Fool in the Rain

Every now and then, I meet a girl and we decide that we have to meet up again and continue getting to know each other. Fuzzy rosy peaches and cream, right? Right?

Wrong.

More often than not, for reasons unknown to me, she stands me up. I rarely get an explanation or an apology for getting stood up. I deserve at least that much. As does anyone who gets stood up. But it never happens.

It's not a lot to ask. It's common courtesy, really: if you wrong someone, you apologize.

Still, this warped behavior doesn't put me off from further pursuing human contact. In fact, I get quite stupid about it.

Sometimes, I get so stupid and lenient that I'll call her, to no response, and wait about half an hour before finally saying "Goddamn it." and then spending the rest of the day alone.

With a cloud of disappointment hanging over me. (Not really, I'm just trying to pad out this entry so it looks like I've written more substantial content.)

I don't even bother seeking out explanations sometimes because I frankly don't care anymore at that point. I've lost interest and I won't debase myself any further for someone who didn't think enough of me to willingly give me an explanation for her absence. The most attention I'll give after that is just saying "meh"

I know a number of you can relate to happenings such as these but your methods and approaches vary.

Fun fact: This entry was originally going to be posted in July.

Quiet Nights of Quiet Stars

Quiet nights of quiet stars,
quiet chords from my guitar

If only.

I like living where I live, but the damn light pollution fucks everything up. I would like to be able to walk down the street at night, look up at the night sky and gaze at the heavens. To see twinkling specks of distant light and gas peppered across a vast inky infinite void. To feel small and insignificant and humbled by just how fucking big the universe is. I want to see more stars than just Orion's Belt. The ham-fisted imagery is sincere.
This desire for something more is something of a double-edged sword. Not just for me, but for everyone who has ever experienced it at some point in their lives. Some of us want to see more stars than those that are readily available to us. That's not a form of ingratitude but a longing to be able to further appreciate what we already have. What my desire regarding stars boils down to is this: I would like for there to be no light pollution, as it gets in the way of appreciating stars and my place in the universe.

Sometimes, that orange specter that hangs about our night sky looks nice but at what cost?

Yes, one can drive to the mountains or the forest or a place of relatively untamed wilderness to have the eyes and soul bombarded by the sheer sight of the night sky but the point is to be able to appreciate it more readily. To have that seemingly fading gorgeousness be everywhere rather than have to go hundreds of miles out of your way just to see it. The point is to have it everywhere and not have to detach yourself further.

That's just how I see it. I can recognize that there is an accomplishment of some kind in journeying a thousand miles away in order to see that vast, inky sea glimmering across a slice of the universe so infinite and grand.

Yeah.

Ulysses (Alfred, Lord Tennyson)

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an agèd wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honoured of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this grey spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

               This my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

               There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought
               with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Under

It has been 2 months since I've posted anything. I have scraps of bits of fragments of entries in the drafts but I haven't posted them or finished them.

The reason for this, frankly, escapes me.

If I had to even begin to theorize anything, it'd be that there is an underwhelming desire to write because there's no sense of satisfaction. Or an obvious one, at least.

Not so much that the page views have always been very few but that I don't get any sense of satisfaction from submitting something to the vastness of the internet in the hopes that someone'll read it. This used to be the case, and I would feel good (or at the very least marginally fulfilled) about the idea of someone reading my work and maybe (by a stretch of the imagination) chuckle or spark a thought in their mind. "He brings up a valid point."

While I realize this is implausible, it's not entirely out of the realm of possibility, is it?

That being said, this is more of an explanation (and a sorry excuse at that) than a post of substance.

Let's hope I can at the very least find my fortunes (the fortune cookie ones, at this point) so I can have something to submit. Maybe trudging along will help me snap out of this funk.

This is a bad funk, not a good one with wah-wah-fied guitars and dope ass bass lines.

Skim

As a male, I am expected to do and be a lot of things. I'm expected to be strong, wise, a provider, fearless, courageous, and to obey and carry out my duties, and other things I didn't list. It's obvious that a lot is expected of me as I am considered young. It is my duty as a human male on this Earth. Make money, make babies, make a life for them. If we were being graded or judged on these particular expectations, I would say I'm doing an awful job at meeting these expectations. I'm stalling and the plummet seems to be happening in slow motion. The reasons for this is that when the expectations are being created, nobody looks at the smaller details, the gears and cogs that make the big machine run. All they want to see is the big picture. I try to ignore all these things and forge a path for myself. The steps I take do coincide with expectations but not all the time.

Why? Because everything is stupid and I refuse to play the game, though I grudgingly do so to keep people from talking.

I am also expected to eventually find a girl, get married, have children and provide for my family (and be everything I listed on a far greater level than before. That's to say: if I'm supposed to be strong now, I'm supposed to be able to move mountains as a father. This exaggeration is apt.)

But notice how I left out "fall in love", even though you probably read it automatically. Anyone older than me who has told me to get married has never told me to "fall in love" whilst in the pursuit of a wife. Despite this, I'm also expected to be romantic.

This presents a minor annoyance that still remains significant in how baffling it can be. "Do this but not this while doing exactly not this" is the closest way of putting it into words.

Goddamn it.

Washed Away

It's becoming increasingly difficult to combat this wave of apathy that has pulled me under the surface. I'm not drowning but I'm not exactly fighting like hell to get back to land. There are times when I want to do nothing more than sleep or just sit around doing nothing. This is not a reason for me not having written anything substantial. That is because I really have been too damn busy with other things to dedicate more time and energy here. Rest assured, my bizarre brand of apathy is not affecting my writing here. If anything, I wish I could have more to write about other than the inane bullshit I spew and the horrifically awful prose and poetry that makes its way here every now and then.

Everything else seems to have been washed away. There are things that I used to feel so passionate about and now they're just part of the faded background. I'm finding it harder and harder to want to connect with these things on a level that goes beyond the surface. Beyond the level of feeling that it's just another chore to be brushed aside.

Oh to want to want to do things rather than half-ass them or not want to do anything.

Maybe I'm just bored of the cycle in which I find myself day after day. It's natural to be bored but to become apathetic? That doesn't seem right, does it?

Excessively Absurd Delays

A Real Mess is finally finished. The first part was posted in November of 2011. The second part was posted the following month. The third part was supposed to go up in January but was delayed with the intent of going up in April (or so it seemed based on the "last edited" date). Unfortunately it was delayed again and finally got posted today. It was supposed to go up last night but there were some technical difficulties beyond my control.

And I realized something: I should have actually written the whole thing out first before posting it in portions. It's embarrassing to have almost a year go by for a story to end. The conclusion for Bottle only had a 4 month delay. But 8 months is fucking ridiculous.

As such, I'm going to hold off on presenting any prose until it's totally complete. This might take a while but it'll be better than inadvertently lying and running into bafflingly long delays.

And it'll allow for less disappointment.

A Real Mess, III

I hereby offer my apologies for this absurd delay, again. I hope this doesn't suck.
-----
Stern face, fists clenched, piercing gaze. That unmistakeable crown of horns. Warmth seemed to leave my body out of the absolute fear that I was drowning in. Or was being suffocated by, or just overwhelmed.

There he stood.

Marwood.

Not at all satisfied with the scene in front of him: corpse and all that. It's bound to make one upset (at the very least), among other less happy-go-lucky things.

The look on his face and the way he breathed deliberately only supported this thereby making whatever baseless assumptions I had, get base. Time probably stood still for what seemed to be eternities. If I blinked, it was very slow. Every time my eyelids shut, there was a faint prayer that Marwood would disappear and everything would be normal, or as normal as things were before Donald kicked the bucket. Or before the frying pan hit Donald. My eyes and hope betrayed me because I was unable to look away from Marwood. I wanted to look away but every time I thought about looking away, my eyes snapped to the same crowned figure of sternness that was our basement-dwelling repairman.

He never moved from when I closed my eyes and opened them again. He only shook his head in disappointment every now and then but neither of us actually said anything. I was too scared to move, and he- well, I don't know what his deal was.

I wanted to scream or make stupid noises, just to break the silence. I wished he would say something, a cryptic joke, a dirty limerick, his variation of a recipe for some Peruvian dish, anything! Instead, there was silence for at least 4 eternities. Well, 3 and a half.

Finally, he cleared his throat, and I began to tremble. I was partially glad for it but more terrified than anything. Silence was broken but it did feel like that cliche of a calm before a storm. Sure, things were quiet but now that he was about to speak it seemed like shit would really hit the fan.

He cleared his throat a few more times and sniffed before finally speaking. He seemed to relish the moment before speaking, as evidenced by a slight but noticeable smirk he wore for a brief second.

"You call this a clean murder?" was the first thing he said when he finally finished clearing his throat.

I was baffled; I thought he would have said anything else. Asked about the weather, asked if I was having any problems, anything else at all! Who critiques a murder like if it was some sort of term paper?

"For starters, look at all this blood! Anything so damned messy cannot be considered clean. Logic, boy!" He walked around, as if to inspect the place for loose ends and flaws. Critiquing my form and execution. Baffling! He should have at least asked why there was a dead man in my home! I wanted him to ask so I could have a reason to legitimately panic.

