Shower thought of the day January 25, 2020

life is a sandbox
you can do whatever you want
no creative mode though

Eulogy

My dad was my favorite person.

On some nights when I was about 19, trying to go to sleep at his apartment where he was nice enough to let me be his roommate rent-free, he would stay up and talk to me about the cosmos. These penny-philosophy lessons taught me more about myself and my place in the universe, about a perspective that made sense to me, then any interaction I’ve ever had.

Because my dad was a thinker.

You knew that maybe only after knowing him for a while, I don’t know. He was quiet about it (like he was about most things). He had a deep, solid, way of looking at things. He wasn’t easily swayed, but he would change his mind if he saw the logic in it. He was DEEPLY RATIONAL, slow to anger (glacial even?), and not very outwardly emotional. He had a quiet way about him. And he was displeased with something he would indicate it ever so slightly, because he didn’t want to weigh in. Didn’t want to tip the scales. He let you be your own man, even though all I ever wanted to do was to please him. To be like him. I emulate him now because he is my role model, what I want to be.

My dad was a mystery. 

He kept his thoughts mostly to himself. He was a master at saying something profound in as few words as possible. But whenever something big would happen in my life I would want to tell him right away, both for the approval I hoped he would give, and to find out what his reaction would be. I got good at predicting his reactions, but he would still surprise me.

My dad had a funny sense of humor.

Fried rices at The China. Or, “Let’s went”. Classic. We would talk on the phone and find something funny and just laugh out loud at a joke that if you explain it it makes no sense. I remember one time when we still lived in Manhattan. My dad had been working on this puzzle which was made of two horseshoes linked by a chain with a metal ring in the middle, in such a way that the ring was too small to pull off the horseshoes. It’s a little puzzle and you’ve probably seen it before. Anyway, after about two weeks or so of fiddling with it on his chair in the living room in the evenings, he concluded to us “It’s a prank. There is no solution. It’s more like a statement about futility.” Anyway. Another week passed and then one day my mom, Gen, and I heard screaming from the living room. Some commotion with my dad making these terrible loud noises in the other room. So we rush over to the doorway holding each others hands afraid to go in, and my dad is standing there in front of us with the ring off the thing, in one hand, and the horseshoes in the other hand, laughing with tears streaming down his face. It took us a moment to understand what was happening, to register what we were seeing, and then tentatively start to laugh with him. Before that moment I don’t think my sister or I had ever seen my dad laugh before. 

My dad loved BG.

I think living here was more his speed. He loved to fly kites in the fields by the stadium, and he brought his business with him. He employed me and got me a company truck (a chevy S10), he let me get away with some crazy hours so I could sleep in, sometimes not coming in until lunch. He really started opening up here in Ohio. I got to know him, and I think other people did too. He invented gadgets with the intention of making it rich, he did line dancing, he worked on his business, but he was always looking for the thing that would take him to the next level. Something that would really knock it out of the park. I don’t think it really bothered him too much that nothing really took off, and I don’t think he ever really gave up trying. He just put it on the back burner. I know he loves Pat, and the house they have in Defiance is awesome. But I think BG is kind of like that too. He didn’t really give up on it, he just put it aside for later. I have to say, if you don’t know what I’m talking about I’m sorry, but it makes sense to me, because I think I do the same thing nowadays, too.

My dad was a do-er.

He really never quit. He kept doing his business until maybe a year ago, because he loved doing it, and was doing line dancing with Pat until maybe a bit before that, and playing cards with Pat and their friends in Defiance until recently. He always looked and felt young. He had good genes, I guess, but also took care of himself making home cooked food and being active. He wasn’t hyper, just a slow burner. He kept doing the things he loved because he loved doing them. A good lesson in there somewhere too, if I had to guess *wink wink*.

My dad never complained.

I mean I can’t remember a complaint coming from my dad. Not ever. In my 20’s I had a certain, shall we say, Derelict Chiq fashion sense. I would show up to work with a mop of hair, ragged courduroy’s, and a beat up stained T-shirt. I don’t think it was really I was trying to be an asshole, probably I just didn’t really enjoy doing laundry. Anyway, one day he asked me “Do you have to look like a homeless person all the time?” That was the closest I think my dad ever got to complaining about my appearance or anything else to me. Or the time he arrived in Philly after driving 10 hours with Pinky to come into Gen’s living room and Gen asks about Pinky’s new boyfriend, to which my dad chirps in “Yea, Pinky. Tell Gen about Sandy!” (pause) If you know what’s what, that’s my dad’s way of saying he had been hearing about Sandy for the last 10 hours.

I will miss my Dad.

I’ll miss talking to him on the phone. And laughing at jokes only we understand. I’ll miss talking to him about the universe and our place in it. I’ll miss bouncing the big ideas off him, like when I asked him at the hospital “Hey Dad, I think I’m going to ask Stacy whether or not she wants to marry me”, to which he responded “Good idea.”

But somehow, I know I’ll never run out of learning new things BECAUSE of my dad.

He’s not really gone.

Because we all remember him. He had an impact on all our lives. And the ripples from his life are still bouncing among us no matter that the body that housed the one who created them is gone. In its place is the shape of my dad, maintained by all that knew him and loved him, as I did.

And even though it sucks that he won’t pick up my calls, and I can’t ask him for advice, I can’t see if I can get him to laugh at something. 

I am grateful. I am grateful that he had such an impact on me, and taught me how to think, and how to react to conflict. 

I am grateful also that in the end he didn’t suffer or have a prolonged death. I’m grateful that he died intact and with dignity. From talking to him this year I could sense a certain change in his thoughts. He didn’t like being retired. He didn’t like that his friend (Gene?) with alzheimers didn’t recognize him let alone his own wife. I don’t think he was mad, just frustrated maybe. But he wouldn’t let on, and he didn’t. He wouldn’t have wanted any special treatment. No extra phone-calls or “I love you”’s. He would have wanted things to go on as before. Because, as someone close to my dad put it to me,

         “Your dad only adds to a situation, he never subtracts. And that’s not something you can usually say about a person.”

         Not a bad role model to have, if a bit ambitious. But I am my father’s son, so I guess I will make do.

Wild Nothing CH2-CH3

CH2
Waking up. Going outside. I see the bike is gone, frustrating but not unexpected. I was bound to skip up at some point. Oh well, new agenda. Step 1: get bike back. Ok what do I need? I guess I should brush my teeth and get dressed for the day. Sigh. I was going to relax today, maybe try to catch up on some work, maybe play some Gwent on my PS4, see if my buddies wanted to play Rocket League.  Maybe play some piano, or read, if I'm lucky. I brush my teeth as I'm thinking. Why do I never have time to read? Too much things going on, never the long spanse of boredom to just spend my time, existing. Get the back of the teeth. That's good, now the tongue, push the bristles at a 45-degree angle to get under the gums. Ok that's good. Let's get dressed and go.

I walk out the door and start jogging unhurriedly down the street, whispering, staring at the ground as it passes under my feet.

CH3
The young man showed up in an Uber after a light lunch at a local diner, got out of the car and thanked the driver. The location was an old sprawling but fairly well kept junkyard-slash-machine body shop out one of the highways outside the perimeter about 25 minutes from his house. After thanking the driver, he closed the door and watched with his hands in his pockets as the car drove past him, before he started walking casually across the street. He walked to the corner of the machine shop and around the building through the gate which was open and into the area behind the shop which was used as a sort of overflow parking lot adjacent to the junkyard. The large bay doors of the machine shop were open and there were about 8 to 10 people working inside. The man could see several of them but they hadn't noticed him, which was for the best, obviously.

He walked up to his bike which was in exactly the condition he had left it in the night before, albeit perhaps a bit dustier. He threw his right leg around the back of the bike in a bopping motion and landing on the custom seat sitting straight up with perfect balance as to not tip the bike on the uneven pavement. It was at this moment that something happened inside the building.

"Who the fuck is that on the ride Shelby brought last night?" One of the men inside, a head shaved-tattooed slightly hispanic very hard looking man named Hector, but referred by everyone in the shop as simply Caba, which was slang for "Head" in Spanish.

