Life is not a Photograph

Hey I'm back.

Can you back that up? Can you lay down the ante? Is this only me thinking 'hey look at all the shiny chips amid the green velour of this ikea poker table'? It came to my understanding yesterday that I've been living for the wrong reasons. I mean other than to take more oxygen. Or drugs. I've been looking all this time for a pretty photograph. A 3 minute radio friendly rock song. A crisp Christmas jingle and maybe a kiss goodbye. I need you here with me. I need you here for when the end comes. I am so alone without you

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Almost an entire year has past since we ushered in a new era of Capitalized Nouns. Let's take a moment to reflect on all of the niceties this brave world has brought us. Urban Dictionary entries are at an all time high, which is not surprising since test scores are continually plummeting. This indicates a few important mainstays about our so called culture. Just about every moron has taken the time to submit a word or two; a testament to our individualist need to be heard amid the tumult of cyber space whining. This proves once again where higher education really takes a person these days ... to the convenient store for nutritional and hygienic upkeeping. All night coffee binges / net surfing marathons are the natural result. where the first place winner gets multiple types of arthritis, excess fatty tissue where none existed previously, a significantly reduced attention span to anything that does not flicker or make cute noises, and of course a morbid appreciation for everything grotesque and shocking. Consumption. The era of Capitalized Nouns symbolizes the extent to which our culture has failed. Since every facet of our society can be packaged according to its usefulness in the wasting of time, culture no longer has any significant meaning for us except to the extent it allows the uneducated to facilitate the deluded reasoning behind their stolen identities. For instance people who claim to be Buddhist after attending their first yoga lesson. Culture can no longer offer us any values from which we may benefit from because it was appropriated with the expectation that money could be squeezed from it. And it has been. In fact most cultural iconography now can be purchased right from the comfort of your own home. And even the satisfaction one gets when they finally obtain that needed piece of symbolism is short lived because the machine dictates the standards of the day. Why bother clinging to tradition when wearing the rosary will be out of style in a year's time? Culture is dead. It has been poached, skinned, ground, boxed, shipped and sold because we are too shallow to come up with our own values. The era of Capitalized Nowns celebrates this failure by assuming that all nouns, since they are as precious and unique as the half-wit individuals who molest them, should be characterized by the capitalizing of the first letter. The first letter is the leader letter. It is bold and uncompromising; it stands erect and proud. This first letter says to the world 'Hey! look at me! I'm a frickin' noun with feelings and standards all my own! Aren't I great?!" And when used in conjunction with other self-important words the result is nothing less than the complete abatement of common sense (a fad that has grown passé over the years). We've marginalized cultural insights for the delicious jelly that is squeezed from it, and then we've thrown away the peel just as it was beginning to ripen. Too late. Another day another dogma. Contact between the different aspects of various widespread and sometimes archaic cultures has frayed the edges of liminality meaning the cores are all that remains, and they end up processed, evaluated, and categorized into neat packages ready for consumption like a meal in a pill. This Categorization has been our folly, our answer to a question no one asked. It has lulled us into believing that culture can be identified simply. That it can be summed in few words with as long as they have the all might capitalized first letter. This is fallacious since culture strives on definition without which it is nothing but a set of guidelines with no history, rhyme or reason. Part of the blame for this goes to Francis Bacon and his Big-Brained Buddies. The tenants of Science - that is to say the scientific method - has committed manslaughter upon culture because it attempted to demystify the myths; Myths that once defined people. With the myths buried beneath so much academic drivel, culture without definition was up for grabs. The children of tomorrow who have little to look forward to except a life of meaningless consumption and eventual demise at the hands of their forefathers' ideas on 'values,' will eat it up ... and spit it out when the taste has flown from it. This is a special day; A day of remembrance and commemoration. The day we celebrate the loss of our identity and the death of culture. This is the era of Capitalized Nouns.

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Liberty is freedom to seek liberation.

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My name is unimportant and I don't give a damn

I've been living all this time,
Surrounded by my friends if I could spare a dime.
I've often known rejection,
But I've been on the line, especially in moments when I've crimed.
You may not recognize me if you'd care to look,
The reason why you see is that our time is took.
Forget me not in moments when you've seen the rift,
You'll find me when you least expect to hear from it.
That's because I'm at the bottom of every bottle,
And just before you crash I'll be there to coddle,
Cause same as you in this time,
Surrounded by our friends when we can share a rhyme.
I've often known happiness,
Because of buds like mine, especially in moments when I've lied.

Tales from the Wordpress Crypt #1

Money woes, money blows

How does a gifted, swell-looking, bright kid like me get into heaps of debt like this?

University.

This degree better make it’s money back or i’ll hang myself from the tallest tree.
I need some coins…. penny for some words?

I got it all:
Powerful prose? Oh yeah!
Masterfully crafted verses? Damn straight!
Creative, exuberant mind with no limits? YOU BET YOUR ASS!
Spell checker? well, yes.
Poetry and some hosiery? FUCK RIGHTS!
PLEASE BROTHER CAN YOU SPARE A DIME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I also give coitus, cunnilingus, and conniptions.
ACT NOW WHILE SUPPLIES LAST!

Well… it’s 8:45 in the PM… I gotta go to work…

FML

Tales from the Wordpress Crypt #2

Ushering in a New Era of Capitalized Nouns

Hello Again,

My finger is Itchy today.
Does this smell familiar to you? If it does you get no money down!