"Are you listening? Get something to clean this bungled operation with! This will not do! Not at all!" He paced around this time, as if thinking and judging. Somehow, I made my way through the baffled ocean of bewilderment I was in and managed to get in a word.

"Marwood, this man is dead." I croaked and stood once more, in fear. Knees shaking, bladder on the verge of losing control.

"And the sky is blue and water is wet. Thank you for stating the obvious! Is this the rest of your plan? To keep telling me what I already know?"

I know I've used "baffled" a lot already, and it must be somewhat painful to read the same word over and over and over and over and not have the context change. As such, I will use a different word to convey what is essentially the same thing I felt. Qronfuzzelleworpified!

"Are you just going to stand there and let this corpse decompose or are you going to restore the sanitary standard of living for this unit? We aren't a graveyard or some mortuary, you know. We can't have corpses everywhere."

And he repeated this same thing in four different languages. Each time, I understood that I really needed to open my mouth and say something else. Anything. Well, not my love of chunky peanut butter or anti-jokes, something more relevant. So I did, after summoning courage and collecting my head as best I could. At the top of my lungs, I shouted:

"Enough is enough! Marwood, this man is dead! Bereft of life! I didn't do it! I just want to get him out of here and away from me. The longer he stays the bigger the problem becomes! I know this is stating the obvious but goddamn it, I'm terrified of your presence! Especially at this very tense point in time! Your crown of thorns scares the hell out of me!"

I wished he would have slapped me or something. I almost longed for another eternity of silence. Things did not go as I wanted them. Instead, he applauded and smiled. He went to my bathroom and closed the door. The next sound I remember hearing was running water and a tub being filled up. In the meantime, I stared at Donald's body. There would be no more strife from this cad.

But where would I be without his zany antics? With less gray hairs and a horrible habit of looking over my shoulder every few minutes. Fear, mostly, and checking out my ass. For wet paint or other hilarious pranks Donald tried to pull on me.

Mary was also making a ruckus of some sort which put me on edge. She had made her way to the kitchen, to hide, presumably. She wasn't in the mood for cooking, to my dismay. She was probably just as scared of Marwood as I was. And with good reason, this time: she apparently believed he was the devil incarnate and asked if it was too late to go back to England on the Mayflower. I'll admit that this isn't a very good reason but I would imagine that it would be for a 17th century pilgrim having just landed in a "new world".

"Mary," I began, "snap out of it or I'll slap you out of-"
"Out of what?" she said, straightening up defiantly. She had returned.
"Nothing. Never mind." I said, relieved that she had returned to her comparatively normal self, but dreading the next words that would come out of her mouth.
"If you lay a hand on me, I will feed both of your hands to the garbage disposal." She was serious. Not that she had done it to me personally but having thrown me to the wolves was more than enough proof to know that she was crazy.

But why be with her if she was crazy? We all need someone. You don't really get to choose who you fall for. You meet a person, they make an impression and it begins. You find yourself enthralled by the way they play with their hair or by their little smirk and the way they lower their head and look at you. Eyes shining brighter than an overused cliche. Soon you become rapt with a desire to be around them even though their first impression was less than spectacular and more clumsy and ordinary than anything. And then you find yourself wondering why. Why she had to go and clobber a man with a frying pan.

"Are you listening?" she asked. I wanted to say yes but I really couldn't because I wasn't even in the room, figuratively speaking. My mind was elsewhere looking for solutions out of this mess. And still trapped by memories of our first meetings, when we were much younger and still stupid. Well, we remained pretty stupid since meeting but less so. Marginally.

"Boy! Have you stripped the corpse of his clothing?" said Marwood through the closed door and running water. "I know I should have said something about that but I figured you wouldn't be able to think correctly so I let you talk to the woman so you could regain some normalcy. She seems to have that effect on you."

He was wise. Sure, she made me go crazy and wracked me with guilt and all sorts of non-groovy feelings but at the end of the day she did help me. I felt responsible, at peace, not alone, and to some degree normal. She was an anchor of sorts. Or a foil.

Realizing this, I had no choice but to agree with Marwood and relieve Donald of his clothing. Though Marwood failed to give me any reasons as to why I should do such a thing. But I didn't want to question his motives and actions because he seemed to know what he was doing. Still, I couldn't help but feel wrong about this. Sure, Donald tried to kill me on several occasions but something about reducing his dignity, especially in death, seemed wrong. I tried not to think about it as I pulled his shoes and his socks but-

"Hurry, boy! The portal won't hold for very long!" roared Marwood. A sense of urgency underlining his quivering roar.
"Portal?!" Mary shrieked.
"Yes, a portal. We're getting rid of the dead by way of portal. It's the safest alternative. Anything else would-"

"Son of a bitch!" I shrieked this time.

Donald's feet were scaly hooves! Marwood rushed over and stomped on Donald's face repeatedly. The fact that Donald's feet were actually hooves froze me in shock long enough to not notice that Marwood collapsed Donald's face in with such aggressive force that there were cracks in the floor now. Marwood stomped enough to make himself sweat and pant. He leaned against a wall and slid down to the floor. My eyes jumped from Marwood to what used to be Donald's face and back. I couldn't understand what the hell was happening anymore.

"You're wondering now." Marwood said, after taking a deep breath. "Mary, a lot of water, please." He wiped the sweat off his brow and quickly gulped down the pitcher of water Mary gave him. He closed his eyes and took another deep breath before sitting up and finally starting an explanation.

"Donald isn't human, as you can already tell by now. To be honest, I don't know how to classify him. He can be a number of things. He has hooves, scales, and a tail, among other things. He could be a satyr, a merman, a freak, or something else entirely. Maybe even all those things. The point is, he isn't human."

And this made sense. What human could survive-

"... that fall made me skeptical. I didn't think he was human after that. I initially thought he was just very lucky but it made no sense for him to be human. All that hatred he carried, it didn't seem natural or normal. Or 'human'. Whatever that really means. Not being one myself, I can't really say. I can only assume."

When he spoke, he seemed to be more human than anyone in the room. Mary, was indeed human, and so was I. But neither of us ever took the time to be human or reach out or do anything worthwhile or substantial. We were just really caught up in our own bullshit most of the time. We never did anything to help anyone, in any significant manner. Sure, we gave change to beggars but never offered more help or volunteered at soup kitchens or anything. We were content in a rose colored bubble we called "us". Our neighbors seemed to be more human than us and they were squids or just cardboard boxes. But they got involved in things that I never did. Not because I never had time but because I never saw the point.

"... so much cynicism for one human. Its high concentration is what led me to investigate and ask questions and generally fear for everything and everyone in the building. If Donald was around, who's to say there weren't more? I had to get to the bottom of it somehow but I couldn't. My crown of horns doesn't allow for easy communication with anyone, you know."

Thinking that something was possibly wrong with me, I took off my shoes and discovered

"You're human, boy. Just because you're a bit of a fuck-up every now and then only makes you human. Your hissy fit over Donald only proves it. Any other creature would have eaten his corpse or done something equally awful like eat his soul, if he had one."

Marwood stood up and dragged the body out of its clothing and into the bathroom.

The door slammed shut and things got quiet again. I walked up to Mary, hoping she would bring me some normalcy. She sensed this and hugged me. She didn't say anything. She probably didn't have to. It was the strangest thing to have her hold me like this. I wanted to sob uncontrollably but I also wanted to scream and bash my head against a wall to end whatever suffering I thought I was enduring. Her sighing as she placed her head on my chest sounded like an apology because of the slight whimper she gave. She was really truly sorry for the things she had caused me. It was strange for her to apologize without saying anything. But if we both knew, then it was probably the best form of apology. One skips the usual shame that comes in an apology. I've never been one for shaming others into X, Y, or Z, or any letter of the alphabet for that matter. She looked up and the twinkle in her eye made me melt. I hated her for doing this but I knew she was being genuine in her unspoken apology. I forgave her.

We just stood there, in the kitchen, holding each other. We panicked and held each other tighter. We didn't know why we were panicking but it just seemed like the thing to do. Mainly because of the ruckus Marwood was causing in the bathroom. Shouting in various languages, some that were not of this Earth or were gone or would exist much much later in the universe's lifetime. The sound of blood splattering made us jumpy and the unearthly howling and growling and snarling made us tremble much more.

"I don't know anything but I promise you we'll be all right, Mary."

I couldn't believe myself. Talking without knowing (like some kind of moron) but I had to reassure her somehow lest she switch time-personalities so quickly that her real self would be trapped and I would only get fragments of her every infrequent now and then. I would never see her again.

She could only whimper as the surreal sounds of nightmares incarnate seemed to climax and- silence. So much silence, we could feel ourselves become deaf with every beat of our hearts. Faster and faster and getting slower as we breathed. Sounds of bones cracking as we squeezed ourselves tighter and slowly relaxed our grips. Finally, we were calm and collected as possible though still cautious enough not to let ourselves fall into a false sense of relaxation and thus be vuln-

Bleeding Marwood stumbling out of the bathroom! Bleeding everywhere!

