading and the darkness outside is too formidable for your small light. And the NewYorkTimesCrossword is nearly done, so you might as well put it off ‘till tomorrow.

The crossword is done and your mind is near blank. You wash your face, maybe take a cold shower before you go to bed and dream of all the things you will do tomorrow, all the new ideas you gained from today that will be put into action.

And you get up in the morning and tomorrow is gone like the imagined sight of a friend in a crowd and it’s today again and the dogs bark and whine and you can’t find your cat and the paper sits on the porch.

Coffee or Love

2009-07-23T00:42:00.001-07:00

“It’s either love or too much caffeine.”

“Really? You just met her.”

“No that’s why I said either. I’ve been drinking too much coffee today.”

He punctuates the sentence with a sip of coffee as if to prove his point.

“You really got to lay off the coffee.”

The two young men are drinking coffee at an all night diner. The only light outside is lurid and artificial.

“I’ve been so hopped up on the stuff today that I can barely sit down. I can’t sleep; I can barely keep a thought in my mind for more than five seconds. And the way my heart’s going it’s fit to burst.”

“Which is either the caffeine or the girl.”

“Or both.”

The waitress puts a temporary hold on their conversation.

“You boys decided yet?”

“You decided what you want?” the overly caffeinated fellow asks his friend.

“Yeah. I’ll have the apple pie.”

“Anything else for you?”

“A refill would be nice when you have the chance.”

“Sure Hon.” She turns to the other fellow, “And for you?”

“The breakfast special with scrambled eggs, bacon and brown toast.”

“Sure. Anything else?”

“A refill for me too.” He puts his mug to the side of the table with shaking hands. “Oh and do you have any H.P. Sauce and hot sauce?”

“Sure do. I’ll bring it right out.”

“Thanks.”

They hand over their menus.

“Little late for breakfast.”

“Or early. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to sleep tonight.”

“Lay off the coffee man.”

“I’m not sure it would help.”

“Really? She’s got you that tied up in knots. Just like that?”

“Maybe it’s the combination. Like getting teamed up on in a fight.”

“So lay off the coffee, give it a couple hours and at least have a nap before you go to work.”

“Nah. It’s too far gone far that already.”

His eyes dart around the room. The sight of the waitress coming towards them stalls the conversation yet again.

“Not very many people drinking coffee at this time of the night. Had to put on a new pot.”

“Actually, on second thought I’ll pass on the second cup of coffee,” he says staring hard at his jittery friend.

“You too hon?”

“No no, hit me with another. I’m not going to sleep anytime soon.”

She leaves.

“Honestly? You couldn’t just stop drinking the coffee. All that caffeine can’t be good for you.”

“Meh. I’ll be fine.”

They share a moment of silence, one looking slowly around the room, eyes landing on the couple across from them, and the group of highschool students with their twittering laughter near the back, the other with both legs shacking up and down, darting eyes and the constant movement of mug to mouth.

“So you were saying you are too far gone.”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s hard enough to sleep on a good night. But a night like this…”

“I guess the heat doesn’t help anything.”

“Nope.”

“Either way I guess the date went well then.”

“It was just coffee.”

“Whatever it was. It went well?”

“Yeah. I mean we sat there for hours drinking coffee and talking. So that’s pretty good. I always feel so nervous when things start to go well. Like they can see me starting pursue them in my awkward way. I think it would be off-putting. You saw me around her. Did I act all head-over-heels?”

“Well you were twitchy and a little more nervous than usual. But that could have been the caffeine. I guess it’s just a chemical reaction in your brain either way isn’t it?’

They waitress arrives with their food.

“The apple pie, and the breakfast. Anything else? A refill on your coffee?”

“Yeah I’d like a refill.”

“My you do like your coffee don’t you?”

“I do.”

“What about you? A little bit of coffee with your pie?”

“No. I have to sleep tonight.”

“You sure? It’s hard to eat pie without coffee. A touch wouldn’t hurt would it?”

“Give me half a cup. I guess I’ll be fine.”

“You can’t beat the black brew man. Thanks”

“You need anything else just let me know.”

She walks away leaving them to try to drudge up the conversation.

“I don’t buy the chemical reaction stuff.”

“What? It’s science. It doesn’t matter if you buy it or not.”

“No I don’t mean I think that it’s all false, I just think there’s more too life than just chemical reactions in your brain. I mean if it’s just the coffee than all it means is a bad night’s sleep, if not it could mean a completely new direction in life, new friends, new pains and joys.”

“Yeah I guess.”

“I just hate it when people try to be so jaded and act as if it’s all just electricity throwing switches in your brain.”

“Yeah I know. But it’s not all sweeping romances either.”

“Yeah. There are precious few of those.”

On that downer they both focus on their own thoughts, and food. Soon both sit in font of empty plates and mugs.