I HAVE ALOT OF THINGS TO SAY TODAY (i hope)

First, a shoutout to being absent. I got 714 hits last I checked and only 14 of those of from people. ACTUAL PEOPLE. My guess is now that the bots have discovered the authors’ self-inflicted dearth in attendance, they’ve decided to harass some other poor schlep and his untidy rants. Good thing too, I was about to step in here and unleash a storm of emailed protests to our most gracious host: the internet god. Hey, if you’re listening big guy, I didn’t mean it. Everything is fine and dandy on this side, pops.

Now here is where we get abnormal. Moving on the first of July to an unnamed location with people whose identities shall remain unknown. Although they sometimes feature prominently in this blog o’ mine. Still, I can’t have you weirdos looking me up and popping over. That would be bad for my image. In fact, stop reading this all together if you think you know how to get past Dateline’s Chris Hansen. He’s a dirty little fuck, and he’ll nail your ass to the wall so hard, you’ll switch sexual orientations. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Rock concert next month. Well, I guess you can call anything rock nowadays. We play rock music; it’s more like grass music. We’re grassers, Alistair and I. THAT’S RIGHT!! We’re in cahoots and you never figured it could happen to you, did ya? I’m standing right behind you too cause I am everywhere at once. Alistair my trusty partner, and worthy friend. I hope you’ve got better things going for you at the moment than reading this paltry reflection about the value of my existence. We are going to Pillage the stage and leave in a blaze of stereophonic glory! Pederasts Beware!

Mary-Jane has been deflowered. Or is it flowered? LEMME SEE THOSE HANDS MISTER! Downed some excellently priced merchandise the other day. Para-troopers were descending from the blood-soaked skies with crimson afterburners igniting the way. They arrived and had heart-to-hearts with the local color: daffodils, flower children, boozers, and black cats. It was momentous. We toured the mountain, and found the other side to be just as splendid, so we returned home satiated, our kindred spirits roaming freely to bedposts and broomsticks. If love is a drug, than luck is with us. Maybe we can settle all accounts after all. Cause in the end, Nabiru will need the receipts, never wavering from its tragic path that is data compilation. When the man comes around, he’ll be taking names they say. CAN ANYONE MAKE SENSE OF THIS? I need a glass of water, some chewing gum, and a cigarette or two.

or three or four.

OutieFiveThousand!

Tales from the Wordpress Crypt #3

Despair… The sword is mightier than the pen.

Why is it that I can’t write a lousy ten pages on the reformation, but I can pick up this silly blog writing in heartbeat when the mood gets bleak enough? Despair is the only answer. I have lost my will to write… anything on this putrid topic. I haven’t looked at this page, let alone write for it, in about three months. My life for a cheap essay knock off. I have overstayed my welcome at the university me thinks for I dare believe my preening mind has taken the year off. Is it possible that the drugs and alcohol have finally taken their toll? Can it be that I simply do not have what it takes to be academic? At four in the AM, these possibilities seem very real, and very bleak indeed. I guess there is no shame is admitting defeat. Except in the admission itself. I cannot blame Mary-Jane for tossing and turning in her slumber beside me. I made it painfully clear that my overnight ambition was coming to a screeching halt, and now she is mumbling incoherently about my dilemma in her dreams. As I press the eject button of my brain, others will go down with me I suppose. She’s having nightmares, and her sleep, when she can get any that is, is hardly restful. I’m sorry my love; I have let you down as I have let my teacher down… There is but little else to say except perhaps that I must finish THIS GOD FORSAKEN ESSAY before it finishes me. At least then your bedtime anxieties would not be for naught. But fuck, what do I know of Erasmus and the humanists? What do I know of Zwinglian reformists and their Lutheran slant?? How does one write an essay about a period he is in no way qualified, nor interested in writing about? So many questions, and so few answers. It is a times such as these that I look to the sword hanging from my wall and wonder if there is a reason behind this madness. If I could only shut it all down and rest. I feel as though the pen in my life has run out of ink, and the stationary case has nothing to replace it with except blackened pieces of rubber eraser and pencil sharpener scrapings. Perhaps I can make a collage of Erasmus being butt fucked by the pope. Maybe that would get me a D- and some healthy tips on how to improve my method. Add some chiaroscuro shading, outline the crevice of the theologian’s posterior in red, and maybe add some glitter glue to the pope’s pointy hat. That ought to do it. Gimme my F and lemme rest. PLEASE FOR CHRIST’ SAKE LET ME REST… This banal topic has me at my wit’s end.

TMAC, If I manage to hand this crock of shit in, and you still fail me, I’m going to molest your corpse when you bite the big one, and I won’t use a rubber either. Just a friendly warning. Well… I suppose I should return to reformation purgatory. Those priests better have something insightful to say other than all the pecker waiving that’s been going on. I need a vacation from my brain. Where is the meteor to end all worlds when you need it? Bullocks. Fuck, and I thought KMAC was severely deranged. She’s a liquor injected peach compared to the subject matter that got this guy a PHD. Can you believe that? Fuck, I need a stiff drink.

This is Doofus Maximus, signing off.

Tales from the Wordpress Crypt #4

Musings for 2010

AHA! So anonymity helps very little I see!! Who would have thought it? My ticker is has never been more aroused! First off, yours truly is not on any sort of hiatus. His highness, that’s me in case you haven’t picked up on my smug approach to the New frigging Year, has simply been at rest, pondering life’s many quandaries. Here is what I have discovered:
A) Fruit cake can and will add five pounds to your ass if eaten after midnight.
b) It can also double as a floatation device in case of an emergency.
3) There is no sex in the champagne room (does anybody else remember that?)
d) The best gift of all is a semi-automatic with the clip filed down and the safety off.
x) Some things are better left stated rather than unsaid. Posterity may thank you for it.