"I guess I've been more handsome, eh?" he said. He explained that he managed to send Donald away but it obviously cost him most of his own life. Something about not being human and being so damned evil that it took too much energy. I wasn't really paying attention because I knew he was dying but I couldn't make myself calm or rational, even with Mary holding my hand to give me strength and support. We just knelt as he slumped to the floor, explaining how everything would be all right. Saying that his time was done. As he said this, I smelled something foul. Something far worse than anything I could think of. Death, rotting, decomposing bodies, rotting fruit, shit, unwashed reproductive organs, etc. Enough to make anyone vomit. Marwood chuckled and said to listen and not smell.

The sound of stampeding crowds and shrieks were clear as day outside in the hall.

I don't remember too much after watching him stand, saying that everyone was leaving the building because of the smell of his blood. Something about it releasing a foul smell because he was dying. Under normal circumstances, cinnamon. He stood up and told us to leave the building as soon as we could. I get fuzzy on the details because the smell was overwhelming but I have visions of him smiling and falling to the floor followed by a large crack as if someone had torn the sky open. Followed by repeated sounds of thudding so loud one would think the sky was collapsing until the entire building in its tattered majesty imploded into itself. Jaggedly folding into a memory of bloodshed, baked goods, concern, and a crown of horns that wanted nothing more than help people for over a century. Reminders of what makes us human, reminders of souls, frying pans, and poor story-telling.

A gentle wind blew on my face as Mary held me again. She was another ray of sunshine. I say another because the light from the sun was getting stronger. She rubbed my shoulder and led me away from the sight of humans, squids, chickens, and boxes were crying and bemoaning the loss of a building they never bothered to care about in the first place.

She reassured me that we were better off and convinced me by telling me that as long as we were together, we would always find a way out of any jam. "Mostly because you always think of some sort of escape plan. They just come to you. It's always, 'I have a plan!' when I'm all 'What are we gonna do?' And-"

I kissed her just to shut her up. I smirked and looked back at the rubble and chuckled to myself as a little plan began to unfold, thanks to Marwood. Who I'll never forget even if I tried.

The last thing I do remember clearly was asking him: "What happens to the soul after we die?" because I figured I had to ask something and that was the only thing I could think of. I could have just asked about the meaning of life but I suppose I wanted to be different and because his soul talk really stuck to me. And because Donald's lack of soul still struck a chord with me. How one can be so empty that they are full of hatred and evil and all that stuff. How sometimes we can be so self-absorbed and empty that something else will fill us up. An emptiness to fill a void? That sometimes being human is more than having opposable thumbs. Perhaps it means doing something and contributing to something greater than the self and thinking beyond the next minute or day. Thinking about things on a greater scale. Striving for more but not so much that you and your house of cards collapse into each other in a foul-smelling spectacle of jagged pieces of a broken yesterday barely held together by-

Marwood's response was very cryptic but it probably made sense somehow. I just had to think about it. "What happens to the soul after we die, Marwood?"

It becomes daylight.

Fin

Kuwabara kuwabara

If there is such a thing as luck, then some people have all of it. And others have none. That being said, luck is probably not being distributed fairly. "It's not fair." Or so some people would claim. I would venture a guess that everything does indeed have a reason for being how it is, though the purpose/reason for it will only be clear in time, after hindsight, as always. Things are as fair as they're going to be for the time being. As for luck, there are two truths to it: "no such thing" and "you make your own." Or so I would say.

No such thing as luck because while it is true that there are a lot of things that one cannot control (being born and what it entails), it's unfair to say that just because someone was born at a certain place, they are lucky. One man's fortune is another's burden. Being born into a ludicrously wealthy family has the power to detach one from the "common" man. The common man being the rest of those who weren't born into wealth, and were born into poverty, or a state that is not material wealth. That rich "lucky" man is deprived of a sense of _____, ______. and ______. You can fill in the blanks yourself with your imagination. So, despite being born into money, it really didn't do any good if he is missing so much. One can even say that to some extent, that rich man isn't a man. Or that he isn't really rich.

That's not to say that someone who is born into poverty is any better. He, too, is missing something. Aside from material wealth. He is missing a sense of peace, however false that sense of peace may actually be. Peace in the sense that some wealth will make it so that he doesn't have to worry about living day to day. And a sense of safety, I suppose.

Being in the "right place" at the "right time" and being considered lucky is kind of dumb because you were just doing what you were doing normally.

You know something?

You make your own luck. It's in the way you behave and carry yourself and all that stuff. All that energy you put out influences the outcome of your actions and so forth. It sounds like bullshit but let me put it this way: if you throw a tennis ball against a wall, it's going to bounce back at you. Similar idea with energy and throwing a big rock into a lake or body of water: you're going to get splashed. I, however, am guilty of misusing the word "lucky" (or at the very least its perceived transplanted meaning). What I probably mean is fortunate.

Though one can argue that they are the same thing.

It's more in the connotation then, isn't it?

El perfume de la tierra

el perfume de la tierra
se levanta
dando de nuevo
vida
a lo difunto
lo desde cuando
despedido

lo despedido,
a cual le dijimos
un triste adiós,
vuelve con luz y
abrazos
para mi y para vos

dando agua de beber
a lo seco
con sed

dando "belleza" (más)
a lo "feo"
lavando su carita
quitando su tristeza

alimenta mi alma,
me ayuda a crecer
le da color
a las flores
alas a lo inmóvil

secando lagrimas
levantando ruinas
derrumbando las partes feas
de mi humanidad

el perfume de la tierra
se levanta
y le da conocimiento
a este pobre menso

Your Perfume Fills My Head

Love makes you do stupid things. There's no doubt about this. It makes you vulnerable, stupid, and fills you up with all the energy in the world. It makes you feel a 100 feet tall and invincible. And, in a blinding flash, drains you of everything. Gone is that feeling of invincibility and you no longer feel 100 feet tall or even your normal height but far smaller than a speck of sand. Euphoria replaces agony and just as quickly agony crushes the heart and makes it bleed out the euphoria until there's nothing but a dry cracked shell of happiness. And then the flooding begins of what ifs and all sorts of questions that I myself try to avoid because I'm all about progress and getting as much of it as I can get my hands on.

A lot of the stupid things I've done were out of the devotion and the love I felt for someone. A different someone over and over each time. You'd think I would have learned after the first time but it seems I'm a slow learner, when it comes to these things anyway. When it comes to these sorts of dangerous things, I just pile it on until I know I can't handle and then I just keep going. Why? I've yet to find an adequate explanation for this but I'm sure a lot of people (understatement) can relate.

I don't really know why I'm stating the obvious. It's really something that everyone has felt or will feel (again) at some point. Even the most detached and stoic person was probably that goofy grinning idiot whenever he thought of her and her kisses, or the silly faces they made to each other. Or her infectious laughter after a corny joke. Yes, the detached and stoic lurching figure was once a giddy giggling moron that had been bitten by a love bug*, or struck by Cupid's arrow*. More than once.

*You pick the cliche.

And then there's the other side of the coin where the the sights/sites once frequented together just point at and mock you. How she is no longer around, or how she no longer cares enough to hear your stupid jokes or legitimately hilarious puns. The stupid thoughts that flood once again. Of missed opportunities, what one would do if they had had more time, vengeance, convoluted fantasies, getting that person back. You know, the stuff I try not to waste my valuable time with because I got other things to do. And bigger fish to fry.

And then there's the ridge of the coin that few people seem to stay for longer than a few seconds. The ridge that keeps the sugary lurid bloodshed and the crimson and black carnage from spilling into each other and creating a bigger clusterfuck of mayhem. The area where one walks a line of peace and balance and satisfaction with the self. Where one can learn and reflect and reassure themselves that things happened because sometimes, though you might absolutely despise it, you just have to let these things go. Something about being free to free the self before allowing yourself to perch somewhere else with someone else.

Sometimes, people are so accustomed to the lurid sugary bloodshed that even a split second on the other side will make them jump higher than a coked-out kangaroo on a trampoline to the lurid sugary bloodshed even if they aren't ready. This opens up a whole new set of problems and elevates things so much that the fall will hurt even more.

Seems fucked up to even imply that one needs heartbreak but it's the awful truth, isn't it? The universe, for the most part, is a binary universe. Most if not all things are created with a foil, or a counterpart. Dark and light, for instance. Good and evil? Or good and less-good (which essentially fills the same role as "evil") and so forth. You gotta have this AND that.

You really have to feel the scalding brunt of heartbreak into order to appreciate kisses and feel something that'll genuinely make you smile. And by that same logic, you have to experience a vividly violent deep infatuation in order to put things in perspective and help you learn. About yourself, about your goals, about the world, about life, about the universe, etc.

Corny and lame but that's how it is.

When the reflection walks away

There are times in a person's life when it seems that they cannot understand themselves anymore. There seems to be a disconnect from the past and present. The link that held these two things in a healthy balance is seemingly severed, save for a few bits of pieces that seem to say "ehh sorta". The things that person believed in now seem so foreign and downright bizarre.

It even gets to the point that they don't even recognize themselves in the mirror. The reflection becomes a complete stranger that is expected to be familiar but for the life of you, isn't and can't be remembered. A part of them seems absent. Another piece seems to be broken and, as a whole, that person seems to have changed. So much that they only see a stranger in their reflection.