“I think it’s about time for me to go to bed. Probably a couple hours past that actually. You want a ride back?”

“Nah. I’ll walk. Maybe I’ll catch the sunrise from the park.”

“Sounds nice. See ya.”

He puts down a five dollar bill and leaves.

Creativity?

2009-07-04T23:18:00.000-07:00

People always ask where creativity comes from. From the ether may be the best answer. Know one answers the question directly, and if the scientists know they’re not telling. It just appears in your head, and then moves through your hands and out. You can’t think about it too much. What comes is 90% of the time what needs to come out your fingertips. It will need work. It will need to be perfected, to be refined, but at it’s heart what pops into your head is what just works. If you start opening too many possibilities in your head it all falls apart. There’s just too much out there. Too many possibilities that your project can be. Once you start down that path it all comes apart in your hand. It’s too fragile. Treat it with care and don’t prod it too much. Just put it down. That goes for life too.

Opt out

2009-06-25T02:27:00.000-07:00

I think I'm about ready to opt out, which is not a good thing, but sometime I think it's not that bad of a thing. You know, just kind of fade from view of the general populace. Hole up in some hotel room somewhere on the edge of civilization for 2 bucks a night. Eat my 50 cent breakfast and just ignore it all. Let go of the fighting, the private lives of actors, and the stupidity of the average consumer.

Maybe I'll step in every now and again when I have something pertinent to say. Throw the words into the fray and then step back out again.

I wouldn't even have to become a hermit. I could just deal with my life daily. Deal with the lives of the villagers around me. Help them out when their trucks are stuck, maybe lend a hand around harvest time. I could just get around speaking pidgin. Just enough of their language to get by.

'Hi how does'

'I fine now. You are?'

Maybe after a particularly hard day of doing whatever it is I would be doing I could go down to the watering hole and get by on the grunts that pass for conversations in places where most people can barely speak their own language.

I would just ignore all this. This god we've made out of all we've made. Just let the 9-5, one-up-manship insanity behind. Focus on my writing. Focus on the people. Focus on doing something.

We're going to have to try harder now.

2009-06-23T23:36:00.000-07:00

It's a phrase that is incongruous and full of meaning. If you take at it's most smallest it could be a couple of guys trying to push their car out of the snow. If you blow it up to encompass us all it brings on this whole new meaning. Like a presidential address after a devastating war. We're all going to have to work harder now to get our country back on track.

And at this junction of my life, as I ride the worn path to and from a corporate coffee shop slinging coffee, it's particularly meaningful. I'm going to have try a little harder now. Give that extra little bit.

It always seems like it's that extra little bit that's keeping us all back. That extra little bit that when you look back on your life you can see those points that you regret because you didn't take that extra step, give that extra little bit.

What could that extra little bit do? It could make my job easier. Take for example the phenomena of people leaving empty disposable cups at their table when a garbage is conveniently placed right by the door. It's not so much that I have to clean it up, as the thought (or lack thereof) behind it. Every time I see people do it I want to grab their cup and throw it out right in front of them as some sort of protest of what they have done, as if they would notice me cleaning up after them and be embarrassed that they were incapable of throwing out their own cups.

Just today four older people, at least two with paper cups had sat down and had their respective drinks and snacks. Then at the end of their little gathering they all got up and made their way to the door. I saw them get up and immediately walked around the counter, grabbed their paper cups and followed them to the door to throw away the cups. I was literally right behind them, practically walking on trodding on their heels. For some reason I was surprised when they didn't notice anything.

It all looks so trite when I write it down. But it's things like that, talking on cell phones and ordering, acting like you own the place, ordering ridiculous drinks five minutes before closing and general lack of respect for the workers that make the service industry a catch-all for the lazy and stupid in society. No one else wants to do it.

But to go deeper into that extra reserve of whatever it is I think that's where we need to live. In that little bit more. That space where you know what to do and have to choose should I push it, or just leave it. Should I tell my friend he's being an idiot, maybe face a fight, but hopefully help him out. Or should I just leave it and let him sort it out. Should I make the effort or not.

But then you over think it and it comes out sounding like an after school special, just whinny and trite.

But one thing's for sure look around yourself and tell me we shouldn't be trying harder. But then when hasn't that been true? And at what point in time have we taken up the slack and really done that? Never. And there's the problem, the sad and sorry truth of t he failures that make up the human race: we haven't and we won't.

We'll go so far and then stop. There we'll pitch our tents. We'll start our campfires and begin our hotdog roasts. We'll get comfortable and protect the status quo.

Then we'll point to each other and say I'm doing just as much as him. I'm pulling my weight. Or at our most introspective moments we'll admit that it's wrong, but even if i tried I wouldn't change a thing. So I might as well be comfortable till I die. Some may try to raise the troops. Cry 'Revolution up in this Bitch', but if anything revolution has been proved a fraud.