Mr. I said we were a country of good neighbours during Christmas time. He’s a dick though and his liberal arts degree isn’t helping him in the way of solving that issue. To have good neighbours one must first be a good neighbour, or at least live next to someone who notices very little; like the all night booze, blow and hooker parties going on until the wee hours of the morn. Otherwise, you’re just a dick who thinks he’s a good neighbour. My suggestion is that we stop trying to be good, and instead, simply try to be a neighbour. Go out there and help the man next door remove the soiled women’s underwear from his prized elm tree. Go out there and help the drunken stragglers recovering from the night’s comatose off of someone else’s lawn. Be the person who sends out a thank you letter for the eviction notices due to noise complaints. You’ll be glad you did.
Otherwise, fuck off and get funky.

On a different note, this little ditty is for my gal, wherever she may be tonight (gay castle).

I sat in my room until a quarter to six,
Wondering if you’d be home soon to fix,
This lovely headache with one gloved hand
The one you used to squeeze my gland
And if perchance you were to don the other glove
I just might make you my queen, as we made love
I’d give you a gift, a jewelled sceptre of gold
Just to see how firmly the hilt you would hold
I’d give you the power invested in me, to beat
The serfs, villagers, and the meek,
Remembering well how you do that to my meat
As your king I would ask for very little,
Except perhaps the lily from your modest middle
If love was an ocean, I’d be a sting ray,
Capable of killing sea life and Australians that are gay
You’d be an ocean floor, and I would sleep atop of you
With nothing between us except a darkness black as goo
The littlest sin is of greatest importance,
Whether of royalty or of fish that happen to be cartilaginous
I ask thee, pray thee, and give me thine little sin,
To have and to hold, and to give out in
Extraordinarily large numbers… no need for new linen
For it all gets fused in the tapestry that is our love
Coating the sheets that many would be proud of
But few will ever dare to speak of
Despite our growing interest in each other’s chambers
I promise to be with you throughout many Decembers
Clothed, naked, alone or amidst the public
My flesh will always cling to you as it does to the teeth of the cannibalic
I will always fear the day your touch escapes me
As I do the day my breath will cease to be
I love you, my special shell found upon the beach
Whosoever knows a more perfect woman will have me to teach
But I shall not listen if you be within reach
Of my caress, my lust, my eternal flame
My vehement love which upon you is lain

Happy 2010 to the rest of you turds. I’ll be back soon, so you can all stop howling mournfully in every church across town. Get on with your lives already! The King has left the building.

Tales from the Wordpress Crypt #5

Perfectly Imperfect

Crammed with work, exams and essays up to the eyeballs, explosion imminent. Must Write.

Perfection is the goal of everyman and everywoman, and its projected downwards onto the faces of all our children. A scoreboard that never appears, a cheap moral stance, a newly defined circumstance, justifiable self-homicide. A sucker in a ditch. The man of reason is lost, the man of intuition leads him, blindly, into a darkened alley where only the cockroaches await. I see life, I see death, I see a copasetic baby’s breath. To be perfect is to know defeat. There is no spoon for what you eat.

Defection is perfection. Perfection is the ideal, but once achieved becomes just a meal. Perfection is in the trivial mind. It is the absence of moral blinds, of circumstantial evidence, of retorts and ambiguities. I have little to say, insofar that I am perfectly not at ease with conversing in this manner. My defective mind is scattered across the universe. The coalition of redemption, without any consternation, possesses no real vision.

Be perfectly imperfect. That way you can be accepted for who you are, and cherished for what you are not.

Tales from the Wordpress Crypt #6

Thegn

Alestair told me today that he was proud to be my thane. When I asked what that meant, he said to look it up and then I’d know. So I did.

“The term thegn (or thane in Shakespearean English), from OEþegn, ðegn “servant, attendant, retainer”, is commonly employed by historians to describe either an aristocratic retainer of a king or nobleman in Anglo-Saxon England, or as a class term, the majority of the aristocracy below the ranks of ealformen and high-reeves. Il is also the term for an early medieval Scandinavian class of retainers.” (Wikipedia: the free encyclopedia,”Thegn,” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thegn)

I have always considered Alestair to be of the Aetheling class, one step higher than the thane, and belonging to the royal line. His dedication to academia and to history goes far above and beyond that of any other student of the craft, and it is this facet of his character that truly inspires nobility in others. Here’s to you, Alestair. Le roi est mort. Vivre le roi.

Tales from the Wordpress Crypt #7

Oh yeah… by the way.

I’m in love with Mary-Jane.

Catherine and I stopped seeing each other weeks ago (Didn’t you get the memo?). I think she spoke about that on her blog, so let us not discuss it here. My opinion is of little importance, it would seem.

If there was a contest, which there isn’t, Mary-Jane would win. But there isn’t (although it would be cool if there were. It could be gladiatorial in nature with chained lions, and hordes of armed adversaries in a gauntlet of blood and death).