It can also be that the person is still there but they're just buried underneath layers of time, experience, and a subconscious desire to escape something about themselves. It's not just a physical trait that seems off, it's something deeper. Something in the mind that seems to ask "Who am I? Who are you?" and eventually leads one to ask themselves: "How did it get to be like this?" if a spoken reaction can even be processed.

Trying to revert to short hair and a clean shave has the same effect of casting questions of self-doubt upon the self. The same way that dressing one way for a season and severing ties with friends the next season also cast a series of questions that ferment doubt in one's mind. Burning questions about identity and all that into the mind.

"I don't know I am" I said through tears once. It was a very difficult time that I got over but not without some scarring. My friend said I was some strong, bold, and fierce character. Basically a survivor and conqueror. Perhaps.

That's the eternal struggle, isn't it? To find oneself in the middle of raging storm that never ends. Or find answers. The answers in turn reveal more questions and more answers. It is how it is. Even when one isn't sure of oneself, be it by change, answers and questions build and build. They cause doubt and some form of internal conflict but that's really not they're point. It's you questioning and prioritizing things about you. Building yourself. You forget that because you forget that everything changes. It's the only thing that'll ever stay the same: change.

You're supposed to disappear to reappear until things seem right. Is that it? Probably. That's really just one way to look at things.

Doubt leads to durability, perhaps.

Mercy

I like to think a lot of things. Some of the things I think about are true, some are not, some can be, and some can never be. That's me covering as many bases as I can. I know that as of the time of this writing, man will never be able to fly without the use of an airplane, helicopter, etc: a non-organic flight apparatus attachment supplement / we can't grow wings. I know that certainly for a fact there is such a thing as mercy. As such, it should follow then that mercy is found everywhere, if in trace amounts at least. Well, genuine mercy is found in trace amounts. So miniscule that one mistakenly thinks it doesn't exist and therefore sweepingly dismiss it. In the same way that people think chivalry is dead, people think mercy is fossilized and buried. Nothing could be further from the truth. Both are very much alive, if on life support at least.

There's actually an overwhelming sense of mercy if you look hard enough. The problem is that very very few people are merciful, or genuine about it. There's clemency, reprieves, a helping hand, a few bucks to help you get some food, being told the truth, and having someone hold you when you're in horrible fucking pain. And the most obvious is just being there.

The problem regarding exists with people, at least in certain parts of the western world. I can't really comment on the non-Western part(s) of the world because I haven't studied them nor do I know enough about them to make any statement that would even approach fact. (read: I'd sound like a total ass if I wrote about them, knowing nothing). The opportunity for mercy is a recurring one but there are people who just shirk their responsibility to do good for others. Even if doing good for another person would also provide a benefit of some sort, there are those who still say "fuck it". What to do with those kinds of people?

Show them mercy and hope that they learn to do the same for others, even if it isn't for an altruistic reason. Though the goal would be to lend a helping hand out of the goodness (that should exist) in your own heart, not because you want to have someone by the balls as to help a sinister motive of yours later on. The same goes for providing a shoulder to cry on because you want to minimize the other person's grief, not because you want to cop a feel.

Mercy isn't dead, it's just walking with a horrible limp because there are many terrible people in the world.

It Hurts to Make a Fist

The updates on here will be sporadic for a while because I've obtained a form of employment. It's not pretty or glamourous but no job truly ever is, if you think about it. Even the fancy, shiny ones have a dark side that takes away from the sheen and shine.

I won't really say what my employment consists of but I do enjoy it, to some extent. That is, I enjoy it because it lets me get some exercise and I get to work with my hands. That's something I've been wanting to do for a while because for the majority of my life I've had my nose buried in a book and the only tools in my hands were writing utensils, which got me thinking that I was really missing out on certain things. So it's fulfilling in that regard though not enough to make me want to do it for the rest of my life. I've got goals and they don't all include working with my hands outdoors for the rest of my life. But yes, I get some exercise, so it's quite good. Though, as the title of this entry says: it hurts to make a fist. Really, there's been some physical pain that has just not vanished, nor does it show signs of stopping or even improving in my favor. But I get paid money. I wouldn't say that money is my primary motivator but it is a major one because it makes the world go 'round, metaphorically speaking. We all know gravity and rotation makes the world go 'round. Though I wouldn't be surprised if it did come to be revealed that money did in fact play a very large role in the Earth's rotation. Well, I would be surprised, actually.

As you can extrapolate from that pointless babbling, I'll be busy working and making money in the physical world for a while. In that time, posting will suffer and become sporadic and infrequent. I'll still make an effort to post something substantial or at the very least entertaining.

For all this, I apologize.

This for That

Sometimes, for no reason, I'll get caught up in thinking of the past. Or more accurately: decisions that I've come to look at with some degree of regret. In those moments, I wonder whether or not I was right in doing X instead of Y and so forth. But I also wonder about the sacrifices, however small they may have been, that were made when making those decisions.

I wonder more about whether or not I sacrificed too much or gave up more than I should have, or if I didn't give enough. There's something about this that'll drive me crazy because more often than not, the answers won't be inside me. They'll be found where I won't venture into. Primarily because that would require even more sacrifice than I am ready for right now (read: I don't wannnnnnaaaaaa). I say I don't wanna because there's really no point in trying to hurt myself by seeking out answers to corroded matters. It'd be an unfair sacrifice to exchange my sanity and well-being for something that'll send me spiraling downward into a blaze of stuff that definitely ain't glory.

That goes to prove that sometimes, sacrifices aren't worth it. You give up something valuable like time and money and in return you become horrible depressed or find out things that you were better off not knowing. Things that warp you horribly. Things that'll push you to become a horrible person, against your will. On the other hand, these things that warp you are valuable as they force you to adapt and launch you forward in one particular direction that you probably needed. One that forces you to shrug off pretensions or sever certain ties.

There are really far too many sides (to count) to everything. It's a fragile mammoth of some sort. To give something up is really a rather difficult action because you don't want to, aren't ready, really cannot, or because you are on the proverbial fence. This is often why when one makes a sacrifice, the second thoughts come flooding in. And with the second thoughts comes regret, in a varying hue of some sort.

But really, regret has no place being thought of or summoned. What matters or mattered is that sacrifice was made.

It takes a lot to give something up. Sometimes you know what you're getting into, and others times you don't. And whether you know the consequences or not, sacrificing for the sake of the known or unknown is bold, and to some degree admirable.

But you shouldn't ask yourself whether you gave up enough or not.

Partial Conclusion

2012 was made out to be this year during which a lot of things were going to happen, or are going to happen. It's June, meaning that the year is half over. What this means is really nothing significant. As far as I can tell, things have remained relatively constant in their flow. A few spikes in either the upward or downward direction but infrequent enough to be called hiccups and really nothing more. In the grand scheme of things (or at the very least in regards to the next few months/years), this year won't matter as much as it was hyped up to be. Of course, it is also true that this year has paved a road for following years, though it'll be seen in perfect 20/20 hindsight vision. As is the case with just about everything.

2012 started very strangely for me, almost in a mocking sort of way: things were going rather well in the latter end of 2011 and that same goodness was spreading into the early part of 2012 and going nice and pleasantly... and then the rug was pulled out from under me and things got really shitty really quickly. They picked up again and seem to be in that upward momentum. I hope this isn't just another damned stall that'll eventually turn into a harrowing descent into oblivion. That would really suck, obviously. Not only because of the obvious crash that comes but because a person can only take so much of a swell rising action only to be yanked down even faster. Repeatedly. Being on a very long losing streak is by far one of the most cruel punishments or treatments that the universe can hand out to someone.

There should exist a certain amount of fairness in the universe. One can argue that one makes their own fairness, and luck, and circumstances, etc but sometimes the givens are just that: given. Nobody chooses who/what/when/where to be born in/to/etc. As such, it's unfair to say that one makes themselves.

But as far as I can tell in regards to 2012, not much of great significance has really happened. I keep hearing about bath salts and zombies but a part of me just dismisses it as nonsensical and ludicrous. In those instances, I just focus on what's in front of me in order to cope and find purpose. I have some goals to accomplish by the end of the year. Or at the very least begin because nothing ever truly ends. This year will end but the aura of this particular set of 12 months will last for a while. The same can be said for preceding years; after all, everyone always recalls to a year when Event A took place and so on and so forth.

Hmm. This entry was actual not warranted for anything other than filler, to be honest. Though a partial assessment of something like the phenomenon that has become 2012 is a good idea. Perhaps, I'll try again later. When much more eventful things have occurred.

One should also bear in mind that I have very stringent guidelines for myself, or certain aspects like my writing, which have come to warp my perception of things.

It's rather fun.

Cracked, Dried Earth

They used to flow here:
ideas.
Swelling and bubbling
and bursting
from the now-cracked and broken
earth.