But if I don't do something I'm just going to sink into some existential crisis and begin some slow fade. So if for nothing else than selfish reasons (and I do hope it's not just selfishness) I'm going to have to try harder now.

Twenty-Ten- a rough draft

2009-05-25T13:19:00.000-07:00

I had it all planned out. The Olympics were coming to Vancouver and all the hotel rooms were booked way in advance. So what’s the artful dodger to do? Make a buck.

I would rent out my place for the duration of the Olympics. A little timely gouging never hurt anyone, and besides they can afford it and me, I can barely get by.

What’s not to like right? Everyone is happy. They have a place to stay, and I have a month to do whatever I want, pretty much for free.

“So that’s your new plan Dave?”

That’s my mate Steve.

“It’s guaranteed money. Do you know how much people are renting out houses for?”

“No. How much?”

“I, lots, that’s how much.”

“That’s specific. You need to figure out how much someone will pay to live in a crap shack like this.”

To be fair the place wasn’t that bad. It’s the ground floor of a house. It was a bit old, well really old but I figured we could spin that. “Old Character house” and all that jazz. All it needed was a bit of TLC and they would love it. Besides with the right camera angles anything can be beautiful.

“And what are we supposed to do during the month we're homeless?”

“Take a vacation, stay at your mum’s, couch surf, I don’t know. Use that brainbox of yours and figure out something. The world is your oyster.”

“You see no problems with this?”

“No.”

“What are you gonna do with your CD’s? For example.”

“You worry too much.”

“And you don’t worry at all.”

“Right, well the CD’s, and other personal pieces you’re worried about could be... boxed up and put in storage. It just takes a little thought. Come on, now none of that pessimism from you now. Just give me your assent and leave the rest up to Dave, yeah.”

“If you fuck this up…”
“I can’t. It’s just too easy.”

My confidence knows no bounds, sometimes. That was where the whole thing began. A thought aired to my roommate and I was off in search of what everyone comes to North America for, a slice of the good life.

Stage one of the plan, that is convincing my roommate, is complete. On to stage two: in-depth research. The ease of the modern man is such that I don't even have to leave the house. A bit of searching on Google and I've got all the information.

"Right, Steve."

"Yeah."

"So here it is: $1000 U.S. for a week or $3500 U.S. for the month. How does that sound?"

"It sounds like a lot."

"I know. Imagine what you can buy with all that."

"That would pay off a fair chunk of my student loans."

"Or you could not be boring and do something with it."

"You're sure you can get this much?"

"Easy. All you go to do is know how to sell. First we take some pictures of the house. We'll get each of the bedrooms, the living room and kitchen, maybe an interesting angle on the washroom. A few shots outside: the backyard and maybe a neighbourhood pic."

"What about the laundry room?"

"Hell no. That place is just dirty. They can find that out on their own."

"It'd be a draw if we advertised the washer and dryer though"

"We can tell, just don't show. There's not an interesting enough angle for that place. Now I'm getting ahead of myself. Before we show off we gotta make sure this place is presentable. You got time tomorrow?"

"I thought you were taking care of the whole thing."

"Oh I'll take care of it if you give me your half of the money. No?

I didn't think so. We don't have to do a hardcore clean anyways, just a quick one that'll look good through the lens of a camera. The place needs to be cleaned anyways."

"Fine. I'll give you a couple hours tomorrow. But that's it."

So there it is the beginning of what could be a beautiful grift.

The cleaning doesn't take long. Really it's just a once over to make sure the place doesn't look like an animal lives here when people in China are looking at the place.

“Just shove it all in your closet and we’re done Steve.”

He just insists on making this job harder than it needs to be.

“I’m not just gonna shove all my stuff in my closest. I’m not an animal. Just let me put all my stuff away.”

“No. Just finish it and we’ll take some pictures.”

“How about you go take some pictures and by the time you get around to my bedroom I’ll be done. Does that sound ok?”

“Why must you always make it so difficult?”

“Just shut up and go take pictures.”

The pictures, however, will be the difficult part. I have to find the best angle to show off the positive and hide the negative. It’s not long before Steve joins me in trying to find the best angle.

“I don’t know how you think you’re gonna convince someone that our house is worth 35 hundred-a-month.”

"Look, all we need to do is convince them that they want what we have. We can't promise the moon and then give them some cave. But we can promise them a planet and then give them Pluto."

"That was a crazy mixed metaphor."

"It's all about selling. Make a market and you can name the price. Who's selling local flavour? No one. So we sell it and it's an addition to the house that no one else offers, and then when they come and realize that local flavour comes with a few quirks that are less then pleasant, that is the price they will have to pay, because we are still within expectations. Sell them on high expectations, then don't completely fail those expectations."

“So what? Pictures of the exterior, and a close-up of the new stove?”