Caba didn't even need to motion as he headed out the bay doors into the hot Atlanta summer air outside, because as his determined strides brought him within a few feet of the young man, who was still sitting bestride his motorcycle, the rest of Caba's crew fanned out and encircled the two men. If some of the men knew that the started and power in the Ducati was maybe just fast enough for a skilled driver to bust out of the human fence before one or more of them could drag him off the bike, they didn't show it.

"What the fuck, homie, are you trying to get messed up?" Caba with an audible sigh and a slouch of his shoulders, as the young man climbed off the still unstarted Ducati. It was worth a shot, anyway, he thought to himself.

"Look," he said to the group, "I get you don't understand the mistake you've made, so I'm just going to take my bike home, ok?"

Incredulous, but also getting angry, Caba spat "Look homie, you loco! I don't know what you mean your bike but you'd better get gone before you make me mess you up for wasting my time."

"This is my bike, I'm taking it." The youth said. Not taking a stance. Standing almost sad, head slightly tilted downward in an act not of complete submission, but of deference. As if ashamed and asking for forgiveness.

"Ok whatever you want, bro," Caba said. "Andre knock this fool out."

At which a truly monstrous image of a human being stepped forward with gleeful sadistic determination, he walked towards the youth casually, relishing the upcoming moment of fear registering on his face and the subsequent pain and finally humiliation that was now about to incur at his grimy, grease stained hands. Because even though he clumsily helped about the shop, this was what he was really here for, in a few more steps he would be able to sate his cruel need for inflicting torment on others.

"You're dead," The young man said, not pointing but almost with a flick of a finger but not quite raising his arm.

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the advancing brute dropped to the concrete banging his head, hard, on the pavement with a dull thwack, like a 280 lb meat-bag puppet cut from it's strings.

At the same moment several things happened. About half the people enclosing the young man turned and fled, about half of those left backed away, cautiously withdrawing due to a mixture of fear, responsibility, and disbelief. The remaining quarter except one neither moved more seemed to register the event, but stood transfixed as they evaluated the situation with total focus and concentration. The youth among this group, and the others were at the youth's mistaken estimation his primary concern. The exception was Caba himself who, although the youth mistook it for flight, dropped to one knee with his elbow reaching around his back as he pulled his firearm from the belt behind his back, whipped around his bun and opened fire.

Caba shot a quick succession of five shots out of his 10-shot magazine. At the shooting range he would practice this movement repeatedly working on precision and speed. He always aimed for the head and typically got 4 of 5 shots lethal at this close a range, hence his name, "Caba".

Three of the bullets stopped mid-air a few centimeters from the young man's head, as the other two passed just outside the silhouette of the youth's body. At this point as the bullets fell to the floor and the remaining bystanders decided they had had enough and it was time to go, decided to flee.

"I can't believe you just did that," the youth said, "like seriously what the fuck man. Somebody says 'you're dead' and points to a guy and the guy drops dead so you decide to SHOOT at this person? Like I have no fucking idea what to do with you right now I'm so mad."

"..." Caba, realizing for the first time, as the reality of the situation he was in settled into his consciousness, like a square wheel turning, began to feel an emotion he had pushed down, fought, ignored, but no longer could keep out: fear.

"Your fucking arm is off," The youth said.

Incredulously, questioning, Caba looked at the youth. As nothing happened he began to back away and look around as if expecting a bird to fly at his head or perhaps a sniper shot to end his life.

"Uh," Raising his hand and pointing, "I SAID, your FUCKING arm is OFF!"

At the same moment, Caba's arm was ripped form his body by an unseen force, and flung across the lot to hit the wall with a splat and land in a bloody stump in the gravel by the corner of the lot.

Blood spurting everywhere, Caba began to scream "AhhhH!" as no sound he had ever uttered before. The few bystanders who had withdrawn to a safe distance to watch nearly puked, they had stayed to be able to provide a detailed report come the time that they would have to explain the events of the day, or possibly face a painful or deadly punishment by an upset family interrogator. At some point you just have to say enough is enough. In unison, they also turned away from their viewing spots around corners, and behind cars, and vacated the premises.

As Caba lay there, screaming, holding the blood pouring stump that used to be his arm, the youth began apparently talking to himself.

"Do you think that's lethal?" The young man asked, seemingly to himself.

"Probably, in all likelihood," Responded a deep voice from the thin air slightly up and over the right shoulder of the youth.

Speaking again to Caba, "You have a hole punched through your head."

As the brains, and most of the facial features for that matter, of the shop boss formerly known as Caba exploded out the back of Caba's head to splatter in a Pollack-type pattern across the brand new black and red paint job of a GT-3000 Turbo the shop had brought in last week, and with nobody left around to see, a shape began to materialize. Huge, bulking, with a massive torso ending in goat legs, bent back the way knees can't go, with a deep red leather skin, massive neck muscles, human but overly large facial features except the very large pointy ears and gigantic shiny black bull horns protruding from the forehead of the Jinni.

"That was a joke stupid. Let's go" said the boy, as he got on his bike, started the engine, and idled over the gravel parking lot, screeching peeled away down the road.

Wild Nothing CH1

CH1
It was a sweet ride. Black paint, matte finish, gun metal trimmings no chrome anywhere. Gorgeous. With a 1500cc engine the Ducati X1500L was technically not even road legal in this state, and for good reason, and with the smaller frame and tight turn radius made this the most agile, quick, powerful, most devastatingly fast unstable but tantalizingly sexy dangerous bikes on the market. Even with the dense Atlanta traffic and totally cringe-in-fear worthy fleet of Chevy 1250 turbo 2015 armored speed cruisers that the Atlanta PD had monitoring the highway, in a chase situation the driver of this bike would be there one moment and a few moments later, gone, after the banshee scream of the engine erupted and faded into the distance.

The Thief wondered if the owner knew just how fast a ride this was, despite the estimable $89,000 price tag. At this point it hardly mattered. In a few minutes, the Thief thought, it would be his. With the practiced art and training of a true professional, he lived the bike onto a rack with wheels. As he rolled the bike out of the outdoor concrete stairwell corridor, he gave a thought to the likelihood of someone hearing him when the rig clanked off the curb of the apartment complex onto the driveway. Most people never even pay mind to the sounds happening outside their apartment. They hear the everyday noise and it enters their perception but leaves unnoticed, unregistered. Even a paranoid Beta male, upon hearing a noise and associating his brand new ride and becoming apprehensive, or anyone for that matter, would tend to momentarily deliberate action before making to move outdoors to investigate. In any case, then the Thief would be gone.

The Thief rolled the Ducati in its rig specially designed and hand made pneumonic tracks of the ramp of his wide cab pick up truck, closed the tailgate with a satisfying clap, and got into the drivers seat, started up the engine, and drove away. In less than an hour he will have dropped off the bike at a fence, the Marcatti family who was big enough to handle this kind of score, but not too big that the Thief had no interests in direct or indirect dealings with their business associations. There were some entities in life that were just too big to deal with, and in his professional opinion, some syndicates which were more trouble than they were worth. A nice finders fee and delivery fee and the freelance thief would be out of the picture. He was home free.

the dream

We were there to rob the place, the four of us. Each with our different set of skills. It was large, the place, like a museum, but it should be mostly empty this time of night.

We got separated and I went with one of them.

We walked through the hallway looking, trying to complete our portion of the mission.

We heard voices ahead, and looked to each other alarmedly. We looked around the corner and saw several patrons and some workers milling about and in conversation. It looked like the hour before an opera when people are starting to show up.

"Let's go," we said to ourselves.

As we tried to get through the gate we were stopped.

"Don't you need to help us get this working?" The security guard said as he pointed to a malfunctioning gate.

"Oh right, well I don't have my equipment," said my partner.

"What, is he new?" The guard asked me.

"Yea, I know right," I said mockingly.

My partner pushed the buttons on the key pad. After a few minutes he had it working and went through to the other side, because that was his skill.

Alarmed, I tried to follow. I was dressed in a white t-shirt for sleeping and the guards stopped me.

"You don't even have your key card pass," they said, pointing to my chest where it was meant to hang.

"But I HAVE to get in there!" I explained, whining.

"Why don't you just go right around to the side where the keypad is?" They asked, bewildered.

"Oh right," I said, moving away so they wouldn't ask if I was new, too.

---------------------------------------

***Later, you and I are given a special key from a butler after doing a good deed...***

I took your hand and started walking down the lawn. Happiness filled my heart as the key given to me by the smiling man behind the door jingled and stuck in my left pocket.

