Leaf Blowing

"What is that noise?" the professor asks with irritation, as if the sound from the buzzing motor beyond the open window is conspiring against her alone.

"It's a leaf blower." I say.

"My word,” her head pushing through the window—glaring, searching for the person responsible for her annoyance “what an awful noise. Can you imagine being a leaf blower? Wouldn't that be an awful job?"

"I've been a gardener," I say strategically cheerful, "it was quite fun actually, especially at this time of year when we'd rake the leaves in great big piles. I wore the blower on my back all day long--getting lost in that hum--quite hypnotic really. A wonderful job," I assert again.

"Hmm, maybe so." She pouts.

I turn my blue collar up and walk away, off to the copy room to run her copies.

Perception

Andy and I walked to down the street to Fred Meyer in the dark last night. He’s reading C.S. Lewis’s space trilogy which unfortunately I haven’t had the pleasure of reading yet, but have been meaning to pick up for some years now. He told me about this one part in the book where the main character is pushed through a portal or lands on a different planet…however he got there, it was a completely new place, one in which he had no points of reference or experience with the objects there. In this uniquely unfamiliar place, language was a useless tool in describing it. And where language breaks down, so to does our ability to differentiate between objects. The only thing the character could perceive in this new world was the movement of colors.

Walking into the soft neon light of Freddy’s, I blurred my vision and tried to only perceive color. It didn’t work all that well. My mind kept saying in English: Rice A-Roni, Swanson, tile, wine, person, fish, meat, cereal.

Antibiotics

I have come down with something. I went to the doctor. He diagnosed me with writers block--Avian writers block. I sneezed. He told me to try list therapy. "Wash it down with a spoon full of sugar," he tells me. Medicine: here it goes.

1.

This summer I had a pet spider name Shelob. She was the daughter of Regina, the spider that made her home in my coffee tree plant the summer before. Shelob made her home on a web in the kitchen window just to the right of my computer monitor. She was a cute but scrawny thing in the spring. I'd stoke her chin and say things like, goochi goochi goo goo, and she'd laugh, her back four legs shacking--her venom sack wagged.

As spring turned to summer and summer into the harvest, I started noticing that my window sill looked like the floor of a bank after a robbery gone horribly wrong. There were dead bodies strewn all over the place and little bullet cases all around. I spent one afternoon, I remember, outlining the bodies with chalk.

Then, for a while, I didn't see Shelob. Then one day, I did. She was enormous. All bloated and blotchy. She looked like a buffet restaurant patron. Her appearance frightened the shit out of me so I got a bottle of ammonia and squirt about four liters of it on her. Looking back, that was probably a horrible way to treat a pet.

2.

I'm listening to Chris Thile. Irishy folk music. Check him out.

3.

The period was an old maid. She liked to play yahoo chess locked in her room on Friday nights and none of the boys ever looked at her, mostly because she never left the house. The semi colon was so misunderstood. She wore black rimmed glasses and drank patchouli flavored lattes. The colon had trouble relating to other women, finding it easier to scratch, bite or punch them. She wore overalls with bare, yellow and dirt colored, feet. The exclamation mark got all the guys. When she went out she wore a red dress with spaghetti straps. When she stayed home she made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with creamy peanut butter and strawberry jam so that the jelly oozed over the crust.

Waking Life

I'm at work. It is 3:27 PM. I recieve an email that suggest that by twenty-oh-seven, scientist might crack open the god particle. A particle that is three levels beneath a lepton. This particle could explain the mystery of mass.

I try to wrap my mind around a scale that small. It makes my face burn and my ears pop.

A professor walks in the office. "Can I get the keys to the promotion room, please?"

My mind is fluctuating at a quatum level. The promotion room? Keys? I ask myself. That sounds like a very mysterious place. I wonder, what is in that room? I have the keys to such a place? The thought occurs to me to hide out in the office tonight and then when the janitors leave, sneak into the promotion room and explore. I almost get the bends as my mind rises to surface level consciousness and I'm suddenly aware of handing the professor the keys.

I realize I am having internal dialogue, and only now do I realize that I've opened blogger and recorded it all.

Whoa, Dude.

It is frustrating sometimes, a lot of the times, having a human brain. Oh yes, as far as humans are concerned, our brains are the most powerful and mysterious thing in the entire universe, but there in lies my frustration. I can conceive of a better, more powerful brain; of something more mysterious than my own mind, of a beauty that dwarves my greatest imaginings. I can almost touch it. I can sense it floating a few nanometers above the crinkles of my cerebral cortex.

It is morning and I’ve decided to skip class--again. I went through a passage in Hebrews this morning with pastor Dave concerning a high priest named Melchizedek. When that was done, I made some coffee and read about robots. Now it’s 8AM.

Melchizedek. Robots.

Andy was telling me about these guys on the radio the other night that had a theory about oil. They said we’ve been looking at the stuff all wrong this whole time. It isn’t that oil is dead stuff liquefied, but well, actually, it’s a mystery. We don‘t really understand what oil is precisely, just theoretically. According to the numbers scribbled on their notepads, oil is like water, it’s just here, and the earth is filled with the stuff. What is water really? Whoa. Dude. That’s kinda strange, nobody ever told me that the definition of oil was still up for grabs.

And in this class I’m skipping this morning, it is a writing class, the topic being death and love/sex, we’re discussing sex, in a circle, looking at each other. I’m stuck. I know about as much about sex as I know about oil. I know we all use it, and it is pleasurable and all that jazz but what is it really? If I can’t even wrap my head around water how can I add any insight to a group discussion about something as curious as sex? I’m listening. The conversation yesterday got bogged down by talk of lingerie and blow jobs and liberation and revolution--leaded and unleaded. Yes but WHAT is it? Something big seemed to be missing from the conversation, and it was hanging in the room, in the eleventh dimension.

It is that something that I’m really after, the source of all knowledge. Melchizedek and robots. God and technology. God.

Remembering

There is a tune that enters my mind
after intervals of time
and then exits as a whistle on my lips.
What song it is or where it comes from
I do not know.
It is slow, and sad, and forgetting--
Lost after one time through.
It possesses me for a short time
then wanders away, leaving me wondering.
Such things as these, I believe, are gifts from heaven
A present tied with a silver bow.
Maybe it's just one line from a symphony
I'll play one day in heaven.
Or a seed planted in my heart,
That has just begun to grow.

The Adventures of A Former Male House Keeper

The theme song from Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon has been floating in my head like a soap bubble today, bouncing off my brain, making me sway like a drunken master, like a warriors silk robe. The trees are shedding their leaves giving the whole landscape a sad but beautiful ambiance.

***

I loosen my sword in the hilt and tip toe, in my moccasins, over the wet pavement. My robe is clinging to me, water is dripping from my nose and chin and fingertips. I cross into the muddy plains of the park. It is still and silent except for the beat of the falling rain. Dum da-da--da-da Dum Dum. Dum da-da--da-da Dum Dum. The Maple stands between me and the path home. His coat of orange-red leaves has all but disappeared except for near the trunk. The leaves are as smoldering fire against the shadow of soaked branches. He wields the elements, strengthened by the spirit of the season. I approach cautiously with my hand on my sword.

“The way is blocked human!” His voice is like a mighty wind through forests.

“Step aside Demon, I am no human. I am Ramandu, spirit monk--slayer of those things foul and wicked. Be warned.”

He heaves insults and vile laughter at me. His barked skin begins to swirl creating a vortex of energy. From the middle of the energy cloud I see a demon in the form of a faun. He has a pointed beard and pointed ears. “Your powerless against my Will, fool.” he hisses. He dissipates into a moist cloud and disappears leaving behind only evil laughter.

Faster than thought, larger than a man, the mist materializes before me,a cunning trick from the shape-shifting enemy. He strikes. In one move of pure harmony, I unsheathe my katana, lay waste to the forces of darkness and sheathe my sword again. The heavens loosen the clouds and the mud around me beats: Dum da-da--da-da Dum Dum. Light radiates from me as I bow in the mud of the park.

I am Ramandu, the spirit monk. The path is now open.

Did You See That One Part?

We got rabbit ears for our television. That is an antenna. It's been three years with out watching TV! With all that free time, my IQ has probably went up 50 points, meaning I'd almost be of average intelligence 100 years ago--maybe a little below average actually.

Andy and I are addicted to TV already and the really funny part is we only get four channels and one of them is Chinese half the time. And the reception is pretty crappy. But we are still addicted. I find myself watching Perry Mason, Becker, and bad Canadian soap operas. The best show on that I've seen yet is the new Family Feud with Al from Home Improvement.

The thing about a TV story is that it is always lame and you always have to end with: it was so funny. You should have seen it. If your not a TV watcher those stories are pretty unfunny. Ok so here is my TV story. I was watching the Feud and one of the questions was, "Name something that requires constant maintenance." This teenage dude, a real baby faced sort of guy, got all nervous, you know, because his family had two strikes against him, and he blurts out "facial hair."

Another funny one was when a woman from the other family said that she "showered". The question was, "What do you do when your bored at home?"

It was so funny. You should have seen it.

Hi-Ho Hadario

Dreams are the illustrations before chapters in a book. If my dream last night were to precede a chapter, it would be a little wood block print at the top of the page and underneath it, like a secret, lonely, lake of ink surrounded by plains of pulp, the chapter number with a simple period after it. The picture would be of a man skating in socks over polished marble. He’d be weaving between two women carrying shopping bags. He’d have a boyish smile and upside down curving slits for eyes. The women would look very incensed at the tomatoes, baguette, and tin toy robot, bouncing out of their bags in the excitement. What a wonderful image to start my day, my chapter.

I recently met a co-worker of mine and we asked the usual questions students ask each other, what are you studying? what do you want to be when you grow up? So I asked this girl what she was interested in and it turns out she is studying French. Cool. “What are you going to do with that?” I asked, as if speaking it isn’t enough. She told me that she’s a sophomore and that she’s going to double major in French and Anthropology and then go on and get her masters, her PhD, join the peace corps, and then teach poor kids in French speaking Africa. “What about you?” she asked. “Me. Hmm.” A squirrel caught my attention in the woods and I spaced out for a second imagining what a fantastic life he must have, forging for acorns in the dumpsters and finding instead, corn dog sticks and greasy paper plates incrusted with rubbery cheese barnacles, and cardboard cups with sugary puddles of milks at the bottom. “I’m not sure actually. I'm blown away by today.” She looked at me like I was a serial killer, or maybe more like I was a weirdo shoving Funions and ranch dip in my mouth while wearing a cape and nothing else-- except suspenders--and ski pants--and a Gap sweater…and a chicken-mascot head dress. That was the end our conversation.