Like blood in my veins
pouring and flowing
spilling onto a page

A new landscape
A new story to tell
A new conversation
Something that compelled
even for a second

Ideas used to flow here.
Move along
Nothing to see
but a cracked, dried earth

This never happened to the other fellow

I'm a fan of the James Bond movies. I've seen the 22 official ones about 2 or 3 times each. I say official because I've yet to see Never Say Never Again or get through all of Casino Royale 1967. You know, the "unofficial" ones. But yes, I've seen the 22 official films about 2 or 3 times each, and some more than the others. And yes I did see the Climax! episode that adapted Casino Royale into a one hour affair. It was... somethin' else.

I figured I should take a break from sounding like a pompous ass by writing about something that still feels genuine and human. My affinity for film. Particularly, the James Bond series. I say this because part of me still grins when a suave secret agent saves the world through a series of impossible and exciting though sometimes laughable events (Die Another Day). Now, these movies appeal to a part of me that refuses to die (in the same way that the Star Wars movies, and various other "boy stuff" as someone once put it): the child in me who still has some influence over the decisions I make as someone who is some distance away from his teen years and the years of puberty. Mainly the decisions that lead me to do things like laugh and crack jokes and generally find some sort of joy in life.

Growing up really sucks. There's so much you look forward to when you're a little kid and when you finally reach "that age", you really become crestfallen. As such, watching some dude named James Bond beat up the bad guys, save the world, and get the girl rekindles some part of me that still has some sort of hope for the world.

Yes, that still sounds pompous so I'll say it another way.

James Bond represents a niche form of entertainment and sophistication. There's something for everyone. For the guys, there's a man who can get any woman he wants. For the adventure enthusiasts, there's a guy who does damn near impossible things (I refer to the free running chase that opens Casino Royale 2006). For the ladies, is this strong confident handsome male that still retains his humanity. For the kids, it's a classic tale of good vs evil where the good guy wins time and time again. Therein lies the entertainment and some degree of sophistication. The rest of the sophistication lies in a deeper analysis of the characters, the movies, and the way James Bond is portrayed by the different actors over the years. When I say deeper analysis, you should run a google search for theories about whether or not the 6 different actors are playing the same man or whether the name is a code name (it's not, though some still hang to that belief, and that's cool). Bond has been portrayed as a suave playboy to a flawed and burnt-out secret agent to the ideal man of the 1960's and will continue to both reflect and influence the present era in which he is found.

Evidence of this is found in film across the board across the years. After Dr. No was a big success, spy movies were taken a bit more seriously, if not only just for profit. Casino Royale 2006 made James Bond relevant again and reflected a trend in film-making that emphasized flawed characters that attempted to emulate some sort of realism, or just made subject matter more "gritty" and less superfluous.

The kid in me enjoys watching the guy beat up the bad guys and save the world. Current me is very much looking forward to Skyfall. Now, you're probably asking yourself: How did [I] watch these 22 movies 2 or 3 or more times, each? Well, I used to have a lot of time on my hands.

Devotion

How much devotion is too much devotion? Is there even such a thing as "too much"? Is there a difference between devotion and clinginess? These are but some of the questions that people think about but hardly ever want to talk about, civilly at least.

For me, devotion is healthy until you have renounced your friends, and your dignity and self-respect all for something that might only have been false hope from the start. You were probably too blind to see this until after the fact. Or post-facto as some say. Of course, you only realize this in retrospect because that's how it is: one only learns things during and after, not before. Like I just said. Circularly.

Now, devotion can go towards a wide range of things. Hobbies and people seem to be the two that arrest the most devotion. Not that it's necessarily bad... until you go too far. When you become too devoted to a person, you're either clingy or obsessed, and if you take THAT too far they'll break up with you or slap you with a restraining order. Either way, if you show too much of anything, you're considered creepy.

Devotion is something that I've given almost liberally, now that I actually think about it. Perhaps for misguided reasons or because other reasons that are, at present, unknown to me. One thing is for certain: I fucked up. How? Because I learned that there is such a thing as too much devotion and that giving too much to something else is a bad move. Especially when you believe yourself to be self-less by not demanding anything in return. That should only prove devotion and not a misguided sense of altruism. Asking for something or even demanding it isn't the end of the world, it just shows that in order to continue with any form of devotion there must be validation. Devotion without validation is a sucker's game. When that "something else" vanishes, you're left with a hole to fill, if you're lucky. If you're unlucky, you're left with a vacuum, or the stereotypical but inaccurate image of a black hole. Because it sucks everything up only to destroy.

Of course, one can recover from this particular loss but the time it takes to gather your marbles is time that could have been put to better use doing anything else like improving the self or the environment (generally speaking). This is probably why one should be careful and not be so goddamn devoted to one thing that everything else falters and fails because of it. Two way streets, give and take, giving without receiving is a sucker's game. Receiving without giving is for parasites.

Devotion.

Never Quite the Same

While reading my older entries (for ideas, mainly). It came to my attention that I've made many spelling errors and typographical errors and, perhaps more importantly, that I've never actually written about heartbreak. I might have hinted at it or mentioned it in some very vague way but I've never actually sat down and collected enough thoughts about it to form a substantial post. This is probably because I'm not comfortable with writing about it, which I'll try to explain in the following paragraph.

Heartbreak isn't really something one can write about without baring a portion of themselves. Nor is it something one can write about without sounding selfish, to some degree, because you would take the path that applies most to you. It's different for everyone (which can be said of most, if not all, things). This uniqueness prevents a solid, all-encompassing definition from existing and therefore from applying to everyone correctly. There's really no "one size fits all" explanation for something as profound as heartbreak. It isn't something one can easily write about either because it really doesn't need an explanation as it is something that everyone has already experienced at some point or another, or at the very least can extrapolate based on the word alone. What more can actually be said about it? It's a very painful experience and it plants the seeds for growth.

So, with a sense of hesitation overwhelmed by a desire to write... it's time to generalize while trying not to sound like a complete ass.

Heartbreak. Vile. Crushing. Agonizing. Defeat. These are some of the many words used to describe that experience that everyone will go through at some point. Like love, there are different types of it. The most common (or the one written about the most) relates to relationship (in which two people exclusively associate with each other emotionally and sexually) and, of course that pesky notion of romance. Or more easily written: romantic relationships.

Heartbreak comes forth in many stages that range in magnitude but perhaps the most painful (or again: the one that has been written about the most) comes when a relationship ends. With this particular brand of heartbreak, one should think of the concept of an earthquake. It often takes you by surprise and what seems to go on for a while doesn't actually last very long though it can be quite destructive and there really isn't much you can do other than endure and pick up the pieces and move on. Of course, what that should probably really mean is that the relationship ending is the earthquake and the pain that follows (often attributed as heartbreak) is the aftershock and the picking up of broken and disheveled pieces of the whatever you want to call it.

Do I actually know what the hell I'm talking about? Yes but like I said before, it's a tricky subject to write about because you have to be careful to not sound biased or too personal. After all, I'm trying to sound as neutral and blank as possible without being too much of a generalizing, condescending ass. But it obviously isn't working because I'm talking in circles and had to write and explanation, and admit that I can't actually write.

There is one truth in all this though: things are never quite the same after it.

That level of devotion that once bound you both began to peter out. Despite your best efforts, there was really nothing to be done to save anything. And that's where the real tragedy lies: the inability to do anything about a sinking ship. Other than let the cold waters engulf you slowly as the bright blue sky of yesterday becomes blurred and distorted by the cold waters of misery and loneliness. And you sink further and further, that blue sky become darker and darker and distant.

But you get sick of that feeling of death where you feel your whole world is actually shit and that there's nothing to be done other than sink and feel worthless. Then it clicks: this sucks, and you become tired of having your self get dragged down and filled with misery, so you straighten yourself up and begin the difficult swim back to the surface. Back to the blue skies. With each stroke, you feel some sort of pain and a feeling of wanting to give up and just sink down and wallow in misery. But you keep going because this shit sucks. Finally, your head reaches the surface and breathes in for the first time in what seems to be an eternity and you marvel at that blue sky. Always been there but different somehow. The clouds of yesteryear don't seem to be there, or there seem to be different clouds. Perhaps not the gray ones that haunted you but big white and fluffy, made brighter by a beaming sun. Hope? And as you marvel at the sky, you keep trying to stay afloat.

Perhaps not an earthquake.

The Wacky Mishaps of Professor Mole Vision

Liked I mentioned in the other post, I was reading through my earlier entries and saw many spelling errors. Among them were: missing letters, letters in the wrong places, and sometimes, missing words. I really can't explain why or how, other than the fact that I was probably being careless. I try to be somewhat meticulous with my writing... sometimes.

The way it's usually worked is that with academic writing, I've done one draft and turned it with no revisions and received a good grade. Up until I started college, then the professors began demanding multiple drafts though I really didn't want to write any more for them as I was satisfied with the grade I received (usually a high mark). I sound like an arrogant jerk, don't I? I'm simply stating the truth: I've done what I consider to be a minimal effort and received a damn good mark. Of course, it could be that I'm so hyper-critical of my own abilities that I perceive my abilities to be lesser than what they may in fact be. But I really have no way of knowing these things as of right now because I am still unable to view things without a horrible bias of sorts. A bias against myself, despite the fact that I love myself.

But getting back to the topic at hand...