"One more thing about me in this place, don't be scared, but I can fly."

"I'm not scared," Stacy said.

"We may get a couple stares, but people here are mostly used to it," I said, as our feet left the ground.

You held on to me tightly as we soared into the air, gathering speed and elevation.

We veered off to the left, swooping past an old brick and stone archway, grey with years and unuse.

As we flew higher the city of NY in the other world came into view. It was dusk and the lights of the buildings were coming on. We flew over the water and I looked around to get my bearings. It had been a long time and much had changed.

"Let's see if we can get higher so I can see where we need to go. The house where we are going is at Long Island Sound."

You smiled at me and held me tighter.

"This is amazing, Sal", you said.

Old ships like pirate frigates were docked against the piers. We soared past them all. We moved closer to the city on our right and shot forward with speed, the wind zipping through our hair. I started feeling apprehensive because still nothing looked familiar.

"This place does that..." I said to myself.

---------------------------------------

Let's try the other side of the island," I said out loud. "Let's get some altitude and see if we can fly over it."

From the sky, the city was beautiful. The ships, made of wood with sails creaking in the water, dried behind us as we sped ahead. The buildings below were old, brick, tall, majestic, of various types and styles, but none familiar. It was the city, clearly that I remembered, but none of the familiar landmarks were there.

We came down to the top of some buildings and almost got caught up in an archway, we zoomed lower and did a barrel roll with my arms around you and you laughed, carefree. We saw water, foggy, impressioned between the buildings ahead, bust barely seen. 

Some young people were walking nearby and I shouted to them, starting to lose hope. They were walking down stairs on the side of the building, against the street below, a few of them apart. I shouted to them as they looked unalarmedly up at us floating by. 

"Excuse me, is Long Island Sound near here?"

"Yes, that's it just there," a young lady said.

"Thanks!" I said with renewed excitement. I took your hand and we descended towards the water we had seen. We were almost home. More questions you would have soon, but for now I just needed to get back to that special place. It was very exciting. We were close.

---------------------------------------

As we approached the water we saw lights. We took some altitude and I tried to determine which lights were the house. Directly below us I saw some promising lights.

"I think that's it!" I exclaimed, hopeful.

I wanted to nose-dive, but you wouldn't let us. You had learned how to fly, in a short amount of time, but would still need my hand for a while longer. So I righted myself w/ feet downwards and we descended slowly with your facing in front and me with my arms wrapped around you.

But as we approached the lights below, I noticed something strange.

"Something is wrong," I said.

The lights were pinpricks on a large group of lily pads. It wasn't an island and we were still too close to the buildings of the shore. I felt myself waking up. The vividity of the dream was breaking up, fading.

"Not yet, please," I said to myself.

With renewed fervor I grabbed your hand and shot out towards the sound, over the water, frantically searching.

With vivid clarity the boats and small islands in front of us shot into view and behind us.

"We are going to make it," I said to myself.

---------------------------------------

Then, as a ship passed to the left, I saw it.

"That's it! That's it!" I said. I was overjoyed. 

The house was rectangular on the sides with a cylindrical entryway with a flattened front. The lights were on and welcoming. I started crying tears of joy.

For a moment I panicked but I still had the key in my left pocket.

Trembling I looked inside the tall window near the door and saw my familiar painting/clock facing the entry way.

I took the key from my pocket and placed in into the lock. It fit perfectly. And brought back the memories of the place. I turned the lock and with a satisfying click the door swung open. I rushed inside to go look around but was dashed by emotion, as I saw the first "playroom" of decorated blue walls and unimaginable childhood wonder, I was overcome with emotion and fell to the ground weeping on my back with my arm covering my face.

"Thank you, thank you," I told you. "Thank you for helping me find it."

-THE END

all good things

All good things 

On vacation at Tybee island, GA, bout 3-4 hours drive southeast from Atlanta. Cool place. Water so warm, and the light on it. Bright, but not squintingly bright light making you wonder, Is this a dream? Eating your 1rst of two budgeted meals out on the first night. Got this giant plate of seafood. Yum for all, Sal jr. trying and failing, they all failing, to get the nuggets of sweet crab meat that only Daddy can provide. Getting labeled “good at this” when it never occurred to do anything other than get this food in my mouth. Walking on the beach, with the sunlight behind you, remembering months ago seeing the sun set over the water. Now you see things from the other side. Remembering your foot still lifed against the surface as you backflipped into the waves, the aliveness of the moment. Walking by the waves as the sun sets behind you and the pink sky, illuminating the ground that Sal jr. runs on, chasing birds, running on light under ribbons of color set motionless and yet in motion, as a minute walks by and the light changes. Finding sea shells and washing them in the ocean, so warm even when the sand has lost its heat. You remember, writing, after a smoke and a smoke with your babuh on the porch in the night air, you remember thinking what was it? what was it that lost its heat first? The sands heat was gone, but then the ocean was warm.

It was a good day. All worth remembering.

Poem

Every day is infinity
A moment a miniature eternity
No beginning or end
With uncountable probabilities

Every life is an instant
When every moment is the same
Running into the next
Uniform and unchanged

All death is unique
Our reality our protection pierced
The moment fleeing us
Leaving us in a personal oblivion

Heaven is for fools
No God on high
Eternity is all around us
And heaven in our lives

The way of beauty

Her way is beauty
    and we are amazed by her way
Those of us who drink of her love
    as of a fountain overflowing with perpetual joy
Her grace is encompassing
   her movement mesmerizing
Her smile is music
    diminished were one note changed
    lovely as the sun
    warm as a breeze
Her eyes are limpid pools
    full of laughter
    deep as her soul
    and when in her gaze
She shows us what love is

Last night's dream

I was at a basement rock show.  We were sitting on the floor near the front.  The band had four guys and the veeeery beautiful Scarlett Johansen (so far so good).  The guys all had tans and climbing bodies and were wearing tighty-whiteys but they played pretty good.  The drummer walked passed Scarlett and he had dirty underpants that were sagging and I was like "how can she like him?" There wasn't much room where I was sitting so I wiggled under one of the unused pianos and watched Scarlett who was playing across the "stage" which was really just the floor of the basement.  The song was over so they were moving around and I realized they needed to use the piano I was under.  I didn't have time to move, so when they started I was causing problems.  The song started sounding off and they were hitting bad notes.  One of the band members sat down across from me, against the wall.  I knew his name.  He told me how disgusting I was and what was my problem.  He had missing teeth and I didn't know what she saw in him.  He kept putting his rectangular pink tongue between his missing teeth and glaring at me with unmasked loathing at my ugliness.  After he left, I wiggled back to my spot in the front row, on the floor, and looked out towards the back where he had walked and said to Jess "I can't wait to kick the shit out of that dude", but I realized that was probably just false bravado.

the sting of other lives

Shes been unhappy these last few years
since beginning to work on her degree
trying to reclaim something that was lost
her unfinished childhood
her short lived freedom

She feels trapped by her life
feels the sting of other lives not lived
all the myriad possibilities she can never taste
a mockery of her spirit
firery and fluid
light and quick and carefree

Shes searching for a reason
but finds only comfort in another
the shared depravity of useless folly
the bragged and broken arrogant life
of a ruined man
brought down by the weight
of so many lives not lived

the parable of the stone

There once was a block of stone.  The block sat through many seasons of storms, rain, snow, and wind.  Nothing could diminish the block of stone, nor make it smaller, not destroy it in any way.  It was immutable.  One day a crack appeared in the stone, it was as if the stone had broken from the inside.  The crack went from the top of the stone to nearly the bottom, but there was a small piece of stone connecting the two halves.  The crack was approximately one inch at its largest width.

The one side of the stone said, "Let us push together so that the crack may be diminished."
But the other side was the wise side, he said "Rather we should break apart and go our separate ways".

So the two halves broke along the crack that had formed.  They went their separate ways and found to their great enjoyment that it were now possible to roll in the fields and go swimming in the streams, such had their weight previously inhibited them from doing.

Seasons passed and the two stones were again beset by storms, rain, wind, and snow, but this time they were too small to spare themselves from the forces around them.  The wind buffeted them, and made them smooth.  The snow froze them, and made them diminish.  The rain soaked them, and softened their corners.  After many seasons had passed, they no longer appeared as they once were, two halves of a block.