I was going through the book of James this morning and came up on chapter 4 verse 13: You who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.” Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.

Whoa.

There is also that grasshopper and the ant parable that warns about fools who waste away their days. Not having a plan is surely foolish, and yet thinking that the future is a real thing seems to be a mistake. I am attacking this from all angles but some how am missing the mark. Let me try one more time.

Give us this DAY our DAILY bread. Amen.

Windows 2007

I doubt this idea is original and that's why I don't hesitated to share it hear on blogger. My avatar, Wu Li the Lotus Blossom, was walking around the wooded paths and flowery glens of Jade Empire, getting in kung fu fights and manipulating chi magic, and I was sitting in my chair here in regular old Bellingham, Washington, United States, North America, Earth, Sol's systems, Milkyway Galaxy, Corner of the Universe, and I was teary eyed not only from the hours I'd spent staring at neon vacuum tubes but also because of the reverence this beautiful computer generated fantasy world was creating in my heart. I turned off the game and took a shot of Saki and ate a bit of fish and rice with chop sticks and then headed down to my secret basement lab and grabbed a huge piece of thick chalk. My hands were receiving signals from my unconscious mind or from Alpha Centari and I began furiously scribbling on the blackboard. When I came to, I was aware that I was lounging in a tiny desk chair with grains of rice crusted in the corners of my mouth and polka dots of tear splashes on my chalk covered jeans. Before me on the board were the plans for windows 2007. A three dimensional world like Jade Empire that one could navigate not with a mouse but with a video game controller. I discovered that instead of moving a mouse arrow over a two dimensional field like pong, my design allowed one to store and retrieve information in a three dimensional virtual space. One could bury secret files in a treasure chest on a distant island or conveniently, on their virtual desktop. And everyone's computer would be hooked together to create one huge universe. I cried at the beauty of it and then went up stairs and have made myself a cheese sandwich and now I am typing.

Book Suggestions

What an awesome technology language and writing is. Especially when carved or inked on scrolls, rock tablets, or in the pages of books. It transcends cell phones, life extension, time travel. How I'd love to meet that first human author when he got that mad desire to look at his thoughts in physical form. To share them with niegbors, with offspring. A true Alchemist! The first mad scientist!

With that reverence out of the way, I'd like to recommend two books in particular that are worth checking out.

1) G.K.Chesterton's, Orthodoxy. I won't give a synapses of the book but I will say that his common sense approach to thought is invigorating. It has given me a confidence in my beliefs that for years I have questioned in the shadows of my modernist college professors.

2)Donald Miller's, Blue Like Jazz. I just saw him read from his book at Western the other night. He blew me away with not only his writing style but his wisdom. He writes about Christian spirituality with a voice that rings true with our generation. I implore you to check out his book.

Flaming Magic

I’m back in school and so am again dragged away from my own thoughts and dreams into a institution of thought that escapes my understanding. Here is an example of my continuing frustration with academia and its’ current ideology. I arrived at my eight o’clock class this morning after a wonderful walk up to school on this, a crisp morning, the second of autumn. The big tree in Laurel Park, my favorite tree in the whole city and a friend, was just this morning, in his peak splendor with a green coat of leaves bursting at the tips in flames of red and orange! Never again will he look as he did this morning and that to me is Awesome, that is why he is my friend. And so there I am in class an overgrown man/boy squished into a tiny desk in a tiny classroom on the first day of a new term at University. Everyone shifted awkwardly and silently in their seats and, if everyone is like me, tried to guess the internal dialogue going on in the mind of the person sitting next to them. The instructor comes in and breaks the silence to the relief of all: a new person to read or submit to. This is all very routine of course. But to my great joy and astonishment a man and women walked in; the woman carrying a peculiar sort of computer-machine. The instructor asked about the machine and we all found out what it was: one of those transcription machines one would find in a courtroom. It turns out, the man was hearing impaired and she was there to type out the lecture for him to read on a laptop in his lap. I was absolutely taken by the machine and how it worked. As the professor spoke, the woman would kneed the keys causing (I suppose) the words to appear in full chunks on the man’s screen. There were no symbols or characters on any of the keys which made it all the more magical. I read more of the professors lecture than I did listen to it. It wasn’t even much of a lecture really, just her talking about her qualifications as a professor and the works she had published. Again, routine first day procedure. But what happened next was what really got me. The eyes are such a wonderful gift and I don’t know what I’d do without them, especially when entire cultural maxims float into my visual frame at once conveying the absurd or the beautiful. I guess what happened next was auditory as well, but I was hearing visually.

The professor put in a CD of a transgender author’s reading from one of his profound works. The instructor labeled him as transgender not me. And he probably labels himself as transgender which seems to me sad, people formulating self identity by such an insignificant detail. “She” told a sad tale about her struggles with culture’s acceptance of her desires to wear women’s clothing. (Hey, wear what you want. If I had it my way we would be wearing capes and Greek robes.) The author told about his 12 year old cousin and how he was also starting to wear women’s clothes. He used the word fagot a lot and told about a friend of his who has enormous breasts which he’s nick-named the Tyrannosaurus Racks.

While She was reading in a deep manly voice, I couldn’t help but watch as the transcribist typed on her curious machine. What did she think of this class, I wondered? How did that machine work, I pondered again? And so, I looked back and forth from the woman, with an incredible skill, to the mental image of a burly man in drag, reading about his confused twelve year old cousin. My mind can’t grasp how an arts department at a university can ignore technological marvels, the magic flames in every tree--in every molecule of the world--the silence amongst strangers on the first day of class, and focuses instead on the inner turmoil of quirky people.

Candy Houses

I’m laying on the floor in the living room with all the couch pillows under my head and my face buried in an old View Master that my grandfather found in basement and gave to me. A 3-D clay Hansel and Gretal are standing, lost in the dark woods with a trail of bread crumbs to mark the path from my crossed eyes. There is something about the encapsulated world of a View Master slide that captures me completely, making me want to live in a diorama, or reminding me that I already do.

Andy’s on the couch drawing and telling me about life at the print shop. He brings up a story he told me earlier, about a woman who had come in for copies but ended up crying. Her daughter that morning had had a violent seizure. “You know what really got me thinking about that woman though? My first reaction, when the woman started crying, was to cry with her. But I didn’t. I mean, I had to bite my lip. I can’t cry at work with all those customers around. It just wouldn’t be normal. I think Jesus said something about crying with those that cry and laughing with those that laugh. How pathetic is it when people can’t be genuine with each other?”

“Yeah, that is kinda sad. Huh.” In fairy land, Gretal gives the witch a good kick in the rear, right into the blazing stove.

He-lary-ous

Shave

Elaine,

1. If you could take a trip in a vehicle of your own choosing (sea ship, chariot, plane, train, automobile, space shuttle, etc.) which would you take and where would you visit?

2. You’re a prisoner about to be put to death. The chef is willing to cook you anything you desire. It is after all, your last meal. What do you order?

3. If Mother Teresa came to you and said, “Hey Elaine, I was thinking’…we should have a party and invite a couple Saints. Why don’t you throw something together?” Who would you invite to your party and why? What theme and mood would the party have?

4. If you were a tree what kind of tree would you be? What would you look like?

5. What did you have for breakfast this morning?

6. What makes you smile at school?

Speedos

Micheal's interview with me. There are rules that will allow you to also participate in the fun. Stay tuned.


1. If you were any race, besides human, from Star Trek, which would you be and why?
I can’t recall the name of my favorite race of Star Trek aliens, but in one episode from TNG, there was a planet inhabited by men in space Speedos and women in skimpy two pieces. All they did all day was frolic around in the park acting like children and getting fresh. That would be kinda cool. But really, I guess I’d like being a Betazoid. Telepathic powers would be cool.

2. If a war broke out, and you had to hide in a bomb shelter, with all the food, medicine, even electricity you could need, but could only bring one item with you (that isn't a person) what would it be and why? I’d bring my violin. I am totally unskilled on my fiddle, though if I had all of my life in pit with nothing else to do, I’d love to master it.

3. If you had a superpower, what would it be, and would you use it for good or evil? Care Bare Stair. Hypothetically, I’d use this rich power for good.

4. If you could live anywhere in the world, and speak the language, where would it be? Atlantis. And I’d speak Ebonics there.

5. If you were a type of alcohol, what would you be, and why?
I would be a barrel of 1794 Pennsylvanian corn whisky. Since I was a child, I’ve always wanted to be a barrel of whisky when I grew up. Plus, in that particular year, those whisky barrels, were at the center of a rowdy farmer’s rebellion.


****************************************************

Now, that was interesting, and fun.

Here's the scoop behind the interview process.

1. If you want to participate, leave a comment below asking to be interviewed.

2. I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different.

3. You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.

4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.

5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions

When The Music 's Over

Scattered all over the floor, are empty tall boys of Olympia beer. Near my head, on top of a speaker, is a bottle half full of stale beer. I pick it up and take a sniff out of morbid curiosity. I guess it’s been sitting there, warming--aging--for a few weeks at least. The jam room is filled with wires. Waves of them splashing against everything old and fusty. These guys have been binging on alcohol and minimum wage jobs for years. Pete, on the drums, has his shirt off and a head band soaked in sweat tied around his head to keep his mullet hair out of his eyes. The middle of his body, where all the important body parts are, is made of beer and bowling alley food but he's beating those drums like every moment is an epiphany. The character in the middle of the room, playing guitar--as pale and sad as a Tim Burton caricature, is Adam. He’s drunk, stoned, swaying with eyes half glazed, half open. Some people always talk but never listen. Bob is that kind of person and he is stealing the musical conversation with an endless loop of funk beats slapped out on his bass guitar. I’m sitting in a worn lounge chair: a stray from the free box in some college kids summer junk pile. I’m surrounded by squalor. Shiny things in department stores inevitably end up tarnished, stained, reeking in the basement, even if does take generations. In millions of years they will be mined as fossil fuels but for now they fill our homes.

The music stops for a moment and the band takes gulps of beer and laugh. I can see through the mini blinds, the flooded streets and the dead cattle and phone poles as floats in a solemn parade procession. The sun is setting.