“You’ve got sarcasm dribbling down your chin. But in answer to your question: yes. That is basically what we’re gonna do. A lot of close ups of the nice bits of our house, and a few other strategic shots. Nothing wrong with that. You never point out the weaknesses of a car you’re selling. Same principle here. And if anyone asks the place is paradise.”

“I’m not lying just to get some stranger into my house.”

“Why? You do it with the girls every Friday night. Budum-dum. You don’t have to lie. Just let them know how nice the place is. You like living here right?”

“Yeah.”

“See there you go. Just be positive. And move that chair a little bit. Yeah just over the bad flooring.”

I may be no great photographer but I must say after taking over 100 pictures of the house I made this place look good. People were gonna be clamoring to stay here.

“Steve, get over here, we’ve got our first hit.”

“What?”

“Somebody wants to rent our place.”

“Really? You must have taken some pretty amazing pictures.”

“You know it. Look. It’s a German family. Couple kids. One’s an Olympian. They’ve got a picture. Looks like a nice family. They want the place for the whole month.”

“Right. So you gonna mail them back or what?”

“Not yet. Give it a couple days. Maybe we’ll get a better offer. Who knows.”

“Don’t be an ass.”

“Give me two days. Two days and I’ll mail them back and everything will be fine.”

“Whatever. You’re the one running this thing.”

A day passes and I’m getting ready to finalize this thing. They seem nice enough, and free money is free money. So I’m sitting there with Steve checking my emails.

“No one else interested yet?”

“No. I’ll just email them.”

“Ok. So it’s all done then? We’re just settling the details?”

“Yeah. That should be that. Fuck.”

“What something wrong?”

“No. It’s ok. Don’t worry I’ll take care of it.”

It was an email from my family.

Hi David. How’s it going? We’ve got great news. Your Dad has a line on some tickets to some Olympics events for cheap, and there’s a seat sale we can hop on. Is it ok if we stay with you? All the hotel rooms are booked, we already tried. Anyways get back quickly we need to figure this out.

Love Mum

“I can’t believe you actually pulled it off. I didn’t think it would actually happen.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Now what the hell? Who am I supposed to break the bad news to? I can’t tell my Parents they can’t come visit me and go to the Olympics. What kind of son is that? And I can’t tell this nice family that all the sudden I’ve changed my mind and screw up their chance to see their daughter in action in the Olympics. And I sure as hell can’t tell Steve that we’re not making that money anymore. Not after I just confirmed we’d have that money in our pockets.

It was time to think. I was so sure there was a way out of the whole thing. With the right plan I wouldn’t have to tell anyone the bad news. All I needed was a day. After that if I couldn’t figure out a plan, well then I had to tell someone something.

So it was back to the Internet. Places to stay in Vancouver: nothing. There was literally nothing. Every hotel was booked. I called every single hotel I could find in the entire city, and even some just outside the city. Nothing. But that wasn’t entirely unexpected. It was a route that had been tried but I thought it was worth another.

But I had friends, and some of those friends had houses. Which means either I could try to pawn my parents off on them, or something. Besides they probably wouldn’t be here for too long, and I needed a place to stay during that time too.

First up was Shawn.

“Hello.”

“Hey Shawn.”

“Dave. What’s up?”

“Just wondering if you have any plans for the Olympics.”

“No. Why?”

“I’m in a little bit of a conundrum here. I was going to rent my house out for the Olympics, I have people ready to rent it and everything, but then my parents are coming over from England and want to stay at my house cause they got some tickets for some of the events, so they thought it would be the perfect time to visit and see Canada.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“I know you don’t have a lot of room but if you’re going to go on vacation or something during the Olympics, or know someone who is… You know, just let me know.”

“So now because you’re renting out your house you want to couch surf with your parents in tow?”

“So it’s not the best plan, but all the hotels are full and I can’t tell my parents no, and I can’t back out on the nice family that is renting my place.”

“This is going to turn into a disaster.”

“Don’t worry about it man. I have it all under control. I’ll figure it out.”

“Good luck with that. But I think Jess and Wes might be away during the Olympics. You might want to try them.”

“Thank-you man.”

And there it was, another line I could follow. Sew enough of them together and you have a safety net. So I called Jess.

“His this is Jess. I’m probably doing something too awesome so I’m not gonna pick up the phone. Leave a message and I’ll call you back when I’m not being awesome.”

I hate that message.

“Hi Jess just needed to talk to you about a couple things. Call me back.”

And then I tried Wes.

“This is Wes. Leave a message.”

“Hey Wes. I just called Jess so I hope one of you guys get this message soon. I just need to talk to you about some things. Call me back.”

It was a bit of a dead end. All I could do was wait for them. So I went on to spin some other threads.

“Tim. It’s Dave. This is gonna sound kind of funny, but what are you doing during the Olympics?”

“Nothing. Why?”

I’m trying to work some things out. I’m renting out my place for the Olympics and I need somewhere for me and my parents to stay.”