But the two stones each felt lonely for the other, and they sought each other out.  When they found one another, they discovered that all of the shaping they had done on their own had a miraculous effect.  As they approached each other and started to caress each other they discovered that all the bumps and protrusions and boles and rends that had shaped them since separating had an equal and opposite characteristic on the other, and that when they held themselves in just such a way, they formed a perfect, solid sphere.  So exact was the fit that no seam could be seen as to where the one side started and the other stopped.

They were as one again.

re-post just because

lol, found this from a while back. funny stuff.

what, exactly, is wrong with a 28 year old getting a remote helicopter for his birthday?hmmm? no, what is wrong with that? what is wrong with going to the store and buying 10 more of those bad boys so all your friends can have one and you can have mid-air helicopter wars? huh? what's wrong with having a martini set and a remote controlled helicopter be simultaneously the best birthday presents you could have asked for?

haiku for volcano and richard murdock

good job volcano
for being better than richard murdock
we like you volcano

I was about to watch the debate between President Obama and Mitt Romney, and I was a little early and there were these negative political adds on TV.  Negative adds really disturb me so I changed the channel to NOVA on PBS, or maybe it was NATURE.  On the screen was a volcano which was erupting, it was on the beach and the lava was touching the ocean water and instantly boiling it.  The cameraman went underwater in one shot following the molten lava underwater as it cooled and turned into black, very hot rock called 'pillow lava'.

I realized that nature shows are so enjoyable because they are Positive.  they say, hey look at the world and how awesome and grand it is, NOT oh you stupid volcano we hate you for existing.  I realized that there is something fundamentally, inherently, self-evidently better about building something up as beautiful and wonderful rather than pointing out how disgusting someone is.

induction

what can be opened
    that is not closed
what can be poem
    that is not prose
for who will die
    that has not lived
and who can receive
    who has not given
and who can spell
    who can not write
and how can day come
    if there is not night
for the light exists not
    but for the dark
and every naked being
    knows this is his heart
for one and one really
    does make three
truth & reality, the same thing they
    may not be
but in reality there
    is truth
and in truth
    reality lies
the truth is in my
    heart
and reality in my
    eyes

ocean waves frozen in night shades
seagull cries break the light
pushing all motion up towards the rising sun
into the blue dizzying sky and white blind clouds

the trick is to laugh
release the emotion which is trapped inside
making room for new moments
the love of endless expanses
lonely light in the dark night
surrounded on all sides by monsters
you keep your head above water
breathing the night air through nostrils
filled brimming with promises of a new day

the trick is to cry
let the sadness fill you and encompass you
let it take its toll. so that you may live
so that you may be alive
so that you may learn
so that obstacles in your future
may be known without being touched
can be avoided without being seen
so that the pain will pass
and never again return

parable of the boy

One day a man came to town.
He brought with him many gifts and wonders which fit in the palm of your hand.
All the people flocked to him, to be delighted and enjoy the day.
But one boy did not come to see the man.
He stayed alone at the other end of town.
All day he stared up and watched the clouds,
    he listened to the birds,
    he felt the wind, and
    he was happy.
After the man had left with his pockets full,
The other boys came to ridicule the one boy who had not come to see the gifts,
    to enjoy the wonders the strange man had brought with him.
The other boys threw insults at the one boy.
They called him names and laughed and told him he was strange.
He responded,
"It is not strange to enjoy the wonders of the world, the blue sky, the white clouds, the distant mountains, the cool breeze.  It is only strange to consider only wonders that which you must pay for".

sorry

My Jess,

I'm sorry I wasn't there for you today.  What is more I'm sorry for all the times I haven't been there, like last night and the night before, when you were getting ready to go to Antonio's party.  I know I can 'help', and that when you ask for it and its not there that is painful.

The pain is not the point. 

Me not being there, unfortunately, is the point.  I am essentially trying to do whatever it is that i want to do.  What i need to do.  What i need to do is climb.  I do not need to climb so much.  What i need to do is work.  I need to work more.  What i need to do is make sure that the children are taken care of.  What i need to do is make sure that you are taken care of. 

There is no ordering on needs.  That is, no need is better than any other need, in particular there is no ordering that says what is the first need, the second need, the last need, and so on.  They are just all needs.

Here's my problems: Right now you feel you need me.  You need to figure out a lot of stuff without me.  Without me is not alone, although that is a HARD one.  I shouldn't put needs on other people, like you.  I really, really shouldn't put needs on other people that would destroy them.  I do not like this gamble.  At all.  The problem is that for whatever reason we don't seem to be able to be around each other right now, approximately 40% of the time.  The problem is that when we shouldn't be around each other we, inevitably, are.  I understand that this is not what you are mad at me about, or at least not solely.  These are my problems.

I promise i will do my best to meet all my needs except the one where I need you to do more without me.  All other needs I will do my best to achieve; each one given the consideration all needs deserve.

Like an apology, this one really comes off more as a lecture, more of an explanation than a conveyance of regret or admittance of wrongdoing.  And for that, at least, I really am truly sorry.


L,

S

a bit of poetry

frozen waves solid in night shades, piercing cries from seagulls break the light, sending all motion pushing up towards the rising sun, stretching towards the blue dizzying heights and white blind clouds

a bit of insanity

my wife is mad at me. because "i don't get her".  How mad is it that one may feel justified at being angered with a reasonable person for not understanding their insanity?

Last night i watched the children.  We've been having some serious problems of a completely new nature recently, rather big problems in my book.  But, more on that later, if ever.  Last night I watched the children, and Jess went out with friends.  I was with them all, Doug Jessica and Jess, a bit last night, but retired to my apartment (I'm living with Kyle last few weeks and for several weeks to come i imagine).  I was tired of their company, the insanity of company and the insanity of the combination of moods and persons who were present at my house last night.  So, I went home.  I read a book.

Jess called.  Can I come over to watch the kids so she can go out?  Sure.  Why not. I'll read over there.  When I get there I say, into her eyes, "you don't have to go".  Rather than the answer I was expecting, she seemed not tired and rather forced into going, but eager, excited.  I had seen this behavior and thus experienced the uneasy feeling I got from it repeatedly several months ago, but I discounted it, ignoring the fact that I had overheard Jessica talking about 'getting someone on the phone' right before I had left earlier.  After a moment, outside I asked Jess, cautiously, who was it that she was going out with.

"Oh, my friends to a bar".  Avoidance, deflection.  "Jessica and Doug have already left to go".

Well, that suited me fine.  Later find out that Justin was there too.  Not that she was alone with him, which creates all sorts of other problems for me.  Why not mention it when she was leaving?  Obvious reason #1: I might say, "fuck that", and turn my tail around and go home.  Obvious reason #2: I most likely could not have went to bed peacefully a half hour later, laying in my bed hoping Jess would come home soon to kiss me goodnight.  Completely-non-obvious-bull-shit-excuse Jess gives: I didn't think to mention it?  It didn't seem relevant?  I forgot?  I wasn't thinking about Justin at the time you asked me?

Definition: If you are reaping rewards which would have otherwise been impossible by being misleading about information that would cause the rewards to be revoked or lessened, then you are taking advantage of someone.

Axiom: Sal does not like to be taken advantage of.

Corollary: Friends who take advantage of Sal are not Sal's friends.

So, I confront Jess this morning with my pain, anger.  I tell her the cause because she is either not understanding the cause or purposefully ignoring it (another thing Sal doesn't like very much, burying problems usually leads to problem trees).  Her response, essentially: "its not like it my fault for not telling you".  What is further her response: "I'm mad at you too".  Why are you mad at me? I ask.  "For not getting me".  How mad do you have to be to feel anger at a reasonable person for not understanding your insanity?  Must I be insane to not feel the displeasure of my wife?