I think about what music is and realize for the first time, with clarity, that its just conversation using vibrating tools instead of our own living tissue: vocal cords. Musicians with their power cords wrapped around them are cyborgs and when the power goes out the music will change. Acoustic guitar instead of electric. A piano where there was a keyboard. Architectural change will follow; to magnify the tiny voice of plain wood and wire.

The music starts again. Bob starts. A wonderfully mellow ballad for a change. I can see relief and hope start to take shape in our faces. It doesn’t last long. Bob stops self-consciously, looking like he wished he could take back what he just played--like he might have shown something that’s supposed to stay hidden. He laughs and lurches and then starts slapping funk out of his bass and Pete follows with a butt rock beat and Adam blows away, joining the dead cattle.

Yet Another Lord Of the Rings Analogy

I'm standing on a terrace in Gondor. Beside me, Gandolf is contemplating wizardly affairs while puffing smoke rings from his pipe. We're gazing over the fields of Pelinor and to the stirring black-lands beyond. An evil looking green energy swirl is unleashed from Mordor that causes a terrific clap of thunder which echoes throughout the valleys of Gondor. Gandolf looks at me--smoke leaking out from under his bushy white mustache, "So it begins."

Katrina is that evil green energy swirl. The rising gas prices are the Wraith King of Angmar flying on the wings of the Nazgul. The gangbanging anarchist shooting at those that would aid them are the Lord Denethor gone mad, saying, every man for himself! etc. etc.

I have never experienced such a natural disaster so it is easy for me to type, here on blogger, with a fresh cup of hot coffee steaming beside me, about ideals. The events of New Orleans are a wake up call for me though. I would have never expected such behavior in America. Surely Americans ban together and grit and grunt to help themselves and their neighbors, over coming hardships. Right? I’m sad to hear about rapes and killings in my own country.

See, I think our whole way of life is a illusion. Malls and stock brokers, people everywhere demanding customer satisfaction. It takes a natural disaster of "biblical proportions" to break the illusion. We are not customers we are human beings! We face hardships now and then. We might have to fast or go with out a shower. Help yourselves first, aid will come. Are people incapable of helping themselves in this country?

I do not mean to be insensitive to those suffering in the south, I am just disappointed that is all. I fear we are only shadows of our forefathers. Where are the Kings of old?

Blogirthday

Today is my one year blogger birthday. In a few years, I'll look back and laugh, did I really keep one of those electric-trend blogs?

Being that I don't have much to say I'll just puke out the stuff in my head.

At the suggestion of a friend I watched Nicholas Nickleby last night. A Charles Dicken's story. It was the best movie I've seen all year.

Today, I went to the theater for the first time in months to see The Brothers Grimm. I was disappointed. I actually fell asleep. I am desperately searching for good storytellers. Hollywood has lost all my respect.

I drove past the Chevron today while the clerk was changing the price on the marquee. $3.07 for regular unleaded. Somebody is getting very very rich at the expense of average Joe.

The most ridiculous thing I have seen in all my life had to be what I saw today at the mall. Abercrombie and Fitch hired a sculpted male model to be a shirtless greeter.

Supermarket Checkstand

I'm waiting my turn in the checkout line at the supermarket, piling my meager dinner ingredients onto the conveyer belt. The man in front of me is an old guy, probably in his sixties. Thick head of white hair, a dwindling muscular build and a dominating posture. The checker, an attractive woman in her early thirties is busy going about her job, scanning the endless river of groceries flowing her way. She glances up and notices the old guy. Even though his back was towards me I could sense a sly smile under his twinkling eyes.

"Weren't you just in here?" She asks in a friendly checker tone.

"Nope, not today." he says.

"I could have sworn you were just in here."

"I visited you in your dreams last night. I know you've been dreaming about me." Man this old dude is totally perving out, I'm thinking and everyone else in line is thinking the same thing. She nervously laughs and goes back to being a scanning machine. He continues on like this and I'm feeling uncomfortable. I'm looking at a little pulp spiritual guide with a picture of sunlight breaking through clouds on the cover, but really I'm dropping eaves all over the floor.

She finally finish ringing the guy up and he winks and flashes a salivating smile that almost drowns everyone in line. "I'll be dreaming about you sweetheart."

I Thought Sign Wavers Were Being Exploited

Look

Concerning Some Strains of Feminism: A Porch Conversation

It is challenging sometimes living with feminist. I was on the porch talking to my neighbor tonight, smoking a cigarette, yes, a damn cigarette! She said that she would never get married, that she will never have children. Men are perverts, she said. And having children would only contribute to the over population of the world, not to mention wreck her body. Oh what a sad outlook! I pointed to her ovaries. "Monica, your a baby making machine, and that is a miracle!"

Another neighbor of mine, gave me an essay she had written for her feminist studies class to read last spring. It was titled "The Big Penis". I had to laugh at the title and that academic papers could be title as such but the contents of the essay really broke my heart. Her thesis was that there is a great big abstract penis continually bonking women on the head. As if there was this person called "man" (sometimes I refer to him as "the man") and that his only purpose on earth is to abuse women and take away their goddess powers. It is easy to believe in such a simplistic world-view, and I sometimes borrow such a view to make myself feel good, as if there were a wizard behind the curtain feeding us propaganda over the television with the ultimate goal of turning us into cyborgs, but in reality there are over six billion individuals on this planet. Some individuals are more confused or corrupt than others but compartmentalizing men and women--sexism--is as misguided as racism. Monica, there are good guys out there, you just need to meet them! Life and healthy sexuality is as mysterious, powerful, and wonderful as any deep field Hubble telescope or European holiday! And don't let professors tell you otherwise.

The Coming of Autumn

Once punchy,spring-red poison berries,
droop now, in late summer.
Burnt orange bundles sagging
on bent branches:
Bitter buoy bobbing
on waves of overripened air.

Factory Work

Went out blackberry picking yesterday. It was a great time. We baked pies till midnight. I was kinda wanting to go to bed and listen to the radio when it got late, so I told my friend, who was totally gun-ho (is that a word?) about baking the two remaining uncooked pies, that we would just bake 'em in the morning. We'd sit on the porch eating fresh pies and ice cream and coffee--for breakfast. "Ok, ok, dude! Let's wake up for the sunrise and eat pie and ice cream." "Uh...naw. Just come over around 9. That's plenty early." She got on me for being unadventurous. What she maybe didn't quite get is that dreaming is my favorite hobby. I need my full eight hours in to get maximum dream time. "Why wake up early when I can spend the morning having cool dreams?"

Those words came back to bite me. Last night I dreamt that I was a factory worker at a paint manufacturer. I think I spent all those eight dream hours tending to a mixing machine in a drab corner of the plant. Nothing cool happened at all except I had to work a factory job for free! Next time I'm going to enjoy the sunrise.

Alone/Lonely

Today is just going to be one of those wonderfully lazy autumn like days. I'm going blackberry picking later with a friend and then we are going to bake pies later in the evening. Until then, I thought I would jot down a few thoughts that came to me after reading Ann Spam's post today and Jessi's Don Quixote piece from a few days ago.

There is a big difference between being alone and being lonely. For some the thought of not having people around is terrifying and they assume that people that are alone must also be lonely. It is unhealthy to always be alone and you can tell when people are lacking in fellowship with others. But there is a distinction between being alone and being isolated. These are qualitative differences. If you lock yourself in a high tower and watch TV or continually surf the internet or spend all your time with your eyes in a palantir, then you are not really alone but wrestling with a shadow of real human communion.

I guess to me there is no such thing as being alone alone. There is always the wind, the trees, ideas, good music. These things are like food for the spirit and I refuse to believe post modern cultural critics when they asserts that the individual Subject is dead or illusionary. For all those people running around performing for or worshiping other men I can perhaps understand their terror at coming to grips with their own self. The self can be a scary thing. If your bored your not alone, if your restless, or lusty, or writing on a blog, your not alone. Being alone for me at least is when I clear my mind of all worldly things and look towards the otherworldly. Or God shows me, individually how blessed I really am and how much farther I have to walk to be entirely in Him. People are a gift from God to individuals and I am continually amazed by the people He puts in my life. Even the people that I think are bad at first are blessings. But the most special relationship to me is the one between my soul alone and the Creator of all things. And I am just beginning to revel in that, and that to me is exciting.

My upstairs neighbors got home from a weekend trip last night and Beth knocked on my door. "Matt did you clean the lobby?" She asked. "Yeah I did." "Oh thank you. Thank you. It looks so good." "Yeah, thanks. I went on a cleaning spree this weekend." She looked at me with concern, "Aww, where you lonely?" I smiled and laughed, "No, no, it wasn't anything like that. I cleaned up for company."

I can't really ever remember being lonely. And as hokey as it sounds, the famous poem, Footprints, means a lot to me.

Family

My aunt and uncle, whom I haven't seen in probably ten years, came to visit yesterday along with my parents. My parents moved my brother and me to Washington from California and all of our extended family when I was eleven years old. I am proud of my dad, that he had the foresight to see that southern California was becoming a pit and how much courage it must have taken to move his family away from his own family and my mothers family and come here alone to a place we had never been. Washington, especially Whatcom county, is paradise on earth in my eyes and I was so excited for my aunt and uncle to see what a awesome region we live in. At the same time I was a little nervous about entertaining family I haven't seen in my adult life. I see family so rarely, maybe that is why I long to be a hobbit. All jitters disappeared as soon as they arrived and we greeted each other with hugs. You can always just be yourself around family and that is what I like.

My Uncle and dad look just alike and it was strange seeing this man that grew up with my dad, who shared in the same childhood experiences, the offspring of my grandparents, and I was fascinated by his behavior, comparing it with my dads. We all went out to Mexican food (me and Mexican food have been having a passionate, lusty, sloppy, love affair for the last couple weeks)at one of my favorite Mexican restaurants. We all ordered our food and my aunt laughed harder and louder than I have ever heard a Washingtonian laugh in public, a real honest gut laugh. My family, well the men in my family, my bro, my dad and me, eat kind of like pigs, politely but incessantly. I was amazed at the restraint of my uncle or perhaps it wasn't restraint but a normal appetite unknown to Barry men. He ate about six nachos and boxed the rest! The reason I write about it at all is because of a comment my brother made later when we got home and the family took off.