I’ll tell you why, briefly. Mary-Jane is everything I have ever looked for. She is so incredibly awesome. I want her to kick my ass. It would be welcomed and desired. I consider it a high privilege to simply wash her feet, let alone be kicked by them. My mind reels at the thought of her even looking at me. Yet she has brought me into her life, and I am the better for it. I cannot express the passion with which I would repay that most sublime of favours. She’s got my number, my ticket, my undivided attention, and her response is to blush! Pink and Red, like the spring rose. Nay, she is a lily, clear-cut effervescence, milky white with a centre of gold. See this poetical flimflam? She’s doing this to me! It’s utter gobbledygook! She’s my smock . smock smock smock. num num num… Oh, my darlin’ baby, Stay With Me!!!!!!!!!! Je t’aime mon chérie!

She held me in her arms and I was hooked! I’m in love with Mary-Jane.

Tales from the Wordpress Crypt #8

Fear in Four Hundred Words

I must admit, I am in constant fear of the future.

It has taken upon a persona, grim reaper, a hunter that stalks you. Let’s call him Death.

Here are the things I am afraid of (in no particular order):

1- myself.

Oh this is going to hurt. I fear for my health. My habits, both pleasing and lethal, are going to devour me alive. I am hoping to be blessed by some otherworldly being, let’s call this Life, and perhaps escape the trappings of this mortal coil.

2 – Death, of course!

All good things must end. And the end, as an absolute and irrevocable truth, will be known by us all. I just choose not to know, that’s all.

3- Others. My close second.

Not friends, family, lovers or any other bond of mutual respect, but those who share no such bonds. Those who know you not, and those who just do not care. I constantly fear the acts of those who do not see what is there to be cherished; Each and all, everything, a thing in itself. I am no claimant to pure mutual respect, but I live in a country were appeals are possible and encouraged, and thus one day, one far away day, someone will create an idea so powerful that all shall be affected and everyone will agree. It will be harmony. Peace on the mother fuckin’ Earth; fat fucking’ chance.

4- Love.

Yeah, that’s right, Love. And why not? If all things end, then so not the bonds of matrimony? Hardly. As sure as the plate that is knocked over the counter, hearts shatter. Sometimes those shards can cut you, and deep too. Since the fear in oneself is paramount, one becomes the loneliest number (yea, I said that too), and relations built on one becoming two are inherently paradoxical, and dangerous.

5 – Life.

Simply put, the very idea that we are prancing about on a blue marble spinning – careening – across an expanse made up of nothing, disturbs me to the core. Reality is a bitch.

6 – God.

A little bit of God-fearing meandering waffle never hurt anybody. If everyone believed there was a karma scoreboard above their heads, people would be collecting a lot more coins in that department. For this the only philosophical recourse that should be prescribed is rudimentary; good is good and bad is bad, d’uh. Stupid fucking humans.

7 – Chaos.

Whatever can happen, will.

Merde.

Tales from the Wordpress Crypt #9

Ubliminalsay Essagemay

This is not an essay on the wane nor is it poetry on the fly this is swimming in vocabulary thick as molasses I am not a voice speech is not language it may have predicated writing but the latter form is still the most evolved thoughts are all that are needed so sayeth the wise traveller thoughts, forms, traces whatever you call them are the only language that is necessary it exists because it is the tool it exists because it has for half a million years been our most cherished addiction from the water we learned how to think and transmit that in a form people recognize but we have inherited all of our thoughts from society from biology and from ancestry speech should be questioned further because it is not enough to enjoy hearing the sound of one’s voice we always try to root our endowments in the deep past searching for an origin but we understand now or are beginning to understand for some of us that there is no origin a teacher once asked ‘then what is there? what are we hiding from ourselves? noting less than nothing – fear and the fear of nothing most of us want to be lied to and all of us certainly do not mind those tricks we play on ourselves once in a while it compels us to dig and look for solutions to our riddles answers to our questions counters to our queries but the explanation has been forgotten by humanity and forgotten a long long time ago so remember there is no origin to speak of Mulder, stop looking for your sister and let go there are more important issues to deal with here now your ego is like your stomach it will keep discarding what you feed it the devourers of knowledge are going to fill the bowl try to emphasize the fictitious quality of it all hey I will tell you a story the power of knowing is meaningless for it cannot fill the void and there is never enough to know it does not conserve life the quest for it creates only more dilemmas, each one with its own set of riddles, wrapped in enigmas, forever multiplying, upwards forwards and twirling always twirling is there enough plastic in your soup today stop trying turn thought off like a television with bad reception ... meditate ... listen but never think besides the thoughts themselves will betray you want to be optimistic get bent flattery lying deluding wearing a mask solitariness and vanity pride and prejudice all an illusion inspired by ourselves for preserving ourselves against others knowing is a dream SOCIETY trying to deceive others we deceive ourselves whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster and when you look long into an abyss the abyss also looks into you the unity of society is tenable at best and sheer bedlam at worst sooner or later junkies always turn each other in knowledge is a drug and history is the overdose victim transcend become elude the drug and misdirect the past do not follow down that cursed red light do not go gentle into that good night old age should burn and rage at close of day rage rage against the dying of the light cause when the man comes to town taking names it will not matter at all who’s right or wrong or who’s smartest or who’s fittest all of you leave the individual behind and join society give of oneself always without fail and escape the bloody theme of history separate from the individual society is who we are now look at your children and know the only truth there is to know this is an emergency message from us to them you are needed in aisle five please place your tray in its upright and locked position the real is not a metaphor and there is no such thing as a thing in itself the reality is absurd yet the only thing that is truly real THINK you got what it takes? if you have ever received tolerable stimuli from contact with others or places visited and shared with others or objects created by others congratulations and welcome to society abandon all hope ye who enter here because the ones who are not in on it are going to devour us alive unless we save each other from eternal damnation of within the mind reality and each other is all we really have and it is much more real, much more realistic, and much more realizing than we would all like to think stop thinking protect others rather than yourselves and save the planet or get off SHE IS OURS travel through time one second at a time and you will always reach your destined destination of dry land where you can write enlightened essays until the moon refuses to wax forevermore out of jealousy of your delicately incandescent poetry fini.