The path we are on is uncharted, and there are no lights.  God help us.

three things

three things:

(1) conversation can be dangerous

(2) counting is hard

and finally

(3) you're a smart cookie, you'll figure it out




(extra bonus) life is not a dream, you can't just pee anywhere you want

fuck you clown

there seems to be some confusion about the 'fuck you clown' joke, which I created in the Summer of 1997 at Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp.  I really can't believe that its never been put up here before, but maybe I can find it somewhere.  Anyway, here it goes:

There once was a boy named Tommy.  Tommy was 10 years old and Tommy LOVED CLOWNS.  Tommy's room was filled with clown stuff.  He had a clown bed, clown wallpaper, clown lamps, and a whole shit-ton of clown stuffed animals and toys.  Tommy was obsessed.  A week after his 10th birthday, his  dad took him to the circus as a surprise.  Tommy was ecstatic.  He walked right past the cotton candy and candy apples and straight into the big tent to get seats.  Once the show started, he started to get excited.  He saw the flying trapeze and the elephants and the lion tamer, but all he really cared about was the clowns.  Finally, the time came and the clowns showed up all in a tiny car and they all tumbled out.  Tommy was jumping up and down and pointing and saying "Look dad" when they hit themselves with pies and did tumbling acts.  He laughed and laughed.  It was the best day of his entire life.

Then, the head clown went to the center of the ring, a crotchety old grisly clown with face-paint that looked like it had never come off and beard stubble that looked like it never grew or was shaved.  The head clown took the center of the ring and said in a booming, scratchy voice:

"I need a volunteer!"

Tommy jumped up and down, waving his arms like mad, jumping and screaming 'oh pick me, pick me, please oh please'.  The head clown saw Tommy and decided to have some fun.

"You there, little boy, come on down," and he pointed to Tommy.  Tommy rushed down.  His best dreams were coming true.

"What's your name, little boy," says the head clown in his gravelly voice.
"My name is Tommy," Tommy peeps.
"How old are you Tommy?"
"I'm 10."
"Well, you know what? You're kinda stupid."

At this, the audience is struck completely silent.  Tommy's smile lingers for a second longer, but his eyes aren't smiling anymore.

"You know what?  You're kinda UGLY too."

At this, the audience starts to giggle a little, at the ridiculousness of it all.

"In fact, Tommy, you are an ASS FACE!"

The audience erupts into uncontrolled laughter.  They can not believe what is happening.  It is like a spell that they have all been put under.  The head clown starts to chant:

"ASS FACE! ASS FACE! ASS FACE!"

Everyone in the big tent is chanting, except of course for Tommy.  Even Tommy's dad is chanting "ASS FACE".  Tommy is crushed.  His idol, the head clown, has smashed him.

Tommy decides that he still wants to be a clown, even after the humiliating experience at the circus.  He decides that he will go to clown school.  He goes to clown school and learns all the clown tricks like how to hit people in the face with seltzer water and how to tumble and juggle, and of course, how to tell jokes.  After his 4th year of clown school, Tommy graduates and he decides that he won't be happy unless he gets back at the head clown who humiliated him.  So, he decides to go to revenge school.  He spends four years at revenge school and learns all the nasty and vile ways to get back at someone.  Now, Tommy is 18 years old and the same circus comes back to his town.  He decides that it is time to get his revenge.  He goes to the circus and walks right past the cotton candy sellers and the candy apples and all the crappy toys that they sell at circuses.  He walks into the big tent that has been set up and sits down and waits for the clowns.  He waits patiently through the elephant act, and the tightrope act, and the lion tamer, and all the other acts until finally its time for the clowns to take the stage.  He watches with his arms crossed and without showing any emotion once the clowns come out and start the show.  He watches as they all fall out of a tiny car and then hit themselves in the face with pies, and takes no pleasure in watching them juggle and tumble, but he waits patiently for the end when the head clown will make his appearance.  Finally, the head clown takes the center of the ring and he says:

"I need a volunteer from the audience!"

Tommy stands up, silently, and raises one arm into the air.  The head clown sees him and immediately recognizes him and decides that he is going to have some fun again.

"You, young man, come on down here if you please!"

Tommy walks to the center of the stage, staring directly into the eyes of the head clown the whole time.  The head clown stares right back at Tommy (who now calls himself Tom), and the tension between them is palpable.  Its so bad the the audience can feel it and becomes nervous.

"What's your name, young man?"
"My name is Tom."
"How old are you, Tom?" asks the head clown.
"I'm 18 years old."

The clown looks at the audience for the first time since calling the young man from the audience.  The rest of the audience is completely spellbound.  Somehow they sense that something epic and dangerous and wonderful is about to happen, and its about to happen right in front of their eyes.

"You know what, TOM, you're kinda stupid."

The audience starts to giggle uncomfortably, and they shift in their seats.

"You know what?  You're kinda UGLY too!"

At this, the audience begins to laugh.  Its as if the spell has either been broken or really started to take effect.

"You know what? You're an ASS FACE!"

The audience erupts with laughter.  The head clown starts to chant "ASS FACE! ASS FACE! ASS FACE!" and the whole audience chants, stomping their feet in the bleachers and screaming "ASS FACE" in unison.  All the while, Tom stares at the head clown, never changing expression nor showing emotion nor ever looking away even as the head clown waves his arms in time with the chant of "ASS FACE" which now fills the tent with its thunderous roar, waving his arms as a conductor would conduct a symphony orchestra.  Finally, the chant ends, and the head clown says:

"So what have you got to say to THAT, TOM?"

And Tom takes one short breath, raises an arm and points a single finger at the clown and says, cool as a cucumber:

FUCK YOU CLOWN

Conan the Adventurer

CHAPTER ONE
Thisbe, the thief, sat with his back to a tree in a moonlit clearing in the northern reaches of Brythunia, near the border of Hyperborea. At one end of the clearing, a rock face held a small waterfall which collected at a small pool at the base of the face. The singular most notable spectacle in the clearing was a podium to one side of the pond and near the face of rock. Upon the pedestal was an inscription in a script older than the hills themselves. No mere chance had brought the thief to this particular clearing. It was rumored that the pedestal was a key into a cavern the riches of which could buy a kingdom. The thief Thisbe, then, was trying to ascertain the method of entry and the role that the strange pedestal played.

Surely, the strange earthen jugs played a role in unraveling the tale. Some sort of sorcery must have been laid on the two jugs, since they bore the same ancient script on their faces as the podium they must be aged uncountable years. Of course, they would have to be ensorceled to have stayed intact this long! Indeed, on an earlier attempt at unraveling the mystery of the podium and the jugs, the thief Thisbe had accidentally dropped one of the jugs to have it shatter into pieces at his feet. Yet the next time the thief returned to the clearing, there two jugs stood. It appeared whatever sorcery had been laid on the jug allowed it to repair itself, or at least, for another jug to be called into existence!

It was these events that the thief now pondered. He stared at the podium and the jugs set nearby. He had no hope to discover the meanings of the texts written upon them, for the script was too ancient. Perhaps the waterfall?

In a flash of insight, the thief jumps up and snaps his fingers together. The waterfall! Of course, it was so simple, he must fill one of the jugs and place it on the pedestal. But which one? The jugs differed in size, the larger of the two being about five palms (an ancient water measurement) and the smaller being about half that size. But which should he pick? Indeed, a man seeking riches would choose the larger of the two, since it is greed and lust for more which drives him to the cave of wonders. But there were also stories of ancient writings and the secrets of old held inside the cave, and would not a man of wisdom choose the smaller of the two knowing that in excess one finds to defeat oneself?

Thisbe, the thief, halts in front of the podium for a moment, then chooses the larger of the two jugs. If it doesn't work, he thinks to himself, then he can always try the next jug. Walking over to the pool of cool water, the thief fills the larger jug and places it onto the pedestal. For a moment nothing happens, until the thief sees a shimmering by the water fall. In amazement, the thief watches as a hidden door opens and a pathway is raised leading across the pool. Wonder and excitement fill the thief, and he walks as in a dream towards the opening in the fall. As he enters the door, the walkway descends back into the pool and the door rumbles closed. Once again, all is still in the clearing and the moon shines down on an empty scene devoid of movement save the rustling of the leaves in the night summer breeze.