"Where you totally impressed by how little Uncle David ate at dinner tonight?"

"Yeah, that is probably how normal people eat, we were raised by a disfunctional eater."

Living Tree

One of my dreams last night was very much more than a dream, it was kind of like while sleeping, I awoke in the real reality, like I was Neo waking up in a test tube. What ever it was, it was the closest thing to break[ing] on through to the other side I have experienced. So, suddenly I became aware that I was in a void. There were people with me in the void, in fact everybody was with me in the void--everyone who has ever been. My brother was next to me and we were as we are now, age twenty five and twenty three, except we were holding on, dangling from our parents feet. I, grasping my fathers ankles, my brother, my mom's. They were hanging from their own parent's feet and their siblings were next to them. My cousins were near my brother and me hanging from my aunt and uncle's feet and my cousin's children below them, haning on. And here is a strange detail. We all had ambilical cords connecting us to our mothers and we were all naked. And this living tree as it were, stretched up for a long long ways and not all family lines stretched as far as we were. Some mothers had no children and entire lines of families ended. But our family was strong indeed stretching back to the very begining of the line of humanity. And as I looked up, I could see that humanity was very much like one living thing, growing. And above it all, high high above it all, was a white light, cold and yet full of color and there was far away music almost to quite to hear. I looked at my brother and we hung in the void and then I woke up.

Doggy Style

It is the little things in life, the mundane adventures of the common man that I think are important. Colors, smells, the bus stop. These little things add up, and when we notice them, when we appreciate them, life is richer.

I was walking home from the gym this morning thinking about Angels and what the world, with all of her people moving around at a such a frantic pace, must look like to them. And an image of a Sharpe puppy filled my mind. The puppy’s name was Koggie and I remember him from childhood. He was the neighbor‘s dog. He was a cute dog, all wrinkled. He had this bad habit though of humping my brother‘s leg. He couldn’t help it really and no one beat him for it, just kind of shooed him away--told him, no, bad dog. He was still a cool creature in his own way. Sniffing, slobbering, chasing my brother’s leg--not exactly things that people do but we forgave him and his owners still took him on walks. I fear that when Angels look down on us (especially the pervs who ruin online gaming!) they probably see a creature that for what ever reason, is focused on dry humping a leg rather than getting in mundane adventures.

Laughable

Virgins

Ting

My favorite sound comes on mornings like this one, when everything is quite except for the wind and a few seagulls. From a porch hidden in the trees on the hill, or through an open kitchen window--the sound of spoons tinging against cereal bowls.

The Scouring of The Shire

Been getting back to the gym, which means I again have access to television. Even though I'm pumping my fist while listening to Flogging Molly on the treadmill, I can still see Katie Couric and the rest of 'em smiling and lauging about nearly everything, except maybe during interviews about woman who have survived attacks from male stalkers, then they have the most serious faces. I'm pretty sure it's all an act anyhow, after all, it is television.

One thing I've noticed while watching The Today Show (sound isn't as important in the experience as you might think)is that they have a list of rules for everything. Fashion do's and don't's, rules for traveling, what your children should and shouldn't watch, where to go to school, what to buy, how to act. Who keeps up with these lists? Do they really shape the way people act? Probably.

Hair Cut

I decided to go get a haircut yesterday. I should probably go to the barber instead of those metro salons like Great Clips. I have nothing against the women folk, but every now and again it is nice just to go to an old style Barber shop and flip through hunting magazines and talk to the old timers. Men need a space purely for men. Anyway, I walked into Great Clips and was greeted by a cute young girl with shiny stylized hair and makeup and bracelets, rings, and just generally looking hip. I followed her to the chair and sat down. She put a bib on me and a band around my neck. "So what are we going to do for you today?" she asked chiperly. For some strange reason I blurted out, "hmm, how about a flattop." I haven't had a flat top since I was six. She looked at me in a panic and then just stared at me nervously. I could tell she didn't know how to give a flattop. She probably only learned a few styles at beauty school. "I should have went to the barber." I was thinking. Then this older woman, probably in her fourties, peeked from around the corner and told the young girl that she could do the flat top for me. She was like a cowboy of a woman and buzzed the shit out of my head. I'm looking forward to my hair growing back but I do get a kick out of the differences between an old style barber shop and the newer unisex beauty salons.

Ray Charles in Charge

I'm off. Going to go buy a pipe and some tobacco and then head out to my buddies property. I'm going to camp under the meteor showers tonight, next to a fire. I've been waiting for this all summer.

Logic

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/8889445/

He played Grand Theft Auto
He murdered three cops
Therefore, playing Grand Theft Auto caused him to murder cops.

Hmm... Am I missing something?
I played Grand Theft Auto for a month and though Bellingham and the pedestrians walking around kinda looked like toys for a while, I did not murder anyone.

I played Grand Theft Auto
I did not murder anyone
He played Grand Theft Auto
He murdered someone
Conclusion: playing Grand theft auto does not necessarilly lead to murder.

Could it be that there are more than one or two variables in a person's life and that all those countless and unique experiences in one's life are what make one an individual!? And as individuals do we not have to take responsibility for our own actions? Choice, free will: the foundations of self, of soul, and redemption!

PS... Same goes for the story Micheal posted a few days ago about a Korean man who dropped dead of a heart attack after a four day gaming binge. Perhaps he ate one to many Big Macs.

Lip Smackingly Good

I woke up early and went to the gym this morning and the day just got better from there. Here are some highlights:

I. Had coffee on porch with the neighbors. We talked about food. Food is the one topic that everyone on earth can relate to.

II. Went to the library and read. Being around people when it is quite and they are touching things, especially paper, softly, makes my hair stand up. I was getting high on that hair standing up feeling, when I noticed I was surrounded by about eight old men. Every couple seconds one of them made a disgusting old person noise with their mouth or nose: clearing their throat, smacking their lips, sniffing their snot. It was gross but some how pleasurable.

III. My financial aid award letter came. I am getting tons of grant money.

IV. My brother and I went to Izzy's Buffet. We have been going there about three times a month for a while now. At the salad bar, Andy says to me, "Some people are regulars at bars, we are regulars at a buffet restaurant." He looked scared that we might be considered gay. That made me laugh.

V. I saw a pregnant woman walking her dog and was amazed that I haven't been more amazed by pregnant women before.

Chasm

Before he pushed through the door to his future, Marcus paused to admire his own reflection in the glass. He looked like a professional: solid navy blue tie around his neck, pressed white dress shirt on his back, and a stiff pair of colorless kakis on his legs--a catalogue model. His only regret was that he didn’t have a falcon perched on his shoulder; a man wearing an animal, especially a live one, trained to hunt and scout, is worth a whole office of men dressed in dead plants. But he was confident that the tie, for this situation at least, was an adequate sign of power. After all, this was only a video store. He entered the store smiling inwardly.

“Well hello there. Welcome to Corporate Chain Video. How can I help you?” sung the boy behind the front counter.

“Hi. I’m Marcus. I’m scheduled for a job interview at noon.”

“Right. I’ll inform my manager of your arrival. He should just be finishing up his eleven thirty interview. Browse through the videos if you like. He’ll be with you shortly.”

Marcus smiled, bowing slightly. He appreciated the boy’s friendly disposition after initial feelings of distrust. Turning calmly, he shuffled off to the science fiction section, pleased with his new quest. Surely videos would be free from then on, one of the benefits of working at a video store. A few titles looked interesting: Altered States, The Lawn Mower Man, The Thirteenth Floor. Hovering over the sci-fi shelf, he rehearsed, in his mind, responses to possible interview questions. Questions such as: What is your favorite movie? Can you hand customers videos across the counter with a smile? When can you start? He blinked and noticed the carpet for the first time--purple, with little golden film reels twirling in splashes of green and red. It made him feel cheerful.

“Marcus, I presume.” The voice was chirpy, campy, hiding some deep insecurity. The person who spoke it was a man-child, eighteen years old, with a hint of fuzz over his upper lip. He was outfitted in a purple polo shirt like the boy at the register. Unlike the boy however, his uniform was decorated with badges--medals--symbols of his rank and valor. There were a variety of badges. Some had portraits of famous movie stars such as Orlando Bloom dressed as an elf, while others had slogans such as, “You’re Right” printed in silly fonts.

“Yes. That’s me.” Marcus answered

As if addressing a toddler, the decorated employee spoke, “A pleasure to meet you. I am Clarence, the general manager here. I‘ll be administering your interview. Follow me please.”

Marcus followed him to the back of the store, past the bathrooms, the water fountain, the storage closet, and finally up a staircase to the second floor office.

“Have a seat Marcus.” Clarence’s cheery attitude, if a little overdone, didn’t seem out of place down stairs, where there were cartoon characters painted on the walls and shelves filled with cotton candy and tubs of colored popcorn, but the same attitude was frightening upstairs, a place filled with paper clips, filing cabinets, and a monitor showing a silent flickering black and white movie of the boy at the front desk, opening and closing video cases.

Marcus’s only fear down stairs was that he wouldn’t get the job because he was over qualified for the position. In the stuffy, confining space of the upstairs office, he began to fear all sorts of things: electronic radiation, spiders, his own inadequacies.

“Marcus, let me frank,” his tone was suddenly serious, “the number one trait that employers in the service industry look for in a potential employee is an unabashed enthusiasm for life. If our employees aren’t happy, our guests aren’t happy. You don’t have any mood disorders or conditions that would prevent you from making our guest happy do you Marcus?”

“Uh, no. No, I am generally a happy person.” Marcus wasn’t sure if his definition of happiness was synonymous with the definition stated in the Corporate Chain Video handbook but he wasn’t about to ask for clarification.

“Good! I could tell.” Clarence’s zest was back.

Marcus relaxed in his seat and crossed his legs, mimicking the power position he had read about in How to Win Friends and Influence People.

“Ok here we go. Are you ready to have some fun?” Clarence jabbed Marcus playfully in the arm. “Imagine this scenario. You’re alone in the middle of a vast desert without food or water. In front of you is a great chasm measuring one thousand miles deep, one thousand miles wide, and hundreds of feet across. On the other side of this divide is a bountiful oasis, over flowing with the most thirst quenching water, the plumpest grapes, the fattest lambs. If you can devise a strategy to cross this chasm you will live the rest of your days in unfathomable bliss, if not, you will surely meet a slow and painful death. After a thorough search of your surroundings, you find only two things that might be useful: four planks of wood and an infinite length of rope. Marcus, tell me, how are you going to cross this barrier?"