“You and you’re parents?”

“Well, my parents aren’t going to be here for the duration.”

“If you need a place you can always crash on my couch, but I don’t think you and your parents will be very comfortable living in my living room.”

“Yeah I know. Thanks anyways.”

“I think I heard that Jess and Wes are going out of town during the Olympics. You might want to call them.”

“Thanks I’ll try. See ya.”

Then on to Janet.

“No sorry Dave. We’ll be here and we don’t really have a lot of room. I heard Jess and Wes might be on vacation during the Olympics though.”

Then Aya.

“I wish I could man but my house is a revolving door during the Olympics. Sorry. Jess and Wes might be out of town though.”

Jess and Wes. All I needed was a phone call. But all I got was another email from my parents.

Hey, We haven’t got an answer back from you yet. What’s happening over there? Anyways we were looking at hotels in other parts of the country and thinking we may want to do some quick trips to either the Shuswap or Banff. What do you think? Let us know what’s best and try and see if you can get some time off to spend camping with your parents.

And an email from the nice German family.

Hello,

Is your house still available? We would really like to stay at your house if it is still available. If possible we would like to finish the preparations soon so we can be sure of a place to stay.

Thank you very much.

It just gets worse. The Germans want in and my parents are planning a whole vacation around coming. Granted I liked my parents more than the Germans so it’s not really a competition in that regard, but it was a lot of money to be flushing down the toilet. They could wait though. All I needed was another day and I was sure I could make everyone happy.

It had been a day since I had received the message from my parents and two since I had received the message from the Germans, and still I had gotten nowhere, except that Jess and Wes probably had a place I could stay.

I decided to wait it out. Either I would get hold of Wes and Jess and find a place to stay comfortably with my parents and I could rent my place out to the Germans or I wouldn’t be able to get a hold of them and the Germans would stop emailing me and I would let my parents know and they would come. And Steve, well, I guess Steve would have to be told, or something.

I was set to let life figure out life for me. Which worked out well for about a day. One day of freedom from the decision and with the next day it all crashed back on my head twice as hard in another round of emails. I almost didn’t want to open my email that morning. I procrastinated the whole morning until just before I had to leave for work. It was ok opening it just before work. Then at least I knew that I didn’t actually have to deal with it until after work.

And there they were an email from my parents and from the Germans. Both of the emails looked laden with accusations and demands for a decision. They also looked long, so I figured I couldn’t read them before work, and besides it’s not like I could have made a decision then anyways, so I went to work with the emails unopened.

And came home to the same unopened emails. And in between times all I could think about was the emails. They came to me in daydreams like Freddy Krueger. Now all I had to do was open the damn things and see what was going to happen.

David. Could you please email me back? I’m starting to worry here. Is something wrong? You would let me know if something was wrong, right? We also need an answer whether we can stay with you or not. Your Dad has to take time off and so does James if he’s going to come. Could you please email me back? Just let me know you’re alive and not living on the streets.

Obviously that’s the one from my mum. The Germans were up next.

Hello,

We would really like to know if your house is still available. We are having a hard time finding a place to stay, so we are hoping that it is ok to stay with you. If it is not we may have to cancel our trip to cheer for our son.

Thank you

And then it was decision time. Life was not going to figure this whole mess out. And yet I found myself paralyzed by the thought. Not that I would admit it, but I was going to be the bearer of bad news to someone. The only problem was I couldn’t decide whom to tell the bad news. Then Steve popped into my room.

“Hey man, have you figured out when the Germans are going to get here?”

And then my decision was made. My family was my family, but I couldn’t keep the Germans from watching their sun in the Olympics and fail my friend.

“We’re still figuring things out. I should know soon.”

“Right. Well let me know as soon as you know. I need to figure out what I’m gonna be doing during the Olympics.”

“I will.”

I emailed the Germans.

Hi,

Sorry about not getting back to you earlier. I was having some problems with my computer. I hope it’s all going well for you. Our house is still open and we would love it if you would come stay here. We just need to know when you are planning on arriving and leaving.

Thank you,

Dave

And then it was on to the difficult part, my parents.

Hi Mom,

Sorry I had some problems with my computer so I haven’t been able to check my email lately. I would really like for you to come, but Steve thought it would be a really good idea to rent out our place during the Olympics. Unfortunately we already had someone confirmed when I got your message. So sorry.

Love,

Dave

So I lied. Big deal. What else was I supposed to say? I couldn’t tell them I made them worry and risk travel plans because I was indecisive. It wouldn’t work.

It was over, at least in my mind. From here on in it was going to be smooth sailing. Until another round of emails came my way.

Hi,

We are so sorry but we have found another place to stay and confirmed with them. I hope you find another family.

And all I worked for flushed down the toilet. But at least now I could have my family over from whom I also got an email.