Tales from the Wordpress Crypt #10

My topmost drawer

Tucked away in ma topmost drawer one could find neatly folded bundles of socks, the order not necessarily being correct. Along with which I kept a burgundy bath robe that had ma personal moniker ‘stubs’ embroidered upon one sleeve. These were simple decoys however, and underneath is where I kept ma most cherished possessions. The six-shooter pistol ah kept for when city-slickers came ‘round, and also a bottle of premium, thirty years young, Kentucky bourbon that served its divine purpose during those same occasions. To say the least, inflicting discomfiture upon cowards and do-nothings had become a stirring hobby of mine in ma later years. This is likely why nowadays so few people visit ma estate.

Tales from the Wordpress Crypt #11

The Barn

In my aggravated haste to prove Joseph wrong, I stumbled through the back door and was immediately struck by a gust of soiled memories. The musty aroma took me aback but I was anxious to find out for myself. The barn smelled of decaying old things; horrors left unspoken and technological artifacts that had become useless in the wake of progress. A broken tractor missing its engine, a cracked mirror hanging from the rafters, the old rusty chicken coop now empty and quiet, and of course the pig pens, still covered in mucky waste. In the back of the barn is where I kept my old foot locker and so I staggered there determinately. But when I found it, half covered in gloom though it was, I saw it had already been opened. Instinctively I knew, as I did my own progeny, that Joseph had been correct after all. Apart from my old uniform, my pistol had been removed. Also missing was the black and white photograph I kept of the family back in 1912. I thought of those things and where they were now and I could not stop myself from sobbing, eyes dug in deeply shut, fists clenched, crumpled on the cold dirty floor. I knew I would never see those personal effects again.

Tales from the Wordpress Crypt #12

Personified Object

This pencil which is arrested between my index finger and thumb, twitches nervously when my thoughts are idle. It is most restless when I fidget, deep in the mental process of writing, as I am wont to do.  A tap-tap-taping of its pink rubber head becomes involuntary, yet the writing implement seems pleased enough with this deliberation of ideas. Tapping, it tries in its own way to revive the muse lying in wait somewhere beyond the surface of the bare world. When Goldie finally makes an appearance, the pencil raises its head triumphantly. Once again I become eloquent and my loyal pencil, in a sudden burst of energy only matched by my own creativity, does its share in removing the starkness from the world.

Tales from the Wordpress Crypt #13

The Philosophy of Language

I knew a man who was constantly burnt by the sun. Every step he took into the great outdoors would broil his skin. The skin would in turn swell into pustules that would burst if slightly disturbed. Because of this he lived in a deeper darkness his entire life, never confronting the light for fear of its burning revenge. Suffice it to say, he had few friends if any.

His room had a large bay window that overlooked a busy street corner in the swanky uptown New York district. It was a magnificent view, bright with activity during the warmer months, dipped in nostalgic sepia tones during the colder ones, but this man kept the window covered with an industrial strength black trash bag fastened securely with a few meters of black tape. He cared little for magnificent views. Because of this few people had actually ever seen him, and even fewer people knew that, given the right opportunity, he could sing like a newborn canary at the dawn of spring.

Once, during a particularly frigid morning, frost turned to condensation and it caused the tape to peel in one corner of the framed window. While the man slept peacefully, the sunlight crept in and moved determinately towards him. Prone and unaware of the slithering menace, the right side of his face and body was exposed to the searing light of day. He blistered like baking soda and vinegar, and his screams awoke the other tenants of the posh apartment complex. Paramedics found him in the foetal position, naked in the darkest corner of the room, his face foaming from multiple burst boils. His tears had long mixed with the blood that covered his body.

A week later, several young people who must have been family, came to pick up his belongings and move him to a new residence. Sitting at the bus stop, I saw him come out of the building escorted by his two chaperons. He was covered in heavy wool blankets, and his face was cowled over, barely visible at all. He looked rather odd to passersby, and you could tell they wanted nothing to do with this woolly Quasimodo. Though the city had experienced near frost-bitten temperatures during the past month, it was a hundred degrees outside under the hazy October sky, which made him look even more surreal. He was a strange man in a strange land.

His escorts acted like concerned parents, cradling him lovingly and ushering him into a blue sedan. I remember thinking that they looked too young to be parents; younger even than he, but one could never tell how old he was because of the scars. On my twelve speed, I followed them off of Manhattan Island. They took country roads rather than the state highway, and always they headed north. My legs were stiff and sore when they finally arrived at their destination: In the middle of a forest clearing, deep in the emerald sea that is Maine, there stood an old concrete pump station, the kind that had not been visited by a technician, let alone anyone else, for at least a dozen years.

The pair of escorts looked around nervously as they approached the station’s entrance. I spied them from a distance too far for them to see me, but I knew, I could see clearly, that something was amiss. The fellow who had driven the sedan stood before the steel door, pulled the latch, and with a clank the pump station was opened. A musty cold wind issued forth from its somber depths and it was  followed by the sound of a thousand spiders chocked with anticipation.