A sweat broke out on Marcus’s forehead, a response to the panic that was overwhelming his nervous system. He hadn’t anticipated actually having to think during the interview. He took a breath and built a church steeple out of his fingers. Four boards, infinite length of rope, thousand mile deep pit. His mind was racing. Could the universe contain an infinite length of rope? Should he incorporate videos in his plan? Maybe he should say something moral to show what a good guy he was. He thought about suggesting prayer as a solution but wasn’t sure if there was a separation of church and business so he kept his mouth shut. Awkward silence.

“Marcus, don’t sweat it my friend. That was just a warm up question to get your blood flowing. We have teams of psychologist working on questions like these. Each manager is given a full volume of interview questions. See, here at Corporate Chain Video, we want sharp, fresh minds. Innovative minds. I can’t tell you how many applicants I interview that think all this job entails is operating the cash register. Nothing could be further from the truth. The video rental industry is a competitive field. The mom and pop stores are dead. There are only two competitors left: Commercial Giant Video and us. We want employees with solutions. There isn’t a problem to deep, or to wide when it comes to satisfying our guests . I’m telling you we have underground labs full of psychologists working to bring our guests maximum satisfaction. Let’s move on to the next question for now, but continue thinking about that problem and we’ll come back to it. Think metaphor. Ok? Ok.”

Marcus’s lips were a crew of muscles constructing a smile.

“Tell me about your personal strengths. And if you could, why don’t you tell me about some of your weaknesses and what steps you are taking to better yourself.”

“I am curious, driven, and imaginative. I really enjoy working with people, in fact people are my greatest curiosity. I recently completed my masters degree in anthropology and I’m pretty proud of that. As far as my weaknesses, hmm… I am very ambitious. Sometimes my ambition gets in the way of my personal life. You know, there is just so much to do and so little time to do it in. I am very devoted to my work, and well, I look forward to pouring my energy into Corporate Chain Video Clarence, uh, sir.”

Marcus was lying. His major weakness was day-dreaming, but he dare not admit that to Clarence, not in the confinement of this tower. Lately, he had been feeding his fantasies by submerging himself in a massive online role-playing game called Life Quest. Unlike the real world, Burrowstone, the kingdom in Life Quest, was a place were people did walk around with falcons on their shoulders. People with worldly ambitions scoff at gamers who create fictional self-identities, who play in a simulated world instead of a real one. Marcus wasn’t sure that the world itself wasn’t a simulation. After all, how natural was it for a man to wear a purple polo shirt? It wasn’t that he wasn’t ambitious, only that he was ambitious about very different things than most people; like becoming a level ten sorcerer in Life Quest, or doing the crossword puzzle in the paper each morning.

“Curious? Imaginative? Ok, but would you say you’re a leader--a problem solver?”

This was beginning to feel like a visit to a shrink. Clarence was a pubescent kid; he signed pay checks. What right did he have to dig deep into peoples souls? “Yeah, I would say I’m a leader and a problem solver.”

“Can you give me an example of when you felt proud of your leadership ability. A time when you lead a group of people to a successful outcome.”

Marcus had been the president of the rocket club in seventh grade if that counted for anything. It wasn’t like he was Alexander the Great or the Pope. He wanted to mention how he had banded together a rag tag troop of farmers in Burrowstone, and defeated Gloustar, the wizard tyrant who was drying up crops with his wicked spells. The battle had even been mentioned in the official Life Quest fan blog. Marcus still kept in contact with one of the farmers from that epic battle via email. In real life he lived in Clevland and worked at Starbucks. The dark wizard Gloustar was a real estate agent in Tennessee.

“Hmm, well, I am a Sunday school teacher. I lead the children in prayer and song. I am pretty proud of that. I mean, I was also the president of my rocket club in seventh grade.” The Sunday school bit was a lie. How did that slip out? He went to church occasionally. Christmas eve was the last time.

“Good enough Marcus. Fine. Well things are going well. Wouldn’t you say?” Clarence had that addressing-a-child tone again. “Now we’re going to have some real fun.”
On the monitor behind Clarence, the boy cashier was energetically greeting two new guest with a toothy smile. Marcus shivered.

“Let’s do some role playing. We have a promotion for our guest this month in which, for a flat rate, they can rent unlimited videos. Your job as a guest service specialist, is to make the guests feel like family. You know how people are, they have long days at work, have to haul the kids to soccer practice. Life can be very stressful, Marcus. Our job is not about renting videos, it is about making our guest feel loved. Some guests are friendly, others are grumpy. It is important that we treat everyone like family. Our specialist have written a list of conversation starters that we require each employee to memorize. It is quite useful actually. You can even use them on friends and strangers when your outside of work. So, anyway, I am going to pretend to be a guest and I want you to sell me the Super All-Star promotional deal.

Marcus was reminded of a tribe he had read about in one of his Anthropology text books. In their culture it was customary for strangers to share in silence for at least ten minutes before speaking. Marcus had met Clarence less than ten minutes ago and already he had divulged his strengths, his weaknesses, had lied twice, and was now being forced to act. He still wasn’t totally clear how any of this related to selling videos but he needed to pay his rent; the job market was struggling--if Clarence the man-boy told him to act, he was going to. He had to eat. He had to pay rent. He had to advance to a level ten Mage Guild Master.

He was sweating, blushing, shaking. He tried to recall what the guest service specialists usually said to him when he would check out videos. “Hello sir. Did you find everything ok? I’d like to tell you about our new promotional package called the All-Star deal.”

“Super All-Star deal.” Clarence felt it necessary to break the magical-realism of the moment to correct Marcus.

“Uh, yes, yes sir, the Super All-Star deal. You pay a flat rate…”

“Of fourteen ninety five a month”

“Uh, of fourteen dollars and ninety five cents a month. How can you pass on a deal like that sir? For the price of just three movie rentals, you can watch as many movies as you want. Imagine watching a Hollywood blockbuster every night--for free!” Marcus sold himself. He’d stop by the front counter and sign up for the All-Star package on his way out.

“Not bad Marcus. Could have used a little more enthusiasm but once you read our employee hand book you’ll understand what I mean. Well, we have reached the question comment section of the interview. Do you have any questions you’d like to throw my way?

Marcus had a ton of questions but they were questions he wasn’t sure Clarence could answer, such as, was Clarence a real person or was he a robot built by Corporate Chain Video engineers in an underground lab? What was the significance of the color purple? How would he break into the field of anthropology if he wasn’t even psychologically qualified to work at a video store?

“No Clarence. No questions.”

“Easy enough. I think you would make a wonderful addition to our staff Marcus. Two quick things. First, I am not qualified to hire you,” he spoke hurriedly while fingering the buttons on his shirt, “but I will invite you back for a panel interview tomorrow afternoon if that works for you. Three of our area supervisors will be administering that interview. A little intimidating I know, but you’ll do just fine. Second, we only have one counter shift available, but we can get you a few extra shifts as a sign waver. It is the sign wavers job to dance on the street corner dressed as Fluffy, the Corporate Chain Video mascot. It is a really rewarding job Marcus. The children absolutely adore Fluffy. You would be doing a service to the community. We all have to start out somewhere. What do you think? Should I pencil you in for the interview tomorrow afternoon?”

“Sure. Why not? I can wave a sign.” Marcus: a highly educated man, forced to work the street corners dressed as grape flavored swath of cotton candy until something better turned up.

“Wonderful Marcus. Wonderful.”

They both stood up and shook hands. The interview was over. Marcus walked back down the stair case followed by Clarence. The neon tube lighting flickered above them. The stairway was narrow and the ceiling was low. The walls were unpainted and splintery. Marcus guessed by Clarence’s silence that the writers of the Corporate Chain Video handbook didn’t write a chapter on how to converse in a stairwell. He was all smiles and cheers when their feet touched the noisy purple carpet again.

“Marcus. The chasm problem, did you figure it out?”

“No. Not really. The only thing I could think of is pray to God. That can’t be right though.”

“Ah I didn’t think of that. Better than that though--remember the infinite length of rope--fill the pit with the rope and walk across using the four boards as a movable bridge.” Clarence proudly turned and disappeared into the dark hall.

The boy cashier, lit up as Marcus approached the front door. “Did you steal the sun?”

Clouds had blown in and blocked out the spring sunshine while Marcus had been upstairs. The boy’s question was nonsensical but Marcus appreciated the playfulness of it after an initial reaction of annoyance.

He pushed through the door and found himself in a vast desert. In front of him, spread a great chasm measuring one thousand miles deep, one thousand miles wide, and hundreds of feet across. An old weathered tin road sign covered in dust, marked the edge of the pit. It read Corporate Chain Video. On the other side of the great divide was a bountiful oasis over flowing with food, rent money, and a renewed Life Quest subscription. The only resources Marcus could use to cross the chasm were: an infinite length of his own soul and four wooden planks of self respect.

Art

I want to write about something I saw on TV this weekend that I haven't really ever seen before: A man's foundation crumble from beneath him. Maybe you to saw this show, Dateline or some such program, but on it, they argued a thesis I myself have formulated, mainly that modern art, especially abstract expressionism is a joke spitefully played on the hardworking people of the world by ego maniac nin-com-poops.

Observation: The line between art and tools, between art and ego, has vanished. A toaster is a useful tool for warming and crisping bread, glue an umbrella on it and it suddenly becomes a million dollar art sculpture and yet renders it entirely useless as a tool.

hypothesis: Average people will not be able to tell the difference between a De Kooning and a preschoolers finger painting.

Experiment: Show eight works of art at a gallery. Four of the painting will be famous works by artist such as Marcel Duchamp and Jackson Pollock. The other four paintings will be finger paintings done by pre schoolers. Let the viewers guess which paintings are famous works worth millions of dollars and which ones were done last week by preschoolers. Also invite art historians, dealers and professors to look at and discuss why these works qualify as art while not revealing that preschoolers painted half of them.

Results: Average people not only could not tell the difference between a Rothko and a five year old's painting, they were upset to learn that a black circle painted on a white canvas was worth over a million dollars. The Art critics praised the preschooler paintings calling them fine compositions.