CHAPTER TWO
In the blaze of noon day summer heat, and on the rolling hills of Hyperborea can be seen a large youth walking across the landscape. His long, dark hair is held by a woven braided band across his forehead, and his piercing blue eyes seem like gems in the strong summer light. Favoring comfort over protection, the youth wears a buckskin loincloth and naught another stich save his thronged walking sandals. His dark skin burnt from sun and scoured by wind would essay him from the southern races save his blue eyes, which are not of that race. Too, none of the southern races were built as he, with such broad back and thick thighs and arms. He wears a broadsword across his broad back and a dagger on his belt and too he carries himself with the air of one who is not unaccustomed to use each one.
This is Conan of Cimmeria, the freebooter and adventurer of that fierce mountain peoples. He walks over hill and over stream in a due course, yet he has not a destination. He walks to adventure and whatever fortune may present itself.
It is an hour before sunset when the youth comes upon a campsite. The site is nothing more than a fire pit and a small hut on stilts. As the Cimmerian approaches, he loosens the broadsword on his back and walks at an angle, ready to dive to the side or fight as the need arises.

"Who approaches?" A voice calls from inside the hut on stilts.
"Who wants to know?" The youth responds.

Out of the hut pops a shaven head. The one who it belongs to soon follows the heads notion and descends the stilted abode to the ground below. One sees a small man, not overly old but past the prime of life with a small greying beard and a short mustache. His shaven head and almond shaped eyes disclose that he is from the far Eastern lands of Khital, lands of wizards and strange customs.

"I am Mako, a wizard. And who might you be? Your size and demeanor announce you to be a warrior, surely, but come now, what is your name barbarian?"
"I am Conan, wizard," says the youth, not yet sheathing his sword. Being a man of Cimmeria grants one certain preferences, like strength and agility. But, as with most warriors, the barbarian was wary of the supernatural or magical. It was one thing to grapple with a foe of blood and sinew, but how to grapple with a magical enemy? The youth had been through trial enough of the former, and seen enough of the latter to know to avoid it whenever possible.
"Ah, Conan. To what gods do you owe allegiance, barbarian," The wizard asks, "and what can I do for you?"
"I swear by Crom," the youth replied, "but Crom requires no allegiance from any Cimmerian. He bestows upon us our strength and the fire within which gives us the desire to fight and be tested, but then he is done with us and requires no more."
"Ah, I have heard of Crom and Cimmeria. You are a long way from home," the wizard Mako noted.
"Aye, and I've been walking for several days without a proper rest," the Cimmerian said, "and I'd be happy to share your camp and whatever hospitality you can offer." Saying thus, the youth finally returns his blade to his sheath and takes a more congenial stance.
"Ah, glad to have you, my lad. Come, let us dine and you can tell me about what brings you to this part of the world."

After several days of walking, the meager repast of bread, wine, and dried meat barely sated the furious hunger of the barbarian. The two, wizard and warrior, sat long into the night talking of the sights they had seen and the adventures they have had. Mako, being the elder of the two, told stories of far away lands and the kings that ruled them to the youth and the youth was awed. He knew, of course, the world was large and had even heard of many of the lands the wizard spoke of, but many of the lands he had never heard of before and he found some of what he heard disturbing. In turn, the youth spoke of the score adventures that he had encountered in his travels. While it was clear that the man Conan was young, perhaps in his early twenties at the most, it was the wizards turn to be awed at the number of adventures that the youth had already conquered.

"Ah, but you say that you have yet to venture to the distant lands of the south, Conan?"
"Aye," said the Cimmerian, "but all in due time, wizard. For I plan to see much more in the years to come."
"Surely," agreed the wizard, Mako, "but perhaps I can entice you into a adventure of the more local type first."
Intrigued, as was usual for the youth when it comes to adventure, he says, "my ear is yours, wizard."

And so the wizard and barbarian spoke long into the night about a secret cave which holds riches of gold and the writings and magics of an ancient people. It was not until a few hours before dawn that the two finally succumbed to the pull of sleep, and for those few hours the youth dreamt of gold riches and of the wine and women he could purchase with them.

CHAPTER THREE
Upon the hills of Hyperborea, under the brilliant summer sun, two figures are seen walking. One dark giant, naked save a loincloth and a smaller man dressed in the flowing garb of the far eastern nations walk the rolling hills. The larger of the two is broad of shoulder and back and carries on it a broadsword, while the smaller seems to carry only a small pack on his back. They walk with a purpose and in a direction which will bring them across the border of Hyperborea and into the land of Brythunia. Their ultimate destination is a certain cave of wonders, the location of which even the small man, Mako the wizard, has only a vague notion. The larger youth, however, walks with the goal of adventure and the riches attained by it.

All day they walk and into the night, only to stop for repast and a short rest before they walk on. It is not until the middle of the third day that they walk over one of the hills to see a small village of several cottages below.

(to be continued...)

not too good to be true

Last week, I got an email in which a mother was looking to find a tutor for her daughter. I get a few of these emails every couple months, so that was nothing new. She wanted to know what I charge per hour; ok, fine. Finding my rates acceptable she wants to know how much it costs for three weeks, three times per week, two hours a day; ok, get a calculator, but ok. It's $495 if I have to make the extra driving I say, and to her and to her husband this is acceptable; we have a deal, she says. She wonders if I can help her by taking $1,950 in leftover funds from the previous tutor who had to quit because his wife died and then for me to take the difference $1,455 and send it via money order to the travel agent for her daughters travel expenses to come into the country from the UK. Well, really I just want to be paid for my bit, I say, and I don't want to be involved in your daughter's travel arrangements, I say. Am I missing something? Isn't there an easier way for this to happen? Why are you trusing me with nearly $1,500 to a total stranger that you don't know?

She says her husband and her trust me, "especially with money", and it would be a big favor because of the hassle to transfer the money into dollars or some such thing. Now, generally, I'm a nice guy, a trusting guy. This is strange, though, and I say so.

Of course, the money order she sends me is fake. When I give it to the bank I don't know any better, and I'm glad the bank is kind enough to see me for the sucker that I am (and not be mad for handing them a fake money order). I'm glad that I have enough sense to find out that they are fake before I write the money order to the "travel agent". I'm sorry that I let it get to this point, but I have to ask: where did I go wrong?

I realize that I've actually heard of this scam before, in NYC. My dad had a fax machine and he would get a one page fax that said, "I'm coming to America from my home in Kenya and I need someone to write a local check to the travel agent. I'm sending you $2,000 and I need you to write a check for $1,400 to the agent and you can keep the extra $600 for your trouble."

Obvioulsy a scam. Later, recently, I find out that a friend of a friend was taken for $2k when she did the same thing for someone who was going to sublet her lease for six months and needed the money for travel expenses. The cleverness of this new twist is of course that the victim really does need someone to cover $4,000 of rent that she is leaving town and she WANTS to find someone to sublet the apartment. She wants it so bad that she believes the scam artist to be true when he sends $5,200 and says he needs the other $1,200 sent to a third party, or even more clever when she gets the $4,000 and a last email saying that the person had an emergency and needs $800 back (out of the $4,000) and that she'll get paid the other $800 later if that is ok.

What I think is important is the artistry of the "crime". The fact that the line between the totally reasonable need for a tutor and the obvious scam is blurred with such finesse. This scam artist even gives a local adress and it seems that you are not getting $500 for free, but in exchange for a service. I think of myself as intelligent, even recently, and I think that this event has been heavily on my mind, hence the need to blog about it. The fact that it was as close as it was creates a lot of discord in my understanding of things. I'm freaking out when people call and when I get an email like, "is your name REALLY john?". I'm trying to realize what has happened so that I can be better prepared for it; I'm trying to assimilate this new, poignant information into my greater understanding of the world. Being nearly the victim and certainly the intended one has tarnished my otherwise "everyone in the world is inherently good" attitude. Which, of course, sucks. I really don't want to be the guy who, after getting the 'can you tutor my daughter' email, is like: I'll need two social security numbers, a certified letter of intent, and your mother's maiden name. Hopefully, in the next couple days I'm sure I can find some kind of balance between my earlier trusfulness and recent suspiciousness.

It used to be that "if it is too good to be true, then it probably isn't". I guess what the new saying is is that: it no longer has to be too good to be true. Just watch out, everyone. Stay alert and keep yourselves safe. Let your conciousness be full of order and your discord come in manageable amounts. Love you all,

zero recall

i had a thought

it lasted for a moment

then it was gone

it changed the way i look at things, but

i'm not sure what change was made.

it's kind of like not remembering what it was like

to not know how to read

when you are a kid

this happens all the time, and you wouldn't even know it.

i mean how many times does a kid radically change his veiwpoint of the world

like on a daily basis

and when they are older, do they remember it?

the point, as if i had one, is this: think all the time,

think about lots of things, and figure a lot of stuff out,

and don't worry to write it down, or to feel bad

when you can't remember your good ideas. the point

it's not whether you recall, but just that you have stretched your mind.