The woman, whose crew cut and rigid angular features made her seem skeletal, inhuman, motioned for the man to come into the pump station. My blood froze as a million scenarios played out in my mind. I dared not take a step further; I was petrified with fear. The driver followed the pair into the station and the door slammed shut. Hours passed and I considered the worst. When twilight began to settle across the land, I remember thinking just how hungry I had become when the door opened suddenly, and the two escorts came into view. They nodded grimly to each other, the man closed the heavy door securely as the woman turned the car over, and soon the pair were gone.

I waited another hour, making sure the couple would not return, and I crept down from my hiding place to confront the situation. The squat concrete structure had no windows, and only one door that could be padlocked from the outside. Inspecting it closer I came to understand that the couple had not locked the man inside, and it puzzled me that they would leave him here with good intentions. Feeling around the latch, I saw that the metal had rusted through, and a solid hammer fall could shatter the mechanism. The place was not very secure at all, and to me, the whole situation stank of abandonment. Inwardly, I became furious. My fists began clenching nervously.

I put my ear to the cold steel door and listened. I thought I heard a squeamish weeping sound, sort of like a slow whine, drowning in the noise of machinery… the sound of water being pumped away from this place, to a hundred different locations. I grew increasingly worried but managed to keep my fear in check. I decided it was time I became of some service to this poor fellow. He may have been a stranger to me before then, but any man who was left for dead deserved some company I thought. I pulled the latch and pushed the door inward, slowly. On cue, the door creaked a creak that sounded like every bad horror sound effect in one. This was a bad movie, and I felt like the next victim. Luckily, the sun had set and only the dimmest light penetrated the makeshift prison.

I could see the silhouette of the man. He was sitting on a stool by an old desk. On the desk was an old-time Victrola next to a pile of worn records. Tiny Christmas lights had been strung up around the small chamber, and some of the more feverish water mains were in use, large kettles of water boiling atop of them. The room was bathed in sweet smelling vapours and something else… Big band music, the kind that people used to dance the mash potato and the swing to. The prison – the sanctum – was immersed in a dreaminess only known by those who knew utter bliss.  The man, eyes closed and hands crossed over his chest, was still covered in the wool blankets, but I noticed then that he wore a black track suit underneath. He was humming the tune, and was so engrossed by this activity that I thought he had not even noticed my arrival. I remember the thin smile splayed upon his face, the look of tranquillity, and thinking I the fool for disturbing him.

I turned and opened the door, meaning to exit without further delay, when he saw me standing there, tears of joy streaming from my glassy stare. I could not help but look deep into the man’s eyes, his marked visage becoming a less than insignificant focal point in time and space. His wounds had scabbed over, and despite the truth of his condition, he managed to crack a grin and a sympathetic shrug. I knew by the wince that the gesture had caused him some pain, but he didn’t seem to mind it at all. These words that forged our longtime friendship were said to me on that fateful day: “Close the door my friend; you’re letting out all the darkness.”

Tales from the Wordpress Crypt #14

Preying on worship

Rise up my brethren, rise up my sisters, the Lord’s Prayer is about to begin.

First, Rubba-dub-dub, thanks for the grub.

Second, we’re not supposed to tell anyone what nobody knows: Thanks for the warning.

Third, there are only 86 billion things to know, but only three of those are worth knowing. The first is knowing that we know nothing. The second is knowing that to know everything is impossible, and the third is, there are much more than 86 billion things to know: Thanks for nothing.

Forth on the First, thanks for all the nifty brain chemicals. You’re a sweet kid, but they’re making me do awful things. Maybe you think this is funny. In which case, thanks for not laughing too loud.

Fifth and nine eights, perhaps we can settle the score here. You tell me why I’m here, and I’ll tell you where I’d rather be. Thanks for the consideration.

Sixth, thanks for the 80s music. It’s very good for keeping all manner of pests and rodents far away from my apartment.

Sieben, why not turn all concrete and inanimate matter into plant life? We could build whole new sky scrapers over the old ones. Well… thanks for listening. Are you listening? No matter. Of course you are. Maybe we’ll just build a skate park and bring some culture to these barbarians.

Auch, Thanks for the familiar faces, the worn out places, and the dreams in which I’m dying. Thanks for the mad world.

Nine on every dime, thanks for understanding what’s mine. Must be the only reason we’re still here I’d wager.

Tentative ten, thanks for trying at least. And if you get fed up with all this nonsense, thanks for the quick smiting. If you can grease me early enough, I’ll be very grateful finally.

And God... lastly... thanks but no thanks.

Tales from the Wordpress Crypt #15

Smooching

This one goes out to a very special (momentary) lady.

Luck strolled in on my arm, and blew on my dice real hard.

There’s only one reason why I am in this predicament. Sit-rep, I’m back with Catherine. We’ve been cooing all week. Here’s how it happened. When it all ended, I was acting upon personal, selfish instincts. There were other fish in the sea, and my rod was hooked and baited. I never wanted to end up this way. Truth is, I probably did. The girl I had been fishing for all this time was right here in front of me. I’m losing marks fast, and the only reason I can think of is deep seeded. It’s me. I’m in this mess cause I need to be. Hippies aren’t this free.

Catherine is there, I am here. There’s no simpler interpretation behind it, just gratification… geographic convenience. If I was a fish, then Catherine would be the lure. If I was a lure, then Catherine would be the fisherman. She takes care of me, and I so desperately need to be taken care of somedays. But why? Because I’m a man of the world, no doubt. Just because we have very aggressive styles of behaviour, predatory even, doesn’t mean we need to follow them towards the bitter end. There’s a change coming on and I don’t want to witness it alone. Period. End of the line Jack. Cut me out.