Now to the bit about a man's world crumbling before my eyes. The reporter, standing in front of a finger painting, asked an expert: Why the hell is this art again? (paraphrased). The expert responded, well it's not a simple matter. See this painting is multi layered. Its not just about the content but form--the emotions it evokes in the individual across time. It is a composition in which the negative spaces have meanings, it is about variation of line and color about the viewers interaction with it, bla bla bla. The reporter looked at the man and said, "A preschooler painted this." (!) A very talented preschooler, the expert shot back looking like a puddle of embarrassed flavored pudding .

Poor guy I thought. And then I was reminded of Sauraman not coming down from the tower of Isengaurd, not heeding the advice of Gandolf the White. My god man, Get out of the tower. Let us create real art! Art that serves as a functional tool for man kind. Put away the garbage that will be the next piece of assemblage sculpture and strive instead to make something beautiful, that does not confuse the masses but lifts them up! Too long have we mistaken the ugly for the beautiful!

I Want To Be Like Mike(al Landon)

Job search time. Being unemployed is like being the ring bearer. Great power comes with free time and yet it is so easy to submit to the eye of slothfulness. Two things I will comment on in this posting. First: Civilazation II: Test of Time is the most addicting thing ever made by the hand of man. I have broken the game disk three times--cleaved the bastard right in half trying to reclaim my life and yet as I type, the game disk is sitting on my desk swinging its legs innocently enough but whispering in an evil hiss: play me, yes precious, play. It has a will of it's own. My great concern surrounds the fact that civ 4, which the makers are actually marketing as lethally addictive, comes out in December. Help me Lord.

The second thing I kind of want to rant about before I drift off to sleep is how ill qualified I am to be a successful middle class American. I looked at over a hundred local jobs this afternoon and I'm not qualified for any of them, well fast food maybe and I'd rather not go there. I love reading and writing, though I'm not sure I can make a living by reading science fiction. I am so willing to start at the bottom. If only the world was like a role playing game where you start out small, perhaps gathering herbs for a master wizard, then you work your way up learning and growing, before you know it your out in the wilderness battling powerful sorcerers as a level 12 mage guild master. I fear that the real world is not at all like the inside of my head. Out there, you don't just have to do piddly little shit for the boss before moving up to bigger things, you have to pretend that the piddly little shit is the most important thing under God's creation and the point of your existence in it. I just want to be Charles Ingels from Little House On The Prarie: work hard and have a ferocious head of hair.

Summer is Getting Thick

Outside earlier, two bees buzzed past my face. They were mating. It was the first time I've seen mating bees. I think I'll spend the rest of the summer watching for amorous birds--that would really be impressive.

Blueberry Pancakes

A society needs it's citizens to be skilled in many trades in order to thrive. We need metal workers, woodworkers, builders, farmers, shoemakers, warriors, merchants, scientist, teachers, etc. It seems to me that sign wavers, those poor kids that dance on the street corner waving Quizno Sub Sandwich signs, are just being made fun of. For the life of me I can't understand how humiliating an awkward teenager in plane view of passing traffic is going to bring in business, or how society possibly benefits.

Where Errands Meet

I decided, as day cooled into evening, that I should probably leave the house after spending the entire afternoon on the couch re-re-reading The Lord of the Rings. This passage was going through my head as I stepped off the porch:

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.

And so I headed down to Boulevard Park to see what adventures I could get into. The railroad tracks looked like as good a path as any and so I followed them--trees on my right and the bay on my left, the sun was over the water preparing for breakfast in Asia I guess.

At the park I found a good stone and, laying in the grass, rested my head against it facing the setting sun. I brought my book with me and for a while I wandered off to Middle Earth and battled Caradhras, the spirit of the mountain. Then out of the corner of my eye a man appeared, forcing me to deal with regular ol' earth. He appeared at first glance to be a hard fellow with tattoos covering his arms and a pair of biker glasses covering his eyes. He made me uncomfortable at first, invading my space as he was. I nodded politely and then put my face quickly back into the book hoping to avoid long conversation. He pulled out a guitar and asked if I would mind if he played a little. No, that would be fine, who can refuse free music!? He plucked away, nothing spectacular but it made me happy. I put my book down and enjoyed his music quietly.

There was a family reunion or some such gathering in the middle of the park and two old men from the bbq wandered over near the water, near this man playing guitar and with me, silently listened. This man, who I had taken at first to be hard was obviously very kind and offered the old men his seat. They thanked him but continued to stand. The younger of the two, probably in his sixties, was holding up the older man who was swaying with old age. "This is my father. He is ninety three years old. He loves the guitar." The 93 year old said yes, he loved music and when his fingers weren't so stiff, he loves playin' the banjo. The tattooed man's eyes lit up from behind his glasses and he begged the old man to play a song with his guitar. The old man took the guitar with some trepidation and the two men held his arms and placed him, sitting, on the rock. The ancient man warmed up and played a lick or two of some old time country music.

What a treat to hear such an old timer play a forgotten tune!

Father and son limped away after the song was through and tattoo man and I got into that conversation I was initially trying to avoid. I've heard that we should always be kind to people, that we never know when we may be entertaining angels. This tattooed man, with the bright eyes behind those dark glasses, might have been an angel for all I know.

Cider

There were six of us sitting on the porch last night drinking a fancy bottle of English cider or some such drink that Beth had brought down. The weeds growing in the second story rain gutter across the street caught my attention and led me into a series of day dreams about birds and great fields of wheat. When I snapped to again, the people on the porch were going on and on about work and politics and themselves. I took a sip of cider and looked back to the weeds in the gutter. From behind the bushes leapt Hayden, a neighbor's six year old son. Hayden is the only child I know and I only get a glimpse of him twice a month when his dad gets him for the weekend. He was like a mad man, throwing balls, rolling around in the grass, screaming for attention, declaring grand epiphanies and discovery almost every moment.

"Matt, play Frisbee with me. Mike look at this. Nicole why are you smoking? Daddy measure me. Beth will you play Frisbee?"

We all were too tired or too lazy, or to grown up to even get off the porch and play catch. After repeated pleas for me to play catch I got up and played catch left handed for a while but not even close to as long as Hayden intended the game to go on. I went back up on the porch to have another go with the cider where I watched in amazement as Hayden tore around on our shaggy sun-baked lawn.

Mike's phone rang and he disappeared only to reappear a few minutes later all flustered and stressed out. "Beth, I've got to go. They want me there at sixteen hundred tomorrow." Mike got called up to go fight the wildfires in Oregon. Beth freaked, "Oh Michael!" and they both looked panic stricken. Everyone else on the porch got silent, bummer. I looked over at Hayden, he was swinging his Frisbee at the stalks of grass and humming. I saw him look up with a bright expression that recognized the change of mood in the people on the porch. He ran up the porch stairs, "Beth play soccer with me! Play soccer with me!" "Not now Hayden!" Beth snapped. "Why?" he wanted to know. Mike chimed in, irritated, "We are in the middle of an emergency Hayden, not now." "Hayden was still in hyperactive play mode and seemed to be completely unphased but aware of all this weirdness. "Daddy, what is an emergency." "Mike and Beth have to go fight fires in Oregon Hayden." "How far is Oregon?" "If we left here at breakfast time we would be in Oregon by lunch time," his dad calmly explained. "Dad, look at this," he was already focused again on playing. I sipped my cider. Mike and Beth burst apart at the seems like a shack in a hurricane...like a dry tree trunk swallowed alive by wildfire. Suddenly I wanted nothing to do with adulthood.

Handle Bar Stash

It's Friday night. I was bored earlier so I shaved off chunks of my beard until I had a graphically designed handle bar mustache.

I walk over to the refridgerator for the third time in the last twenty minutes hoping I've missed a hidden treat. Sadly, the stale neon innards of the fridge are still as barren as I remember: a can of black olives, an ancient bottle of apple cider vinegar, a bottle of mustard with a scabbed spout, and beyond the limits of my comprehension, yet as real as a pig in a pen, a tin of spicy hot spam--half eaten. I'll be back in ten minutes.

Sim

I was sitting where I am now, early this morning, enjoying coffee, the sun rise, and a radio program. There was a mantra going through my head last night from old Ben (Franklin, not Kenobe): Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise. I doubt that is the final word on health, wealth, and wisdom, but there is an element of truth in it. I feel like I can conquer the world when I breath in the dawn air and if there was ever a day to harness the power of dawn it would be today. (Pliers, Doctor's office, Whisky.)

A bit later, hours after sunrise, I hear my brother's door creak open and a moment later watch him stumble into the hall in his underwear. He limps down the hall with a sheen of grease on his skin and two days worth of stubble growing on his face. Good mornin' I say. Hmmm, he responds. How horrifying this sight was to me. I feel responsible, like he is a sim that I haven't been feeding, or put on the wrong career path, or have over looked his love life.

Perhaps someday, proverbs will be of a quite different form. The Poor Richards Almanac of 2105 might read: Up, Up, Right, X, X, Y, Up, Right Trigger, Start, Select.

Cave Men

In G.K. Chestertons book, The Everlasting Man, he points out something that even me with my puny brain have often wondered about--those fanciful stories "scientist" tell about the life of early man. We have all heard it on the radio, read about it in our school text books, watched it played out on the stage of the discovery channel: a hairy man with a slanted forehead beating a dirty hairy woman (ussually played by an underwear model or generic super model with a few patches of hair glued here and there to make her look primitive)and draging her off to his cave. You'd never guess, Chesterton says, that this rich tale was built upon a fragment of skull or a chunk of leg bone. When we actually look in the caves, we find not a neat row of female skulls with signs of head trauma but instead, expressive cave paintings--art. His point: the material evidence doesn't back up the cave-man-with-a-club theory, it actually shows that "primative" man had the gift of the spirit, that which drives men to paint and show reverence for the natural world. When we look in the tombs of our most distant ancestors, we do not find evidence of dull brutes, rather, we find men very much like ourselves.

I stumbled upon some bird watchers on a path through the wetlands on a recent day hike. They had thier binoculars out looking for birds, I was enjoying the way the shadows were playing in the branches of the low trees. If I lived in a cave, I would paint that couple of birdwatchers under the trees on my cave wall.

CAVE is to PAINTING as INTERNET is to ???