"a mind once stretched never returns to it's original dimensions," I think the guy from Star Trek said that, but I'm not really sure.

new entry

now I think of what to write

I write to annihilate the blight

inside my head

can't go to bed

until the night awakes my fright

until the dawn

ill slumber on

without dreams a dreamer is done

forget the sound

above the ground

the birds song sung is first light come

today again

my dreams begun

alone at last in company run

to pass the course

the rest remorse

never choosing that choice

was the first right one

too many plates in front of me

never had enough to eat

but lately find

my mind and body

could not eat to satisfy its longing

not hunger nor fear

but contemplations near

the one course which ive fought before is clear

but from now on

there is only one

my life is not my life to run

the end in sight

I think I might

wish to sleep in peace tonight

the aftermath

"clear! make way, coming through!"

Jake, covered in blood, both his own and otherwise, came crashing through the double doors of the medical part of the facility. Covered in dirt, guts, blood, he looked terrible from the neck down. Ironically, he was grinning from ear to ear like a cheshire cat.

"unbelievable!"
"Allright Jake, try not to talk too much or else I'll have to sedate you,"
"Doc, you should have been there, it was..." Jake couldn't even begin to describe what it was.
"Well now, if I would have been there, who would have been here to take care of your mangled leftovers?"

Jake was asleep, probably from loss of blood.

"That's right, Jake, you sleep. When you wake up, you'll be about as good as your going to be,"

"he's going to make it, doc?"

The Doc didn't reply, but his eyes spoke for him.

Upon waking, Jake found himself staring up at ten or so happy faces.

"there he is, good man" it was the Sergent.

"good boy jake, glad to have you with us," said the Captain.

"Doc was right, he woke up right on schedule."

Tell us about the battle, Jake.



The amazing sense of fantastic that Jake had been feeling prior to passing out due to blood loss had been replaced by an overwhelming sense of good fortune and a perma-grin.

"Now, now, don't press him too much, he's been through a lot, give him a minute now."

"Actually," Jake smiled at them, " I feel great."

"That's fine, Jake, really that's fine," Doc was smiling too, "just try not to overdo it right now, okay?"

"Sure, doc. No problem."



All of it was like a crazy awesome dream where you are a super-hero with all these powers and get to bone all these hot blonde porn-stars, but when you wake up, all you have left is the good feeling that's remained, while the details are sketchy at best.


The Doc was the first to speak, "Now, if you can, could you tell everyone what happened at the DOT?"

"Man, what a fight!" Jake sounded like a sports fan that had just watched his favorite team trounce their rivals. He didn't sound at all like the only survivor to the biggest all out battle-royal between good and evil that the New World had ever seen.


"It all started with Techno music, we were so scarred in that little room that we would have probably froze when the call cam in, but then..."

Jakes eyes became distant, his face relaxed, everyone in the room waited intently on his silence. A tear started rolling down his dirt smeared face.

"They're all dead, aren't they." It was not a question.

"You're still here, Jake," the captain couldn't cry, so he was the one to speak.

"We knew there was going to be security, but there wasn't just a force of VM guarding the component, there was a small army, five hundred at least. A whole armored guard of tanks, trucks, motorcycles, fuck. I think they were thinking to just make it so fucking obvious NOT to fuck with them that is why we won."

Everyone knew the outcome, 100 of the facilities warrior class, those with a strong kind of combat skill or other combat qualification, against 500 armored guards both VM and mercenaries. And even against those odds, the machine had been destroyed, the VM force destroyed, scattered to oblivion. It was as if equal parts of matter and anti-matter had come into coexistence, only to obliterate both simultaneously. What nobody could understand was: why?

"The music, it was the music," said Jake, "it made you strong, fast, and brave to the point of idiocy." Over the next few hours, Jake spoke of those that had passed, of their heroic efforts against impossible odds, how one good-heart had taken down a socre of armored trucks by confusing of the tanks with illusions, how the music, blasting through the air out of a combat helicopter speaker system had just as much of a negative effect on the VM force as a positive one on the facility's; How the music caused some of the VM to turn and run, only to be gunned down by their own support troops, and others to freeze in their tracks with their guns pointed with the dangerous end towards the fight.

"It was as if they were so shocked by the fact that we were actually attacking them, and the sheer force of will, the sheer ferocity of teh attack, that they felt that they were fighting on the losing side." Said Jake, as if one statement could ever explain the unexplainable event that had occurred.



That night Jake slept the sleep of the just. The VM scheme to tip the scales had resulted in a cataclysmic event, severely damaging both sides resources and leaving both licking their wounds. But one thing was true, all the momentum was with the facility and their attempt to stifle the Vice Magistrate's efforts to bring the New World down into chaos. Never before had the goal of defeating the VM and instituting a world where equality and justice were the bread and water of the people been so real. Jake never woke up, but he was to be credited as the hero of the Battle of the New World, not for his actions, but because he survived it, giving those left behind the story, the legend that was to become the Legacy of the Just. His job finished, Jake died.

calm before storm

dark. always so fucking dark. ok, stay calm buddy.

no sense getting your head blown off when your acting like a fool. might as well be calm as shit when you get your head blown off. ya. cool as a cucumber. might as well be coll when you get your cucumber blown off. damn fuckers.

Jake, along with the rest of the team that was chosen to fight that night, in his own head only. unaware of his fellow cannon fodder crouched against the walls of the small hallway of the DOT building, about to run out into the night, guns blazing, for what could possibly be the deciding battle of the goodhearted vs. the Vice Magistrate. Even though every single one of the 100 or so soldiers were shit their pants scared, you wouldn't have known it. all you could see on their faces was grim determination like warpaint made of hard lines and fixed eyes. very likely, most of them were going to die in the great conflagration that was going to follow. the prize was to stop what was potentially the most devastating accomplishment of the vice magistrate, the ability to turn regular people into people with powers, evil powers. with the Arcane project on the line, the vice magistrate was about to have an unlimited supply of personnel to throw at the good-hearts efforts. this advantage would be more than enough to ensure the VM victory, to tip the scales.



In an unprecedented turn of good fortune, the facility had come across information that the transportation of the final, necessary component to the arcane project was being planned by the Vice Magistrate. Knowing the importance and vulnerability of such an endeavor, both sides saw this as a pivotal point at which to focus. The vice magistrate had acted accordingly, the facilities source had said, stacking the transport with enough firepower and soldiers to subdue any attack. It was Jakes hope, along with the 100 other good hearts, that they could in fact break the defenses in an all out attack. While some of those at the facility had what could be called "combat abilities": heightened agility or strength, the ability to make ones skin tough, or to set fires (or put them out), Jake was not one of these. Jake had been chosen because he was a cop before the Change. Almost a lifetime ago, he wasn't sure that it would matter. He didn't resent the choice. He was glad to do his part, put in his share. If his share was his life, so be it.


"It's almost time."

Softly at first, like the song of grass and trees in a gentle wind, then louder so that all the fears and hopes and thoughts were drowned out into perfect tonality, the music of Techno began to play.

dream number six

i'm at home, as a child, at my mothers house. i feel disconnected, and i feel something stuck in my teeth. i put my finger to the back of my mouth and discover that my back molar has become a thumbnail. when i pull out the thumbnail, i can feel a hole where the tooth used to be. now in my hand is this big, crescent shaped, nail clipping. i run to the nearest person in the house...

"look, look"

but they don't seem to see me. i yell, "everyone look!" i get a response, but they are just confused, as if they can hear me but not see me.

i start to spit like you are trying to get a hair out of your mouth...

"pfft, pssft, ppsstppstff"

out of my mouth start spraying thumbnails and fingernail clippings, like my teeth are disintegrating into shards. this continues until i have a fistful of fingernail shreds...

jump to...

i'm in the army, i have a black partner. we are special ops who are some bad ass mother-fuq-ers. we are headed to a new assignment where we are going to be stationed in a important city after civilization has destroyed itself. disease and nuclear bombs and starvation are all about in equal numbers in this new world. we arrive at the barracks...

as we walk in the door, immediately we have a sense of not belonging. all the soldiers in the barracks room walk to their bunks and turn their backs on the door we just walked in. we are being ignored. a small woman walks up to us to interview us on if we are supposed to be there, either me or my partner pushes her away...