My vision sucks, I have to wear glasses. But it's not that bad that I can't recognize keys and characters on a keyboard; therefore, the only logical explanation for any of this is that I was being careless. Or, more in keeping with the title of this post: Professor Mole Vision can be rather careless when it comes to writing. How? He'll keep writing and get so lost in his writing that he'll not notice the mistakes in spelling he's made.

Of course, sometimes, I'll write something rather outlandish that'll still make sense. What? Using "quantum of solace" in an academic essay not at all related to James Bond but Coleridge.

Yeah.

Posledniy Geroy

I was reading some of my older posts and in the middle of noticing spelling errors, I thought about the past (as I am wont to do, as are you from time to time). Only this time, I didn't dissolve into a love-sick baboon or was rapt with a desire to change the past. This time, I thought about my current and former heroes.

I still remember my former heroes. I'm sure you remember yours as well because it's no surprise that everyone has at one point or another in the earlier segment of their lives looked up to someone, and not necessarily because it was a matter of height. You looked up to someone because you thought there was something special and inspirational about them that made you want to change something of yourself or do something different. This being a result of their behavior or being or skills. There was some quality, perhaps, that you wanted want to emulate. Whatever the reason was, that person was your hero. Sometimes, you even wanted to be them.

Of course, there are basically two types of heroes. Super and otherwise.

The ones who fall under super tend to be called superhero and have their own particular dichotomies and such BUT they tend to be more fictional and extraordinary than the heroes you'd find in real life. Trying to emulate the impossibility presented in fiction is a terrible idea: radioactive spider bites are deadly. But it's the ideas behind and beyond the spider bite that really set the stage for one's development. Ideas like responsibility, selflessness, a sense of humor, and courage, among other things. Yes, these heroes fought crime and placed themselves in damn-near impossible scenarios dangers but they were to be looked up to for being courageous, smart, selfless etc.

Heroes that exist outside the confines of the pages of a book or television screen include people who are also self-less and courageous and who genuinely care about what they do and the people they encounter. Firefighters and cops are heroes. Yes, cops are heroes despite what cynical ideas and attitude you may adopted over the years.

But getting back to the scattered topic at hand: heroes. They exist and will continue to die out in everyone's mind again and again until the end of time. For me, most of my heroes are gone. Or that title, no longer applies as it did before. I used to have several heroes in different fields but as time went on, that status faded away.

The admiration I held become more about what they could do rather than who they were. It's not cynical to say that heroes will let you down, or you'll make them let you down because you will grow up and change your mind. Or because they might reveal themselves to be something other than what you thought they were. It's realistic. But also inaccurate because you let yourself down and you want to pin the blame on someone other than yourself. As such, you pin the blame on something you believe to be infallible but by then you've become jaded and you just see that hero as nothing more than another person.

It sucks when it happens because you've invested a lot of time and effort into admiring or even emulating only to have yourself destroy yourself through destroying your heroes.

But this isn't always the case. Sometimes, you do just outgrow your heroes. They fade away into a corner of your mind that you rarely visit anymore. You become so engrossed in what's in front of you and what is coming up that you forget to take time to appreciate what built you up / what helped you grow up. You forgot to be the person you wanted to be and ultimately just become some sort of drone that was shaped by others rather than your own goals and dreams and such.

How badly your younger self would weep if it knew how far you had fallen.

Most of my heroes have been replaced with people whose skills I admire. I might still have a few heroes but very few of them wear spandex or even fight crime.

Echo

Late in the murky evenings
and at night with its cold pale moon

When the shadows of silence have settled in
and that ceaseless din
of the busy day
has
finally
died
down

I am alone
with my thoughts.

Oh
the ranges they range

How they grin
and snarl
and bite
and tear
and shred

And gnaw away at a fragment
of myself, surrounded by emptiness

There's nobody there
There isn't anyone here

No guiding light
no guiding hand
no lantern in the dark
to lead the way

And I remember that it's always been like this
And a cold warmth suffuses the self
Sealing the lips of a thousand screaming shrieks and wails
That never truly stop.

What's left in the end
is not a bloody pulp
or pile of broken bones and hopes

but a steady
ringing
lingering

echo

Another Story for Another Time

"Another story for another time" is a recurring phrase found around here. I usually use it as a red herring, but more often than not I use it because I don't feel like writing about whatever it is that preceded that phrase.

Kind of feels like being let down, doesn't it? Of course, it also builds interest of some sort so it can't be all bad. I write, you read, it all works out. And it works out even better because someday, I'll actually write about those stories and anecdotes I vaguely hint at and allude to.

I figure I should because one motto I live by is, "eh eventually." and its variations "it'll get it done... eventually." and like I used to tell someone, "I'll get it done. It'll take me a while but I'll get it done." or something like that. So don't fret if you come across yet another "another story for another time." and you feel misled and disappointed: I'll get to it, eventually.

A Reflection with Gray Hair Trying to Show Teeth

I used to take public transportation everywhere. When I say everywhere, I mean pretty much everywhere: school, friends', business, leisure, ladies, nowhere. I still take public transportation these days because it is how its and that's the way things are right now. I should point out that I've relied less heavily on it lately on account of my latest material acquisition: a bicycle, which I ride everywhere... for the most part. I won't go into further detail with that right now but you get what I mean. And by that I also mean that my bicycle isn't the main focus of this post. It's actually what I would see on the bus or subway train: life.

Broken down and still walking at differing paces I see them: older people. Older people have begun to become a reflection of some sort. A vision of what lies ahead for me. I'm not very fond of this, not because I'm a shallow asshole who also happens to very vain and narcissistic and all that crap (though there are a few people who would say that I am, indeed, all those things). But because it doesn't paint an accurate picture of me or them; it doesn't take into consideration the different circumstances and experiences that we have lived, it makes a vast and sweeping generalization about youth and age as a whole. I've already been told I'm going to resemble my father when I get older (or have been told I already resemble him). Both of which really suck because it hurts when the boy who doesn't like his father, is told he is becoming more and more like his father. But it does make me wonder (about other people): how were they like when they were younger? What did they look like? What aspirations did they have? It's mostly questions that I have and my imagination to fill the gaps.

For the most part.

The bags bearing down on their shoulders, children wearing out the already vacant and expressionless faces... these things give way to certain information. Or at the very least hints at information. They're miserable, or they seem to be.

That's probably why I don't like being told that I'm going to end up like them: misery. Feeling like shit because I didn't accomplish my goals and am now stuck in a downward spiral allowing everything to collapse and tear itself to pieces because I just don't seem to give a fuck anymore.

No, that can't be me. I can't let the mirror show me the broken-down reflection of someone else's agony. Almost like breathing it comes, a cry for help masked in a bark to sheathe the ceaseless anguish that comes with breathing and living. That's another reason I hate that sweeping generalization: I refuse to accept the notion that I will be tied down by a bunch of kids that I hate and shout at them to do this and that only to have them run around wearing me ragged all the time.

In a nutshell: I don't like being frequently told that I'm going to age badly and still be strapped to the sidewalk burdened by screaming miniature me's.

Wouldn't you feel the same way, too? If all anyone did was tell you that you were going to be trapped in a hole, skewered by rusty daggers at all hours of the day, wouldn't you want to lash out and be a little scornful of such notions?

It's only natural, I suppose.

Ha

Merriam-Webster defines "laugh" as:
"To show mirth, joy, or scorn with a smile or explosive sound; also: to become amused or derisive."

Another dictionary defines "laugh" as:
"To make the spontaneous sounds and movements of the face and body that are the instinctive expressions of lively amusement and sometimes also of contempt."

The second one is pretty dramatic, no? Still, they mean the same thing, and it's not something one should have to define because it's a fairly universal experience shared by all. More often than not, laughter is induced by something funny (which again, is fairly difficult to actually define and put into words because humor varies from person to person- not that I had to tell you that). And other times it is caused by something sad, that you find funny. Or you're being tickled. The point being there's always an obvious stimulus that triggers laughter. Or giggling and chuckling, if that's your thing.

Or is there?

Do you ever have those moments where you just want to laugh? Sometimes for no reason whatsoever? Sometimes, you just burst into a fit of laughter and people ask you what's wrong but you just can't figure it out. Have you ever had that happen? It's a strangely comforting feeling because you know you're human and all that good stuff.

You can argue that there's nothing really awesome about being human and that humans are generally scum but I'd say that we're magnificent scum. Villainous, vile, jolly, incredible beings, and all that optimistic jazz. But that's another story another time. This particular post is about laughter.

Spontaneous, explicable, inexplicable laughter. A violent ballet of merriment engulfs the being and ensnares the vessel. For a while you aren't entirely in control because you can only communicate by saying "ha" in varying pitch and tone. Sure, you might be able to squeak out a monosyllabic word or two but cannot entirely communicate what the hell is happening. Those fits are fun.

I knew someone who didn't like it when I made them laugh. Probably because I did it to excess but to complain? I always thought it was weird especially because it's not like I ever tried to make light of a serious subject or situation. Sure, I made that person laugh a lot, and spent a lot of time trying (and succeeding about 9/10 times) but still. I was oft accused of "trying to kill [that person]" with laughter.