Too All the Girls I've Kissed Before

This weeks issue of New Scientist Magazine has an article that fascinated the pants off of me. The story is of a girl I, along with millions of people around the world, have locked lips with. The story goes that at the end of the 19th century, many people of lost hope committed suicide by jumping in the Seine River in France. The authorities would drag the dead bodies out and display the unidentified bodies to the public in the hopes that someone would be able to identify them. Well, Anne was one of jumpers and as it turns out her face was cast as a plaster mask and strangely enough circulated around France at the turn of the century as a sort of pop art piece. This inspired many artist and poets to imagine what her life must have been like and write about it. Long story short, when the guys that made CPR dolls needed a mold that wasn't to sexy but beautiful, they choose Anne. So, now you know that the CPR mannequin is the image of a woman who cast herself off a bridge over one hundred years ago.

Orcas Whale

What a strange dream I awoke from this morning. In my dream I was in Egypt, browsing through a market. I came upon the shop of a fabric merchant and went in with, for some odd reason, the intention of buying a length of cloth for a quilt I was going to make. He took me to the back of his little open air shop and unrolled a large roll of fabric for me. He unrolled it further and further and as he did so, the fabric became more strange and lively with embroidered images of people and landscapes. The first images (which I don’t remember) made me sad but a later image in particular grabbed my attention and excited me. It was an image of island people at the beach, sewn in bright oranges, pinks, reds, and greens. And in the water, past the beach, was a great slippery whale. I begged the fabric merchant to stop unrolling the fabric so that I might look closer at this new scene. The image was inexplicably luminous and I noted that the aquamarine stitching of the water was waving and splashing on the silk, that the Mattissesque sunbathers and fisherman were moving on the yellow sand--that in fact, I was no longer in a fabric merchant’s shop in Egypt at all but on a tropical beach under a blinding white sun. Everything on and around the beach was of overwhelming fascination to me, especially the Orcas whale splashing about before me. The atmosphere of the beach made me glad until it was disturbed by a hillbilly of a bayou man who arrived loudly with an alligator on a leash. The terrible man, who I took to be a hunter of some sort, and his gator, clamored down to the shore and into the sea. The gator which was now at least as big as my friend the Orcas, thrashed out after the whale and they fought each other. Surely the whale has no chance against the gator with his long snout full of razor teeth, I thought, looking on in a panic. The whale proved to be more of a fighter than he looked and after a long struggle, the whale defeated the gator and I woke up.

?

I have never understood why some men, especially young ones, when going to the theater with other men, refuse to sit next to each other and if they do communicate with each other at all, have to speak so loudly that every one in the thearter can hear them.

The Disadvantages of Being Poor

"Yes, Yes. Things are progressing nicely. I am happy with these X-rays. Well how does next week sound?"

"It sounds wonderful. I can't wait to get these pins taken out and start lifting wieghts again."

"Well let's not get ahead of ourselves, you won't be lifting for a few months. Let's schedule the procedure in for next week then. Good good."

"Now doctor, what does the procedure entail? How do you take them out I mean."

"Ok. Good. We'll be doing the procedure in the operating room over at the hospital. You will be mildly sedated. Oh wait, wait. It says here you don't have insurance. In that case your probably going to want to go cheap aren't you."

"Yes. As cheap as possible."

"Right. Good. Let's see, why don't I have you instead come here to my office and I will use the pliers. We'll try and get these out with out sedation, which I warn you, will be painfull. Are you ok with that?"

"Yeah, I'll have to be."

"Good. Good. Well I'll see you next week then. Take care."

"You too doctor."

Melody

My thoughts were turned to my bruises and scabs only partially healed as I walked home from the doctor’s office this morning. I turned a corner downtown and was struck by the sweet sound of a man’s whistle, which, being both a cheerful and well employed melody, at once lifted my mood. Being the aspiring whistler I am, I greeted the man and introduced myself. "Pardon me sir, I couldn’t help but admire your skills as a whistler. I’m myself an aspiring whistler, though my tunes are less spirited than your own and often bring pain rather than gladness to those that hear them. Would you please honor me with a lesson in the art of whistling."

He smiled at me warmly, “Nothin' too it really. I wouldn’t much call it an art at all. But I think I see where your goin wrong lad.” He reached towards my face and quickly, but in a very nonchalant manner, ripped a scab from my upper lip. “Have a go at it now why don’t you.”

I pressed my lips together and without effort blew the most melodious tune my lips had ever sung. The man began to harmonize with my own tune and we chatted in song for a while before we waved each other goodbye and continued on our way.

The rest of the way home, as I whistled, I wasted no thought on my bruises or my scabs.

Jazzed About Summer Reading

Ok, Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas finally got boring and my arm is feeling much better (getting the pins taken out next week hopefully) which has allowed me to start reading again. I read the Alchemist and The Screw Tape Letters this week, both wonderful books, especially the Alchemist which made me want to travel in the desert.

The Library is a remarkable public service which I never use. I am addicted to buying books, not a good thing when your on welfare. I couldn't wait to wake up and visit Henderson's Bookstore which I've been waiting for all weekend. They didn't have the book I wanted but I ended up buying three completly unrelated ones. I just like the smell of that place, the smell of stale yellow paper. I am blessed to live in a city with amazing bookstores a walk away.

When I got home with my three new books I checked the mail and was totally jazzed to see that the book I ordered from Amazon came in. I have a suspicion that the same force pushing me to fill my shelves to overflowing with books is the same one that got me so excited about playing with and collecting GI Joes as a kid.

An American Past Time

Baseball is such a popular game because it mimics life so well. I have always found baseball to be the perfect metaphor for life, probably because I grew up on the diamond and learned how to interact with people while spitting and getting dirty and saying things like, "Hon now babe. Whadya say?"

People are getting ever more violent, illustrated by the coach at the ball game tonight assulting the umpire. The parents in the stand, instead of cooling down their coach, booed the umpire.

The game on the field seemed secondary to the drama in the stands and I think that says a lot about parents today, about the misplaced focus on politics and celebrity in an American culture which fails to study the game, distracted instead by the drunken fans dancing shirtless in the left field bleachers.

Baseball--life--only works when you respect it, try and perfect it through attention to detail. Small ball. Back up the pitcher when the catcher tosses back to the mound, advance the runner into scoring position by hitting behind him. Yes, making sure your shirt is tucked in.

Root for your son when he's out on the field instead of flirting with your buddies wife, instead of gossiping about the well fed parent sitting in the corner of the bleachers.

Old Mormon Juice

This morning was just like old times out in the back yard with an old friend and a few of the nieghbors. We went through two pots of coffee talking about fishing, aliens, religion, and the poor cat next door who just got spade and was staring at us from the window with a cone around her neck.

A fertility fantasy: Having twenty children and a big farm in Alaska. Keep them isolated from humanity, taught the art of war, poetry, and sewing. Write up a family code of laws and design a family crest. Emerge from the wilderness decades later, after the children have all had 20 children of their own, a tribe of genetic material ready to conquer the globe or at least city hall.

I really believe the mormons are on to something.

Another thing I noted, sitting in the sun this morning, was that the pear tree is producing fruit, not very much but a few small, tart pears. The year before last, we only got one pear. Think of it, all summer that overgrown tree reached skyward soaking up untold giga watts of solar energy only to produce one lonely pear. What a ripe piece of fruit though, bursting with sun juice.

Nebulous

I was seventy five percent asleep when I had a thought that would revolutionize the world, transform humanity's infrastructure, and initiate the next leap forward in human evolution. The damned thing is, I can't articulate it in language or even fully remember the impression it made on me. I do know that my clock radio alarm was going off which startled me a quarter the distance away from dreamland. In my dream I turned off the alarm but to my dismay, the noise of the morning news report persisted. Perplexing. Again, in my dream I hit the snooze button: still no result. It was then that I realized I was dreaming, and in more of a God like way than an engineer's, rewired the alarm clock to my mind and thought away the noise. In an instant, I had sewn, with mind thread, the quilt that is the world togther with the fabric of dreamland. A telepathic Clapper. I lived an eon in silence before I was made aware again of the morning news and my duty to wake up and partcipate in civilization.

The Old Woman With Bright Young Eyes

I haven't much felt like writing lately, more in a mood to listen than talk. Thanks go to Jessi for recommending Phantastes, a wonderful listening book. This morning in the waiting room of the docters office I read about the old woman with bright young eyes and the song she sang of Sir Aglovaile. It was so beautiful, I thought I'd share it here. Reading long posts especially long poems can be annoying but it is worth it here I think.