That’s fine David. It’s too bad we couldn’t see you though. I just wish you could have told us all sooner. Do you need a new computer? If you need some money for a new computer you let us know. It’s for our peace of mind as much as it is for you. Your Dad’s trying to sell the tickets he got for free now. I told him to just give them away but he wouldn’t listen. He’s always trying to make that extra money. Where are you staying for the Olympics if someone is staying in your house? You’d better have some friends willing to put you up. We’ll try and figure out another time to come see you, and this time we’ll do it further ahead of time.

Love,

Mum

I reply:

Mum, the whole thing fell through. There was a big mix up and the people who were gonna stay here can’t come. So you guys should come.

That was easy, but I have no idea what I’m gonna say to Steve.

“Hey…ah Steve.”

“What’s up?”

“The thing kinda fell through.”

“What thing?”

“The whole thing with the Germans.”

“What? I thought you said it was a done deal.”

“I thought it was too but then they backed out on us. I think they found a cheaper place.”

“So now what? Have you got any more hits?”

“No, but my parents have got tickets to see curling or something and want to stay here. So… ah… is it ok if we scrap the whole thing? Sorry mate.”

“Whatever. I can’t say I’m that surprised.”

“I’m really sorry mate.”

“It happens.”

Easier then I thought. And all was once again right with the world. Until one last email came my way.

Hi,

Sorry David your Father sold his tickets yesterday before we got your email. We might still come though, but it’s not looking that good. There’s a lot of people at your Dad’s work tacking time off so they’re being pretty tight with holidays right now. Maybe we’ll just do it another time. At least this way you can rent your house out to another family.

See you soon,

Mum

I was dumbfounded. It was like trying to grip sand in your hand. There was no contingency plan for this.

After more false endings then a bad horror flick it was the end. Back to the beginning of plan A and see if it pans out this time.

There’s another email.

Dave we just got your message about staying with us. Sorry for getting back to you so late. We actually are renting our room out to a family of Germans for the Olympics so we don’t have any room. Sorry about that.

Wes and Jess

Genesis 31:42- the Fear of Isaac- the beginning of an idea

2009-05-11T22:53:00.000-07:00

There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear; for fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not reached perfection in love 1 John 4:18

Fear is the greatest motivator

The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge (Prov. 1:7)

I'm afraid. But it'll be okay as long as no one knows. Shrug it off, keep moving. Eyes down and don't stop. Don't look at them, they're idiots anyways. Just Keep Moving. Yes or no. Keep it short. Don't talk or they'll find out. Find out I'm not as smart as they think. Find out I'm not as witty as they think. That I'm weaker than they think. That I fail regularly. Make them laugh, or look the other way. A little sleight of voice, conversational misdirection so they don't notice you didn't answer. Keep them at arms length. Once they get in there's nowhere to hide, no way to trick. When fear fights fear who wins? Fear. Follow the fear that guides you best.

Perfection curled up on the floor moaning- just throwing it out there

2009-04-21T23:29:00.000-07:00

In bringing many sons to glory, it was fitting that God, for whom and through whom everything exists, should make the author of their salvation perfect through suffering.

Do you see her? Over there curled up in a ball crying. It's sad really, or at least that's how it looks. No one should endure such pain. But when she gets up, brushes herself off and faces that pain, when she realizes that the pain could be handled, and that it might even be worth it she will have grown. And we, we shall be over here feeling sorry for her. I think something is wrong. Maybe pain can be more beautiful than comfort.

When everything is stripped away and all you have is yourself and pain. When it's your choice, and the choice is clear. Could it be that is real life?

The near-infinite gap, the shadow (the begining of something)

2009-04-17T22:32:00.000-07:00

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

Romans 7:15-For that which I do I allow not: for what I would, that do I not; but what I hate, that do I.

The hippies tried to conquer it. A whole generation took up arms and marched directly for it. They had it for a while, nearly a decade. They marched into The Gap yelling love and freedom. The rallied against the shadow, that near-infinite space between reality and thought, movement and action, your brain and your hands.
Look what it left us with. Not the love they were yelling about, not the freedom they espoused. Maybe we think about it more than we used to but The Gap abides. It’s there every New Year’s Eve when the country gathers `round to make resolutions.
Let’s all do it the right way this year.
But everyone knows they will fail.
It’s there when each little white boy and girl find the indifference to get over their middle class white guilt.
We give to charity. Besides theres nothing I can do about it. Even if I gave up all my stuff it wouldn’t change a thing.
We live our lives in the shadow. Testing the width of the gap. Some sit in Ivory Towers and choose to be near their ideal, never testing it against reality.
Others choose reality and are cheered for their pragamtism.
The gap is just too wide, too big to touch on both sides. It ate up Mother Teressa, Malcom X, Martin Luther King, Ghandi, and Obama.
Who are we to pit ourselves against a foe of such strength? We need some help.