So Catherine, I write this tonight because I can’t bring myself to write anything else. There is no worth in any of it and I always ask myself why. But for you, I stay very complacent. The question is easily answered and I find relief. It was simple enough, I just had to look inside myself. There it was all along, the answer, I can’t live alone. Neither can you, I think. That’s good, we’ll have each other’s company. I mean it too. It would be nice to share this time with you. This moment can be ours. And I hope you find as much tranquillity as I do. There’s never been a better chance to open up.

So be good for goodness’ sake. Do not worry Catherine, I will be there for you; I know you will be there for me, It’s all we need. Smooching would be good too however. Hot kisses on a cold evening never sounded so good; I hope you can agree. And the way you shut your eyes and part your lips, I know it was meant to be. That’s hard to forget, and I wasn’t even trying. I better shut my thoughts before I let a whopper slip through. There’s no need to be indignant my love, this love is meant too.

I’d kiss your hand if you’d allow. I know it’s kinda lame, but I’d kiss it anyhow. Like a poor man kisses the winning ticket. Like the sky kisses the sea. Two halves become one whole; it can never be so sublime as this. There is no other, I swear it. There is no room for one.

Tales from the Wordpress Crypt #16

Burnin’ Daylight

Okay think positively now. This is just a mental hemorrhage after all. After it’s said and done, I guess there can only be one thing left. Let’s hope it’s solace.

There’s a bud of green dried plant life on my desk, and my arm is itching. I think the bugs are crawling out of the woodwork, but they’re smart sons of bitches. You can’t see them with the naked eye you see. I want to smoke the bud, to fill my lungs with its sticky, bitter-sweet aroma. It tastes like death, and I like it. There’s going to be a full moon tonight; there’s going to be a storm. The tide is high and I’m following suit. Care to guess what ill is born?

When I want to be cute, I like to believe that we have power over our reality. That we can induce meaning into every aspect of existence, to give things value, to make them of worth where before there was none.  These things can be people, places, or objects. Twenty questions and you’ll never guess what I have in mind. I’ll give you a hint, it ain’t Tallahassee, It’s Wichita. These are the dog days and I’m a hound with a big nose. My mind is reeling, and I haven’t touched the greenery yet. Dear gwad! The bud is calling out to me. The crawlers are crawling again. The roaches are stacked end to end!

My fingers sweep across the keys like razor blades against a chiselled jaw. It’s magic time. I’m giving meaning to my little world. I’m shaking up a snow globe.

There’s a dark half in all of us, gwad willing. A thug, a bully, waiting to be loosed upon the scene, and it’s a loose scene, man. I’ve been there a few times. It isn’t pretty but it’s home. This is home too. I’ve hung my hat in more places than I can remember. It ain’t lonesome, out here on the steppes. It’s just quiet: solitary confinement of the soul, from everyone and everything. A chill touch and an icy stare, and I’m left cold and bare. I am redone. There’s a beating of the drums in my head, and there are half-naked jungle dancers in my heart. The blood boils. Am I this? Can it be? Dr. Frankenstein is me.

Where have all the children gone, I say! Experience quells innocence, don’t you know? And the righteous are the last to be idealistic about anything of any real importance. Don’t look at this in the right light. There is none. Be it as it may, there are other sides to every half, it’s true. It’s a constant struggle to see which one will win out. Then it’s all up to the psychopomp to take the loser away. Oh, Leave him your Pennies, your pieces of Cheese. He’ll be needing them soon enough. Hell hath no furry like The father’s scorn. it’s in me, and in you. Zombieland. The winner loses and the loser wins.

I hate to say this but the Scientologists are right. You can make a religion out of anything, and enough blind arseholes will institutionalize the damn thing. It’s enough to make one… Drunk n staggering through a blind alley, I retrieve the .38 from my rain coat. It’s soaked. There’s a good many souls falling like rain these days; the sky is blotted out by them during the dusk. And at night they are simply a grey wash, an amorphous skin over all the world. On the other side… that’s where we find the solution. And we can never have it – must never have it. I raise the slugger high, squeeze, and hear click. Nothing. I point it down the alley towards the street entrance. Maybe some unexpected soul will walk by… Click. At this point, the bullets would do more damage in a box of cereal. I put the gun to my temple hoping maybe, chance is with me.

Lucky charms can’t save you now, old boy. The time is nigh. There are crowds to please, y’know? Sometimes the dark half just has to be unleashed rather than destroyed; another voice to be heard over the din. Onlookers, pedestrians, slack jawed yokels. A little bit of morbid curiosity never hurt anyone. There you have it, I’ve convinced myself. Smoke time. Edit. Break. Recommencing phase two. Stellar groove, man. You’re not a has-been if you never was, right? Wrong. We’re all has beens. I’m just hoping baby, I’m not going too insane. Too much experimentation and too few solutions. The myriad hypotheses of an idle mind. Background Chatter.

Whether I like it or not, it’s time I let the beast out once and for all. Straighten some of this mess out with the tact of an army drill sargent. Mow the lawn, shave that beard. Tomorrow’s another shitter, I hear. All you saints and sinners stand up. Musical chairs. Daddy’s gonna make you dance. So grab your partner and do-see-dough. There’s a hurricane in the air and we all have to be paired off before it hits. I’m going to be the Champion of the world, I sure will. I only wish I had a golden tuxedo. Leave a shinny corpse. Keep your allans on, I’ll think of something. Ain’t nothing else better to do standing in the rain on a Monday night. Or Tuesday morning. Trust me I’ll find one. Black smoke fills my lungs, my brain ignites. Trust me.