But I've also met people who don't like gelatin or yogurt. So this isn't very weird. Or maybe I'm weird? No, that's not it. We're all weird. Some more than others, by means of perspective, technicalities, and trick angles.

Hmm.

And the scribe grinned wolfishly.

Suits

At the risk of sounding cliched, magic is everywhere! Yeah! Groovy! Far-out!

Erhm.

It used to be that the things we take for granted these days or find ordinary (for the most part), were once considered magic. Fire, photography, medicine, death, etc, you get the point.

Despite not being a child anymore, I sometimes catch myself being fascinated by stuff around me the same way I would if I was one (the times I don't catch myself I'm just completely engrossed in whatever is fascinating me that I can't put myself outside it). Some may say it's unhealthy and that's fine, they're entitled to their opinion as long as they don't start causing trouble for others.

And then there are those who would argue that retaining some child-like sense of curiosity and wonderment is actually a boon. I would definitely agree with these because an active imagination (or one that doesn't completely suck / isn't completely buried by scars of time and the sands of age) helps come up with solutions to problems, helps create new ideas and so forth. You get the point.

I don't mean that everyone should actually behave like a child. No, society being the way it is sets certain expectations for a reason- so everyone can progress. I'd like to believe that this is the case though it probably isn't. Still, it's a nice thought.

But since we are expected to do something a certain way, in order to progress, you have to roll with the punches thrown at you. Part of that includes wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase if your line of work requires it. And putting away your propeller hat and slingshot.

I say suit because for me that has always been the ultimate sign (in the 20th and 21st centuries) of adulthood and being fully grown up. In the sense that after that, there's really no turning back: that necktie might as well be a noose and the suit a straitjacket. And really, all those people in business suits all look the same to me. Yes, there are some differences but more often than not, they all look the same despite boasting brand X and Y with adjective+color.

So, yes. I equate suits with the end of one's colorful personal identity that has set one apart from others. To some degree.

I've also seen those people in suits as having an incredible amount of pressure placed on them, paired with the levels of maturity and seriousness that go with that. High stress, high tension, high stakes. Hi, steaks! Clearly, no room to mess around, right? But many times, those suits have to make decisions that affect not only them but their companies and the (comparatively) common person. And then of course there comes the backlash over poor decisions and such.

Let's not even get started on how suits have been synonymous with some sort of doom and gloom type authority figure that wrecks everything and must be stopped (read: suits = "The Man").

So, a suit is the end.

The preceding paragraphs kind of sound like something a child would say. You'll also notice that I started talking about magic and didn't actually go anywhere with it.

Or did I?

I still find suits interesting, though I'm not a big fan of wearing one. Not necessarily because of that whole suits are the end thing but for reasons I won't discuss right now (another story for another time). What is interesting to me about them is the world that they are a part of. Business, responsibility, wondering how they can stand the pressure and responsibility of whatever it is they do.

I remember meeting up with a man who works for the city. I remember being being terrified and fascinated by the work he does and the responsibility. Terrified because his works affects a lot of people in very profound ways and any errors can cause a train-wreck of sorts. He isn't affiliated with any transportation department or the like, I was using train-wreck in a metaphorical way. I was fascinated for the same reason: his decisions really do have a widespread effect on a lot of people.

I realize that the sort of magic I saw in his job was filtered by a more adult/grown-up way of thinking. Still, I found his work interesting but too daunting to ever pursue something like that for myself. Of course, this also has to do with the fact that since I am very critical of my work and of myself, that if I were in that position of power, I wouldn't get much done as I would spend most of the time writing run-on sentences and being extremely dissatisfied with my decisions and thought process, dismissing them as inadequate and dreadful. The one area where a child-like sense of awe will not help much.

Still, one can't help but be moved (metaphorically) by the world in at least a slight degree as everything has the capacity to stun and mesmerize and make one's eyes widen with fascination. Make you feel 2 feet tall again looking up at everything and wondering how things work.

I still do that, though I'm much much much taller than 2 feet.

Ye Olde

It has come to my attention that I am like one of those people who have some sort of fixation with the past, or times that precede my birth. This became pretty obvious when I saw that a good chunk of my music library is predates my birth. And when upon recommending movies to a friend, I saw that a good number of them were either from the Criterion Collection or older than my parents. Funny, in a way.

By fixated, I don't mean that I wish I was 17 years old again only in the 1960's because my favorite bands played at Woodstock! Peace and love, man! Groovy! Far out, man! Keep on truckin'! Hell no, we won't go!

No.

Well, some of my favorite bands did play at Woodstock but that's not the point here. What I'm trying to get at is that I fall into that category of people that for some bizarre reason (that they can never truly justify or even describe thoroughly) have a fondness for the past. I say my fondness falls within a healthy range whereas others really freak me the fuck out, though they are rare.

For a lot of people, this notion of longing for the past they never actually knew is romanticizing certain ideas and events while disregarding the entirety of whatever it is that happened in the past. The people who lived in those days don't actually want to relive them in any capacity other than their memories. Or so I've gathered based on conversations we've had. This most likely means that they accepted that things come and go, and the fondness attached to those memories only withers when you wish and pine for the past repeatedly. They are healthy individuals who are comfortable with themselves that they rarely feel the need to make the past sound more awesome than it is or was.

Of course, I get very annoyed when I'm told that it was possible to pay for full-time schooling and housing on a part time job. That'd be really awesome to experience. Which kind of proves my point about wanting to go a-la carte with the past, or days one never knew. You can't really do that; you have to take EVERYTHING.

For instance, a lot of minorities (myself included) who somehow pine for an era predating the 70's often forget to take into consideration that for most of American history, minorities have not actually had a say in how things work. I'd make a generalization that this was a global thing but I don't want to sound like more of an ass. Very scattered and sparse events began to change the tide but to willingly place yourself in an era during which you have very little room for upward movement, strikes me as odd and unwise. If I could tell myself that when I was younger, I think I would have grown up faster. Or gotten the ball rolling, at least. I don't exactly pin the blame on anyone but ourselves because the stories we heard from our elders were meant for entertainment and to provide insight and above all: wisdom. Appreciate what you have as fully as you can now, while you can. They don't tell us these stories to brag or make us want to travel to their eras. I rarely hear about the harsh times they faced, which is probably an indication that they don't want to relive those times even if the memories and stories they share are fucking awesome and make one feel warm and so forth.

As for my fixation of sorts. I guess it really boils down to stuff that can be achieved today but isn't for reasons unbeknownst to me. Stuff like: better manners, more personal accountability, a stronger sense of integrity, better quality music, better quality films, a stronger moral fiber, a greater emphasis on actually doing things, and a greater sense of optimism among everyone. I may be jaded (and to some extent: bitter) but that doesn't mean the plucky optimist will drown any time soon.

Maybe I say these things because I'm a maladjusted young man but you have to admit that it'd be fucking awesome to be able to afford a burger, milkshake, newspaper, a slice of pie, and ride the trolley all for a dime or however that repeated anecdote of the past goes.

0100000101001001

A while back, someone asked me a few questions in an effort to compare and contrast the intelligences of humans versus machines. The purpose was also to write about what intelligence means and how to relates to humans and machines. The main argument, if I recall correctly, asserted that only humans (and other legitimately organic beings, for that matter, I suppose) are capable of legitimate intelligence because machines are only capable of artificial intelligence which, as the name suggests, is not real and furthermore just an illusion. A machine can only process what information is fed to it and cannot come up with legitimately original thoughts, ideas, etc. You know, that same old argument that everyone uses.

Of course, one should point out that the level of sophistication of artificial intelligence may someday reach the point where machines will etc Terminator scenario humans blah blah war to really fuck shit up blah back to the stone age etc doomsday blah blah blah. Blah.

Anyway.

Being the closest available human, I was chosen to answer a few questions. I saved my answers because I thought it would make for an interesting entry not because I can't think of anything else to write at this point in other than this run-on sentence or because my prose stuff is in a weird state of hibernation while good ideas surface and so forth.

As with the other entry, any stuff that has been italicized is just me (currently) expanding on the original answers.

First question. "What is love?" Baby, don't hurt me, don't hurt me no more

That's a pretty hard question for anyone to answer because love is a lot of different things to everyone. Any definition of love always depends on conditions, setting, people, and other shifting and time-sensitive factors. And there are different types of love: platonic, romantic, family, etc. I still haven't come up with any end-all definition (or one that could stand the test of time for a few years, at least) for myself in regards to those types or in general, to be honest. Partly because it's one of those things that are difficult to put in words and not have their meaning get lost. And because I have a hard time understand the already established definitions without wanting to defy them, somehow. Not maliciously or even willingly, but I always find myself straying from the set path.

If I had to give an answer right now, I would probably have to say that, to me, love would probably be this mutually-held strange [sic] and comforting feeling of being at peace at all times with yourself and whoever you love, through the good and bad times. Not that lurid TV/movie bullshit that people unfortunately use as a standard for god-knows-what. I have another answer that is oft used in a more humorous vein and actually hits close to the truth but it is a bit obscene; so I'll spare you, reader. Chances are you can probably guess what it is because you probably think something similar.