The fatal wounding of our god or a juggernaut stumbles

2009-04-07T00:59:00.000-07:00

It’s down on one knee. No one knows the how or the why. There’s still arguments about if It’s down for good. No one saw it coming. We thought it would just keep on rolling, keep snowballing. We all thought it was for good and for true. This was what we were meant for, and it was Good.
All the past Ones have fallen. Fallen when they’ve hit their limits. When they were decadent and depraved. We look back over them and thought it was not for ours. Ours was immortal, the true juggernaut. And why not? Ours had all the power we could put behind it. We had science and rational thought unlike the savages before us. And what we’re we doing wrong? We were just following our selves. We were following our god.
Sure we were still fighting, backed up by our Juggernaut. But our juggernaut was the right one. They had put up straw men. They had wrong ideas. They put limits on us and limits on themselves when everyone knows the human spirit is limitless.
We could do nothing wrong. Just have faith. We’ll pull through. It’s a Juggernaut. It can’t be stopped. What barriers have we not smashed to the ground? Slavery, inequality, monetary concerns. We had it all.
But now It’s down. What are we gonna do now. We worked so hard to craft this thing. We put our full selves into it. We reached down into the depths of out humanity and lovingly crafted the thing in our image. How could it be wrong? We couldn’t have made a mistake. It was so lovingly crafted through fire and pain, joy and love. Sure it was a work in progress but all the major cracks had been fixed, and we’re working on mending the last few. Ours was the essence of humanity.
Yet it failed. It’s shaken us. Some point to it weak hands that didn’t reach out to the poor. Or less than green thumbs. Still others point to a heart that didn’t quite care for everything. Yet others (and this is the biggest faction) point to greedy eyes which wanted to much. But surely those were small. Surely they could have been fixed with old-fashioned ingenuity. We’re working towards it. We’ll have it done soon. A tweak here and a tweak there and we’ll have it fixed in no time.
But no one knows why it stumbled, why its down on it’s knees. Could it be a deeper reason. Impossible for what’s deeper than the heart. We’ve plumbed our depths and brought it all out. Is there some fundamental design flaw, something we’ve missed? Are we not perfect? Why someone tell us so we can fix it. We need more study. Figure out the arts, find the higgs bosun. Plumb it’s depths. Someone tell us. We must know the flaw. Next time it will be bigger, better, undefeatable. Next time it will be perfect and Heaven will be ours. All we need to find is the major flaw.

Our legacy

2009-03-31T11:48:00.000-07:00

It's getting to be too much. There's bickering on all sides. Some champion just leaving it as is.

"It's not that bad"

They rest on the legacy of others in centrally heated houses and 200mph cars. They like it that way. Why would they want to change. Just close your eyes and march on.

"If there is anything wrong it's not my fault anyway"

Blame it on the corporations and the third world. The Chinese need to use cleaner fuel, and the Indians need to stay on their bikes. How dare they desire car ownership?

We need to stimulate the economy. Keep buying or our children will face the consequences.

Buy a prius, everything will be ok.

Others stand against this juggernaut of inertia. They look to the skies for intervention. Not a miracle from God but a rain of fiery comets like Gomorra of old.

All for destroying what we have. Decrying the very procreation of humanity. A simple hybrid is not enough. We must go full ahead with the destruction of all things human. Humanity is a stain, a weed on this sweet earth and we must be torn down from our high place.

Don't we have a place too? Can't we make positive changes in ourselves and the world? Is it wrong/right because a human does it?

Mad itchy feet

2009-03-25T22:42:00.000-07:00

There's this lull. Just this little

One of those. Like the sound of wind rushing through a tunnel, or the vastness of the sky. A nothing begging for something, inaction begging for action. Like the beginning of a road trip to nowhere or everywhere.

Makes you feel like a kid again. Staring out of the classroom window waiting for spring to fully sprout so summer can take over. Summer break has so much potential. So much to (not)do and so little time.

But now there's no end, and even more to do. The potential is maximized along with the time. And now like a deer in the headlights any move is a good move.

A doctor, a painter, king of the world. All is within grasp if you believe your Mom, but only if you work hard if you trust your Dad.

But who is that man in the window of the corner store near your house. Didn't his parents tell him he could be anything? IS this what he wanted to be as a 4 year old in nursery school. Where did he go wrong? Where did he go right?

What gave him the strength to make a living out of something so small. Doesn't he want to love what he does? Doesn't he want to run?

How do you make the decision when there's an infinite amount of possibilities? What makes one better than the others? There's nothing to recomend one above the other.

And it's left me with itchy feet.

The resurrection of the author

2009-03-23T23:12:00.000-07:00

I've been to the tomb & the body wasn't there. I saw the manifestos they tried to wrap her in folded neatly & stacked in piles. We have long been told that the author is dead. Didn't a crowd see him hanging there? Her body in the torchlight of the mob swinging from the limb of the tree. Didn't Joseph take him down and lay her in his very own tomb? The tomb they hermetically sealed so no one could get at him.