There’s a memory out there for all of us. Once so precious, and one so valuable. When that’s lost, then there’s nothing left. We didn’t ask to follow. But there was never any chance of turning back for us anyways, and the next 3,000 days are going to be a real bitch. This memory is what keeps us sane, I think. In spite of everything, there was something magical about the whole deal. Out-of-Past experience. And you liked it. Hell, I liked it.

If memory serves there was a cherry pie, steaming hot on the sun soaked sill. The aroma… well, it was divine. A mother’s caress, a father’s wink. family. A blanket of belonging. I’ll take the wise advice of a rhetorical old man, ‘don’t bother with the hard stuff; we all get sorted out in good time.’ That’s the value we should assign; an appreciation for the little things. The trivialities. I suppose we are cursed and blessed. If there’s one thing I’ll always miss, it’s the family dinners.

Let’s hope that memory remains with us unto our graves.

Meaning, I better savour every last one. The world I know… My known world, may not be there forever. Look at me! Now I’m peeking into the snow globe.

Click

Tales from the Wordpress Crypt #17

Life on Earth

Okay I admit, the last post was pretty rotten. I’m surprised nobody took the time to tell me, and everytime I look at it again, I am reminded of those crappy days when writing just doesn’t seem to work out at all.

I’ll try to rectify.

I spent the last 36 hours hacking my lungs out, and blowing strings of mucus from my nose. Life is good. I used three whole toilet paper roles, and emptied a bottle of Buckley’s. Nothing works. These germs are persistent. I must have gotten this flu when I returned two hundred beer bottles to the store, without proper clothing, in the chill October rain. I didn’t realize the cause until Catherine told me yesterday that it must be that. Good ol’ Catherine, always lookin’ out for me like the mother nobody ever wanted.

I’m being too cruel, I know. It just seems to me that every time you think you’re doing something right, someone is there to tell you you’ve done two wrongs. So here I am, wondering what to eat on a day where nothing seems to go my way. I should go out and buy some chicken to make soup with but with my luck, I’ll probably get the avian flu.

Tales from the Wordpress Crypt #18

Zombie Love

Has it ever occurred to anyone that the dead might envy the living? It sure had not for me. Not until I was positioned into a rather unexpected quandary.

I was expected to believe that my own consciousness was the only natural enemy that existed. Every perceived threat came from the familiar, trusted voice in my head. The one that told me to open doors for women, or to relinquish my seat for the elderly. The one that told me to take Aboriginal Awareness Week seriously. Apparently that tiny, insignificant, squeamish little voice was responsible for great catastrophes. I was miffed. Now you might ask me how this relates back to the dead and their hobbies, but you’d be a dickhead.

I’ll tell you anyway. It’s so simple that if you haven’t figured it out by now, get off this blog cause we don’t serve your kind here.

It is an established genre motif that zombies have an ounce of juice left somewhere up in their cannibalistic brains. Romero spoke of the dead returning to the places they saw habitually during life, such as shopping malls, out of some sense of recognition. The Return of the Living Deadseries featured talking, walking, hurting, feeling zombies that defied conventions with sheer camp. These zombies were definitively smarter than the average bear, and all they wanted was some brains. The later genre busters were hardly original or inspiring. One, City of the Dead, was so desperate to find a new angle that it featured ghost zombies, appearing from nowhere to devour your sinful hides.

Stay with me here…  There’s a certain logic behind zombie mayhems. They don’t do what they do out of some misguided sense of belief or individuality. They count on necessity. Brains for pain. No questions asked, end of story. The reason humans are so often introduced in zombie flicks as an antagonistic element is because humans are illogical. SPOCK WOULD AGREE, humans are a darker force to be reckoned with. They fight one another while there are bigger immediate problems, they bicker ceaselessly to push  arguments that are unfounded, and they are willing to believe their own egos more than the signs around them. Why are the humans so threatening? Four words: Illusion of No Consequence. We think we are smart enough to get away with it.

Believe it or not, that little voice in your head is out to get you, and it’ll win, because you’ll never believe that it is against you. It will guide your thoughts and your hands until there is nothing left to satiate its sick hunger.

In contrast, the zombies have made peace with this nuisance called ego. The voice says brains, and the zombie goes for brains. It has a difficulty accessing the ego part of its own brain, for instance it cannot assess threat levels, or recognize allies, because it has not foundation of self to rely upon for survival; Only instinct remains. An infected human who dies will rise and kill… the people it kills will rise and kill. They in turn will rise – suffice it to say, we would be alot better off, no? No more pandering to false idols, no more rumour-mongering to eleviate self esteem, no more put-downs for social gratification. Just peace and quiet zombie mayhem.

Few words left and I’m out of ideas here… Whatever you think, the dead don’t like this one bit. They are denied both outcomes and are left hanging on the mortal coil like so much worm food. No zombie mayhem, no human carnage; just daisies and fertilizer. Humans have all the fun in retrospect. They get to pick and choose their targets, unleashing fifteen years of rage in a single coup-de-gras. The alternative is kinda sloppy. On the zombie side though, they have all the determination and grit. They are not subject to the same emotions that make humans so soft and chewy. Pride, fear, lust… the zombies are better off without them.