What is your goal in life?
I really don't have what you would call a conventional "goal in life" other than to be happy, however I can. And to own a motorcycle. Seriously, that's my only tangible goal in life: own a motorcycle. Not just any motorcycle but a Triumph Bonneville. It's one of the very few things in my mind that has remained entirely consistent since I was a kid: the motorcycle thing. The specificity came into play after I saw The Great Escape (not after watching Sons of Anarchy as some people might think). What? I'm not ashamed to admit that a movie further fueled my interest in a "dangerous" vehicle.

Nor am I ashamed to admit that I don't have a set of conventional goals in life. That's not to say I don't have a plan because I do. Well, I have a rough draft of an idea of what I want to do. I say rough draft and idea because I want to leave enough room for growth and anticipation of unexpected events because the only that's certain is change. That's not being reckless or a drifter, that's being pragmatic.

But yes, other more conventional goals like "owning a house" and "driving a fancy car" don't really appeal to me. That's not say that I think those are stupid goals or anything like that, they just don't appeal to me. If they appeal to others, fine, whatever, go for it, pursue that ride, etc. Chances are we do have some common ground. Say, housing, for instance. One would say they want to purchase a lovely 4 bedroom home with lawn and all that stuff. I would say that I'm more inclined towards living (at least for a while) in a simple one bedroom apartment.

I'm led to believe that not wanting what others want (read: the more traditional goals in life) makes me different. It isn't my intention to try to be different, it is how it is. I don't want the things people tell I should want, or the things that they want. I'm also under the impression that this also indicates that there may be something wrong with me. Other than my physical flaws- poor eyesight etc, I didn't realize that I was a monster of some sort. But I'll be fair and acquiesce that this may be in part a temporary state of mind.

How are you doing today?
Pretty well, I guess. A generic but fitting response in a way. Well, more versatile than "generic" though either term can be misused and so forth. Kinda cold but that's why I have my jacket. Well, as cold as it can get around these parts anyway. It doesn't help that I'm thin and am more likely to be torn apart, metaphorically speaking, by the cold. Yes, I almost begin to convulse if I get cold enough.

Can you ask me a question?
I can and I will. Have you seen "Once Upon a Time in the West" yet? I've lost count of how many times I've fucking told you to see that movie. Plank.

What was the last movie you saw?
The last movie I saw was Pi. Directed by Aronofsky. It was alright. Fucking numbers, man.

Lord of the Flies

click to open in new tab for a better view

This really has nothing to do with the book and it was just a sketch that I felt like sharing.

Yes, it was drawn in a composition book. If you look closely, you can make out the words G bar 3, and some notes regarding music.

Plastic Flowers

This is a poem I wrote in 2006.

staring at the sidewalk
from dawn to dark
i just blankly gawk
at this gray sidewalk
i still blink
and thoughts soar through my head
and i think
i think that everything is dead
flowers are plastic
love is synthetic
this world is pathetic
drowning in plastic
and choked with lies
singing corporate lullabies
that dont rhyme and make sense
and give you shivers instead of warmth
from the course of good we have drifted far
soon the boat will sink
and all aboard will die
no lifeboats in sight
or is this another lie?
find the good and the real
find your natural flowers
and all will be well

Rhyming -awk with -awk? Genius! It's quite bad and it makes me laugh, then again I could the same for the stuff generated today.

Have Kittens?

I often recall days gone by, as I am wont do, and notice different things each time I take that "stroll down memory lane." Sometimes I notice how foolishly I behaved, how gallantly I behaved, how she used to kiss me, how strange I looked without a mustache, and various other things of varying importance.

But more relevant to this post, I noticed how I rarely seemed to panic. How I seemed to be more cool under pressure, and could probably still shiver in a burning building. An exaggeration, obviously, but I thought it made my point more colorful. I didn't think I ever actually had nerves of steel but the more I remember, the more it seems like I did. Of course, these days, those nerves seem to have rusted, so who the hell really knows anymore? Or my perception has changed greatly, which I wouldn't doubt given that I seem to be rather ambivalent and sometimes apathetic about most matters these days. I've hinted at this in previous posts.

Hmm.

I do remember sitting back in a chair and watching peers freak the fuck out and run around like headless chickens while I just sat there, thinking about what movie I wanted to watch when I got home. Or just spacing out humming a Pink Floyd song. I also recall how I could sit down a day or two before an assignment was due, write whatever came to mind, mold it into something relevant to the assignment, turn it in, and receive a pretty high grade while others would receive less than stellar marks (or a grade lower than they wanted) despite larger amounts of time spent sweating and killing themselves over the same assignment. Sure, it felt unfair for a second but what mattered was that I kept my cool. This, I can probably still do.

Though it does amaze me sometimes how quickly the future seems to be approaching and how unshaken I am. It's appalling, frankly. Other are freaking out, or relishing it, and I'm just standing there. Scratching the back of my head, eyeing suspiciously at this behemoth barreling towards me. Is something wrong with me? I think the very existence of this blog indicates "yes."

I have to be fair and admit that even today despite my swim in the ocean of ambivalence, whenever fear strikes me, it strikes hard and paralyzes. It's only fair, I guess.

I have to ask, how is "have kittens" synonymous with panic?

One thing I am sure of is that days gone by often seem brighter in the rear-view mirror.

Elation Anew

There is no reason for this variety of panic.
Though something is rusted and crumbling apart.
There is no reason for me to feel this frantic.
Even if nothing I do generates any adequate art.
This is not the season for distress.
Despite being unable to flow like a mighty river
this isn't the time for despondency,
it only creates a bigger mess.

The thing to do is
scribble
breath
laugh
skip
hop
snarl
shout
growl
roar
roll around
and stop.
Only to repeat
until you've revived
that lost spark.

There is no cause for alarm.
Everything picks up.

Gray Elbows and a Sudsy Sea

I'm not very young but I'm not very old either. By most standards, I'm still considered young though there are times when I feel much older than I am: when my hearing seems to be fading. This wouldn't be a problem if people learned to speak up. Planks.

But because I'm still considered young, many people (some only slightly older than me) seem to think it is their god-given duty to tell me what to do, in a rather condescending way. I acknowledge and understand that I am not very mature as I tend to joke around a lot but that by no means is an indicator of immaturity. I joke around a lot because I like preserving whatever youth I do have left before my life starts to resemble that Low song Death of a Salesman.

I should point out that these people carry an ingrained bitterness that they would never admit to having. Sometimes, I find it refreshingly surprising to find that there are people more bitter than I am, though I wouldn't say I'm bitter, just more prone to anger.

Very few people are in any sort of position to tell me what to do because not all of them have their shit together. Many are so scattered and fucked up that for them to tell me what to do is downright stupid and infuriating. They're really in no position to tell me what to do because they are barely to keep their shit together. I find it rather bizarre and inappropriate that one of the things they tell me to do is get married. I shall hereafter refer to these people as lemmings. (And yes, I know that I repeated myself in this paragraph)

Marriage, in my opinion, is something that involves an immense level of responsibility and demands a certain amount of maturity. If, according to lemmings, I'm immature (and to some degree irresponsible), then I am not the best candidate to get married. Not to mention the obvious fact(s) that at this point in time I: have no way of making good amount of money, at least not enough for two or more people to live on; can barely take care of myself (according to lemmings), but I disagree as I can cook and clean and am not dumb enough to go looking for life-endangering trouble; and, most obvious of all, I am not in a relationship.

And I'm certainly not going to go out there with the goal of finding someone to marry.

So, if I "can't take care of [myself]", "[am] too immature and childish", and am not in a relationship, how/why can/should I get married? It's like asking a whale to run a marathon. It's not gonna happen.

As for the responsibility portion of that debacle, I know that I wouldn't even be able to handle it. Marriage is more responsibility than I can handle at this point in time and it just isn't for me. Or maybe I'm just stubborn and unwilling to settle down and all that young, angst-y, pseudo-rebellious stuff that is common with people in my age bracket.

I feel compelled to point out that I grew up watching various marriages fail or crumble. This serves as an obvious discouragement from marriage. If they (lemmings) failed at their marriage, why then should I seek it out? I have a lot of problems and marriage isn't going to solve them. Why drag down another person down with me?

I like what a friend of mine once said about marriage. She shared an anecdote about how many members of her family are all pretty fucked up and married. They were married by the time they were her age, and every chance they get they tell her to get married herself and settle down and all that. She mentioned that they are pretty fucked up (though I won't go into why but you can use your imagination), are always fighting, can't get their acts together, etc. So whenever they tell her to get married, she responds with something caustic like "So I can end up as fucked up as you?"

That's pretty badass.

I have to be fair and acknowledge that things are bound to change. I may not feel the same way about this particular topic next year (though I'll probably still detest lemming-talk: "My life is pretty fucked up and I can't do anything right and I'm generally a horrible person and I'm married therefore you, [Gustavo Barba-Roja] should get married! It'll totally make you a happier and wonderful person!"). I may be even more of a catch in a few months. By that same token, I may lose an eyeball next week. At which point, I'll wear an eyepatch.

Oh, and I've only begun to scratch the surface of one side of this matter.