"He is finished," the mob cried, "we are free from her tyranny."

They reinterpreted the texts. Nothing was sacred. The swine had the pearls & they trampled them to see what they were made of. Teachers were running amok. Freud got in on the action too.

"It's all about sex with their mother," they cried. "She has an electra complex."

"It's not just a cigar."

Things were getting out of control. Literary criticism sprang up like weeds after a summer rain. They were drunk on possibility & power. Genius was within their grasp, all they had to do was take it. Nothing was sacred.

In the beginning it seemed like such a good idea. As egalitarian as pure democracy. The book is what you make/take from it. It was literary communism.

Somewhere along the way they lost the plot.

The thing is you can't learn if you're not listening. They trapped themselves in the cages of their own minds. It's ok if you think that but I think something different. Let's not fight about it. Let's agree to disagree. You're alright & I'm alright, can't we just get along?

But they weren't alright. I'm not alright & you're not alright. Shouldn't we do something about it. Let's fight it out, let's hug it out. Let's move from ourselves and occupy the minds of others. get into the mind of the author. See how it feels in there. Get comfortable, get uncomfortable. Tell the author where it hurts. Maybe she's wrong, maybe you should slap some sense into him. But you can't talk with a dead man.

You can't talk without entering into the ring and preparing to be mocked and hated. Not if it's worth a damn. Get in there raise hell. Show them what you can do. & if you come out beaten and bloody find out where you were wrong.

Are you ready to wrestle with her? Oil up for some greco-roman wrestling with socrates. Sharpen your épée for a bout with Baudelaire. Ready yourself in the (not so)martial arts. Be ready to defend your personae against malicious attacks. In short make yourself once again into the fit youngster you once were and make war with that vicious world cause if you're not ready to defend yourself and take offence against those that do wrong then you and all those around you will become stale and boring and will slowly become the straw men.

Go.

A bit of advice

2009-03-18T23:03:00.000-07:00

If you go to a cafe, and who doesn't these days, there are things that can make both you, and your servers life a lot easier. If you are at a decent cafe listen to the person behind the counter, for the most part they know what they are doing. Today I had a women ask me for a 'medium shot' of espresso and a bit of hot water. I expressed my confusion as there is no such thing as a medium shot of espresso. All she did was repeat that she wanted a medium shot of espresso. I decided she wanted a long shot americano and made her one. Unfortunately she thought it tasted like the espresso from one of those pre-packaged espresso machine, like the tassimo. We don't use a machine like that, and I told her. She kept insisting that's what her americano tasted like. I offered to make her another americano and she assented as long as we make it from ground beens and not the pre-packaged espresso. With that I walked away and let the other person behind the bar make her drink. At this point in time we both felt like hitting her. She didn't no what she was talking about, yet she insisted on talking like she did. This isn't the first time I've run into people talking to you like you don't know what you are doing. I had another lady ask for a earl grey tea with steamed milk and vanilla (the ingredients in a London Fog). I offered her a london fog, and she said no. I offered her a earl grey tea misto with vanilla and she assented. I was mystified, it's the exact same drink. There is a lot of stupid lingo surrounding the coffee industry. I know that, it can be hard to figure out what is what. But if you don't know enquire, and then trust your server. If they're wrong you can always go back and ask them to exchange your drink.

Because I have to...

2009-03-18T01:08:00.000-07:00

It was a dark and stormy night. And as was his habit he stayed at home. To combat the cold that came snaking through the cracks in his house was difficult. It was an old house in a moderate climate, and as such was not much at keeping the chill outside. A sweater was fetched from his room, but not before water was set to boil. Once he was properly attired he was back in the kitchen waiting for the water to boil. Once boiled tea bags were added to the water and left to steep. While the tea steeped he once again left for his room, this time coming out with a copy of Jules Verne's "Around the World in 80 Days". Then he poured his tea, and retired to the living room where he placed his tea on the coffee table and reclined on the couch snuggled up in a blanket to read his book. And thus on this stormy night no one was murdered, no paranormal activity detected, and no mystery uncovered. The chill however was resoundingly beat.

is being a writer.

2009-03-16T22:22:00.000-07:00

I am a writer. Which is only to say that I write. Many people write, some even more than me, but do not consider themselves writers in any sense. But it is my conceit that my writing is worthy of other people's attention. A banker is worthy of the title because a bank has put faith in him to bank, likewise an actor is worthy of the title because a director has cast her in a role and people watch. So now I'm looking to the internet for the edification that the banker gets from the bank and the actor gets from the director and the crowd. Descartes said I think therefore I am. So likewise some people say I write therefor I am a writer. But if a tree falls in a forest...