Sir Aglovaile through the churchyard rode;
Sing, All alone I lie:
Little recked he where'er he yode,
All alone, up in the sky.
Swerved his courser, and plunged with fear
All alone I lie:
His cry might have wakened the dead men near,
All alone, up in the sky.
The very dead that lay at his feet,
Lapt in the mouldy winding-sheet.
But he curbed him and spurred him, until he stood
Still in his place, like a horse of wood,
With nostrils uplift, and eyes wide and wan;
But the sweat in streams from his fetlocks ran.
A ghost grew out of the shadowy air,
And sat in the midst of her moony hair.
In her gleamy hair she sat and wept;
In the dreamful moon they lay and slept;
The shadows above, and the bodies below,
Lay and slept in the moonbeams slow.
And she sang, like the moan of an autumn wind
Over the stubble left behind:
Alas, how easily things go wrong!
A sigh too much, or a kiss too long,
And there follows a mist and a weeping rain,
And life is never the same again.
Alas, how hardly things go right!
'Tis hard to watch on a summer night,
For the sigh will come and the kiss will stay,
And the summer night is a winter day.
"Oh, lovely ghosts my heart is woes
To see thee weeping and wailing so.
Oh, lovely ghost," said the fearless knight,
"Can the sword of a warrior set it right?
Or prayer of bedesman, praying mild,
As a cup of water a feverish child,
Sooth thee at last, in dreamless mood
To sleep the sleep a dead lady should?
Thine eyes they fill me with longing sore,
As if I had known thee for evermore.
Oh, lovely ghost, I could leave the day
To sit with thee in the moon away
If thou wouldst trust me, and lay thy head
To rest on a bosom that is not dead."
The lady sprang up with a strange ghost-cry,
And she flung her white ghost-arms on high:
And she laughed a laugh that was not gay,
And it lengthened out till it died away;
And the dead beneath turned and moaned,
And the yew-trees above they shuddered and groaned.
"Will he love me twice with a love that is vain?
Will he kill the poor ghost yet again?
I thought thou wert good; but I said, and wept:
`Can I have dreamed who have not slept?'
And I knew, alas! or ever I would,
Whether I dreamed, or thou wert good.
When my baby died, my brain grew wild.
I awoke, and found I was with my child."
"If thou art the ghost of my Adelaide,
How is it? Thou wert but a village maid,
And thou seemest an angel lady white,
Though thin, and wan, and past delight."
The lady smiled a flickering smile,
And she pressed her temples hard the while.
"Thou seest that Death for a woman can
Do more than knighthood for a man."
"But show me the child thou callest mine,
Is she out to-night in the ghost's sunshine?"
"In St. Peter's Church she is playing on,
At hide-and-seek, with Apostle John.
When the moonbeams right through the window go,
Where the twelve are standing in glorious show,
She says the rest of them do not stir,
But one comes down to play with her.
Then I can go where I list, and weep,
For good St. John my child will keep."
"Thy beauty filleth the very air,
Never saw I a woman so fair."
"Come, if thou darest, and sit by my side;
But do not touch me, or woe will betide.
Alas, I am weak: I might well know
This gladness betokens some further woe.
Yet come. It will come. I will bear it. I can.
For thou lovest me yet -- though but as a man."
The knight dismounted in earnest speed;
Away through the tombstones thundered the steed,
And fell by the outer wall, and died.
But the knight he kneeled by the lady's side;
Kneeled beside her in wondrous bliss,
Rapt in an everlasting kiss:
Though never his lips come the lady nigh,
And his eyes alone on her beauty lie.
All the night long, till the cock crew loud,
He kneeled by the lady, lapt in her shroud.
And what they said, I may not say:
Dead night was sweeter than living day.
How she made him so blissful glad
Who made her and found her so ghostly sad,
I may not tell; but it needs no touch
To make them blessed who love so much.
"Come every night, my ghost, to me;
And one night I will come to thee.
'Tis good to have a ghostly wife:
She will not tremble at clang of strife;
She will only hearken, amid the din,
Behind the door, if he cometh in."
And this is how Sir Aglovaile
Often walked in the moonlight pale.
And oft when the crescent but thinned the gloom,
Full orbed moonlight filled his room;
And through beneath his chamber door,
Fell a ghostly gleam on the outer floor;
And they that passed, in fear averred
That murmured words they often heard.
'Twas then that the eastern crescent shone
Through the chancel window, and good St. John
Played with the ghost-child all the night,
And the mother was free till the morning light,
And sped through the dawning night, to stay
With Aglovaile till the break of day.
"Show me the child thou callest mine"
And their love was a rapture, lone and high,
And dumb as the moon in the topmost sky.
One night Sir Aglovaile, weary, slept
And dreamed a dream wherein he wept.
A warrior he was, not often wept he,
But this night he wept full bitterly.
He woke -- beside him the ghost-girl shone
Out of the dark: 'twas the eve of St. John.
He had dreamed a dream of a still, dark wood,
Where the maiden of old beside him stood;
But a mist came down, and caught her away,
And he sought her in vain through the pathless day,
Till he wept with the grief that can do no more,
And thought he had dreamt the dream before.
From bursting heart the weeping flowed on;
And lo! beside him the ghost-girl shone;
Shone like the light on a harbour's breast,
Over the sea of his dream's unrest;
Shone like the wondrous, nameless boon,
That the heart seeks ever, night or noon:
Warnings forgotten, when needed most,
He clasped to his bosom the radiant ghost.
She wailed aloud, and faded, and sank.
With upturn'd white face, cold and blank,
In his arms lay the corpse of the maiden pale,
And she came no more to Sir Aglovaile.
Only a voice, when winds were wild,
Sobbed and wailed like a chidden child.
Alas, how easily things go wrong!
A sigh too much, or a kiss too long,
And there follows a mist and a weeping rain,
And life is never the same again.

Thank God I Am Not A Pirate

I've been consumed by this bothersome injury of mine. It is very uncomfortable and at times painful and yet a is proving to be a valuable lesson in patients. I imagine there to be a stat bar hanging above my head, as if I am an avatar in the game of life and with each blunder I make it fills a little more, strengthening my character.

I was clumbsily shoveling the last of a delicious chicken and rice dinner into my face the other night at dinner with my parents, when it happend. As I struggled to scrape the last grains of rice on to my fork, I happened to look over at my mom who was using the fingers of her left hand to push the last of her food on to the fork held in her right hand. It really made me want to hug her. How lucky and fortunate she is to have two healthy arms. I sat there staring at my family eat without the slightest thought given to how they were effortlessly minipulating thier limbs and digits and how smooth and invisible the joys of life are.

Another thing I can't help but notice is that people are curious about injured people and sympothetic and kind, perhaps for the very reason I have stated, that it makes the invisible blessings visible. Everywhere I go people ask me to tell them the story of my arm and then share with me tales of their own injury. It seems as though just about everyone has had thier bones crushed, stapled together, fractured, their skin ripped, burned, or sewn closed up again. These people's stat bars are full indeed. It makes me wonder, without modern medicine, how many limbless people would be rolling around in wheel chairs or wearing hooks where there hands should be?

Harmonies

I came across this quote by Leos Janacek, a Czech composer: "Whenever someone spoke to me, I may not have grasped the words, but I grasped the rise and fall of the notes. At once I knew what the person was like: I knew how he or she felt, whether he or she was lying, whether he or she was upset. Sounds, the intonation of human speech, indeed of every living being, have had for me the deepest truth."

I'm sitting in my swivel office chair, in the corner of the kitchen, the grey clouds outside are getting darker as night approaches. The composer, John Williams, and I are having a truthful conversation, agreeing with each other completely. His words are built out of the London Symphony Orchestra, mine of the whistles from my wine stained lips.

What Happen?

Feet of beauty, firmly planting
Arches white on rosy heel!
Whence the life-spring, throbbing, panting,
Pulses upward to reveal!
Fairest things know least despising;
Foot and earth meet tenderly:
'Tis the woman, resting, rising
Upward to sublimity,
I sprang to her, and laid my hand on the harp
Rise the limbs, sedately sloping,
Strong and gentle, full and free;
Soft and slow, like certain hoping,
Drawing nigh the broad firm knee.
Up to speech! As up to roses
Pants the life from leaf to flower,
So each blending change discloses,
Nearer still, expression's power.
Lo! fair sweeps, white surges, twining
Up and outward fearlessly!
Temple columns, close combining,
Lift a holy mystery.
Heart of mine! what strange surprises
Mount aloft on such a stair!
Some great vision upward rises,
Curving, bending, floating fair.
Bands and sweeps, and hill and hollow
Lead my fascinated eye;
Some apocalypse will follow,
Some new world of deity.
Zoned unseen, and outward swelling,
With new thoughts and wonders rife,
Queenly majesty foretelling,
See the expanding house of life!
Sudden heaving, unforbidden
Sighs eternal, still the same --
Mounts of snow have summits hidden
In the mists of uttered flame.
But the spirit, dawning nearly
Finds no speech for earnest pain;
Finds a soundless sighing merely --
Builds its stairs, and mounts again.
Heart, the queen, with secret hoping,
Sendeth out her waiting pair;
Hands, blind hands, half blindly groping,
Half inclasping visions rare;
And the great arms, heartways bending;
Might of Beauty, drawing home
There returning, and re-blending,
Where from roots of love they roam.
Build thy slopes of radiance beamy
Spirit, fair with womanhood!
Tower thy precipice, white-gleamy,
Climb unto the hour of good.
Dumb space will be rent asunder,
Now the shining column stands
Ready to be crowned with wonder
By the builder's joyous hands.
All the lines abroad are spreading,
Like a fountain's falling race.
Lo, the chin, first feature, treading,
Airy foot to rest the face!
Speech is nigh; oh, see the blushing,
Sweet approach of lip and breath!
Round the mouth dim silence, hushing,
Waits to die ecstatic death.
Span across in treble curving,
Bow of promise, upper lip!
Set them free, with gracious swerving;
Let the wing-words float and dip.
Dumb art thou? O Love immortal,
More than words thy speech must be;
Childless yet the tender portal
Of the home of melody.
Now the nostrils open fearless,
Proud in calm unconsciousness,
Sure it must be something peerless
That the great Pan would express!
Deepens, crowds some meaning tender,
In the pure, dear lady-face.
Lo, a blinding burst of splendour! --
'Tis the free soul's issuing grace.
Two calm lakes of molten glory
Circling round unfathomed deeps!
Lightning-flashes, transitory,
Cross the gulfs where darkness sleeps.
This the gate, at last, of gladness,
To the outward striving me:
In a rain of light and sadness,
Out its loves and longings flee!
With a presence I am smitten
Dumb, with a foreknown surprise;
Presence greater yet than written
Even in the glorious eyes.
Through the gulfs, with inward gazes,
I may look till I am lost;
Wandering deep in spirit-mazes,
In a sea without a coast.
Windows open to the glorious!
Time and space, oh, far beyond!
Woman, ah! thou art victorious,
And I perish, overfond.
Springs aloft the yet Unspoken
In the forehead's endless grace,
Full of silences unbroken;
Infinite, unfeatured face.
Domes above, the mount of wonder;
Height and hollow wrapt in night;
Hiding in its caverns under
Woman-nations in their might.
Passing forms, the highest Human
Faints away to the Divine
Features none, of man or woman,
Can unveil the holiest shine.
Sideways, grooved porches only
Visible to passing eye,
Stand the silent, doorless, lonely
Entrance-gates of melody.
But all sounds fly in as boldly,
Groan and song, and kiss and cry
At their galleries, lifted coldly,
Darkly, 'twixt the earth and sky.
Beauty, thou art spent, thou knowest
So, in faint, half-glad despair,
From the summit thou o'erflowest
In a fall of torrent hair;
Hiding what thou hast created
In a half-transparent shroud:
Thus, with glory soft-abated,
Shines the moon through vapoury cloud.

--George MacDonald, 1895

Girl, you looks good, won't you back that ass up
You'se a fine motherfucker, won't you back that ass up
Call me big daddy when you back that ass up
Hoe, who is you playing with, back that ass up
Girl, you looks good, won't you back that ass up
You'se a fine motherfucker, won't you back that ass up
Call me big daddy when you back that ass up
Girl, who is you playing with back that ass up
Girl, you looks good, won't you back that ass up
You'se a fine motherfucker, won't you back that ass up

--Juvenile, present day