"i'm not getting interviewed by you!"

she is too small and insignificant. instead, two bodies approach, they are wrapped in kind of a red leather, they are the newest recruits before us. this must be some kind of initiation. we will not be so intimidated and let ourselves be taken advantage of. let them try to do that shist to us. we find the empty bunk and swing in like the pros we are,

we put the blankets entirely over our body, as do the rest of the soldiers in the bunker. the image of 100 sleeping soldiers covered entirely by blankets so that only their shape is seen. as the camera pans towards a single soldier, the imagery is of the blanket rising so that the shape of the soldier is lost, first near the base, then only the head is discernible, then only the face....then as the blanket lifts, the details of the face are erased until a blanket of nothingness is all we see.

that night,

we wake up to a fight, two of the leading soldiers are fighting us. my partner fights first. he wins and then i fight, the one i fight has a bomb, i throw the bomb out the window, then i decapitate the one i fight, i throw his head out the mail slot by the window (it fits?!) and then it follows the bomb, since i was outside already (?) i fork through the mailslot (this means to me in my dream that feet first i enter through the mail slot, then i kind of limbo my torso through the slot and come out on my feet)...

when the bomb goes off, it was a nuke, everything is decimated. the bunker, the people, the base, and oh crap, my mom's pleasure cruiser is out on the water, she was coming in to visit me, but the blast from the nuke destroyed the cruiser, now it is just a flaming wreckage. i sit on the beach, too soldier to cry, sitting behind a tin-can dumpster just watching through a pinhole the cruiser burn. i get up....

a street urchin girl is near the street as i get up and start to walk back towards the base; her friend screems and points at a beer bottle that has become alive and is running at the first girl. the girl tries to get away through a door of a building that has been blown off it's hinges, but the bottle gets close to her and then goes off like a firecracker. the girl is dead even though the blast shouldn't have hurt anyone, it wasn't a big blast, maybe the glass got her...

i walk with my partner through the wreckage of the base...

"hey, when we find our C.O., i'm gonna have to ask for time to go help with my mom...this blast was bad for everyone, but he's not gonna like that..."

"actually, my mom got blown up, so i guess there is nothing really for me to go back to"

DREAM ENDS

puzzle

when you start out,

you are at home. it is tuesday.

you start walking on a tuesday at 12:00 noon, easterly, at a constant speed. thirty minutes later, after circumnavigating the globe (you walk really fast), you return. as you traveled, you kept asking people what day it was.

tuesday.

that was the reply for a while. but then, when it was near midnight by wherever you were walking (like tokyo), they started to reply

wednesday.

as you kept walking, you keep asking people what day it is.

what day is it when you get back home?

that thing about time

"So, tell me the thing about going around the world again, Teacher."

"So if you travel around the world, leaving Monday at noon, traveling so as to offset the motion of the earth, and take 24 hours to traverse the circumference, then the time that you arrive is one day later, Tuesday at noon. As you traveled, every hour from the time you left you would ask somebody,

'hey, what time is it?'

'Noon,' would always be the reply."

"But, then what day would it be for the people you ask?"

-----

It's 10PM where you live. you pick up the phone and call your friend Sara in seattle. It's 7PM there. They are in the same day as you, but London, at 2AM is in the morning, is already tomorrow.

Half way around the world, it's 10AM, what day is it?

It's tomorrow.

------

you pick up a phone. anyone you call upon answering states the current time.

you dial the first number, "10PM, yesterday", it was your friend Sara again, in Seattle, it's 2AM for you on a Tuesday morning, but for Sara it's still Monday night.

You call NY, "2AM today" answers.

at 11 AM you can call yesterday, but at 1PM you can call tomorrow.

---

if you still don't believe me, check out this link i found when i wiki'ed International Date Line

International Dateline Wikipedia

P.S. The 3rd paragraph is legendary!

A Light in the Dark

The facility was quiet, darkened. Techno's music wafted through the air like an ambianic smoke machine had been left on. The whole place had the feel of a sleeping giant of some sleeping army after a day of marching. That is, all except for one office where the lights were still hot, and the music was off. The Captain and Jake were pressing Clyde Armstrong for questions. By the looks of their faces, they were not getting the answers they wanted.

"So when was project Arcane put on the table, then?" The captain was pressing hard and starting to sweat under the lights. Clyde had a look of purpose, albeit an evil one, that was completely absent back in the alley, noted Jake. Clyde took his time to respond.

"Well, your guess is as good as mine, Cap'n," he almost smiled the last word.

"You mean they hadn't started the project before you had left?"

"Well," Clyde sat back and looked at the corners of the room, "I didn't really leave, or at least not as much as they threw me out."

Captain Harcourt and Jake exchanged glances.

"You mean they forced you to leave?"
"Well," Clyde said, pointing at his neck, "you don't suppose I gave myself this scar, do you?"

"Dammit Clyde!" The Captain pounded the table, hard enough that the few heads outside on the main floor of the Facility looked up from that nights work.

"Captain, I think I could use a break," the speaker was a tall, pale androgynous male whose sense of peace and serenity more than was plain on the his face, it actually filled the corner he was standing in.

"Ha! If I'm getting you down then maybe the scales aren't so perfectly balanced after all," Clyde emphasized this with a table slap and a sneer of false joy.

"Come on Cap, I could use a break too," said Jake as he went over to the Captain.

"We've been at this for hours and we hardly know more than when we started. Maybe we shouldn't have put so many of our resources to finding this ... shithead."

"Well Cap, we didn't know that he had been forcibly removed from the Magistrate, so that's a leak we could work on."

"But, ... oh I guess."

"Please remember, spoke the androgynous one, "as a three, we have a significant advantage in the questioning, indeed. It is only by allowing him to influence your minds does he succeed in evading your intentions."

The statement almost, but not quite, set off the two big men. What stopped it was the calm that was spreading over them as Andy spoke. Mixed with the warmth and music of the Facility, the words had power of a sort. By the time they had stood and heard the words, they felt that the criticism had awoken them from a dark sleep. Calmly, they went back to the room where it appears that Clyde is laughing.

"Clyde, I want you to listen to me," said Jake. The laughing stopped.

"We want you to help us, and there is no way that we can force you to, but we're going to try anyway because according to all of our information, you're our best bet and figuring what's going on in the Vice Magistrate.

"We can't really offer you anything that you would usually want for helping us, but we can get you off the street and into some clean clothes, get you a shower and try to help you if that's what you want."
Fuck you. That's what Clyde wanted to say, he was too afraid to start crying, so he didn't. Jake saw that look again, the one from the alley. But under the hopelessness, just maybe...

"Now, we know that project Arcane has something to do with converting Naturals, is that right?"

A tear, golden sparking in the hot lights, snuck out of Clyde's left eye and started it's decent. Clyde nodded, but he couldn't understand why.

"We think is was started by someone outside of the Eight, maybe one of the Lieutenants, is that right?"
"It was Victor."
"Victor?" The Captain asked, Jake shot him a glance: don't break the spell the glance said. Clyde didn't notice, he was about to go off like a geyser.

"Yes, Victor Goodbane, he's the one who discovered the theory behind the project's research."

"When you were thrown out they beat you and gave you that scar."

"Yes," the tears were really flowing now.

"Why did they kick you out?"

"I told them it was rubbish, that it would never work, that converting Naturals had to be done with their consent, usually indirectly but that it couldn't be done with their will being bent against it," Jake and the Captain, until just now, had thought the same thing. It was common knowledge until that point, that despair either by self-abasement or other's wrongdoing could lead to that downward spiral which led Naturals to convert.

"But what Victor was suggesting was different, completely physical, a response to a stimulus that produced the emotional destitution required to damage a soul beyond repair. In a sense, nothing else was required than the treatment he was suggesting."
"What treatment?"
"The premise of Victor's idea was simple: Pain."

It had been a goodnight, thought Jake on his way home through the streets. They had accomplished with Clyde more than they could have hoped. It was Andy's intuition and Jake's insight, formed from years of dealing with hopeless people in the city, that had finally cracked the code. Even the Captain's sincerity and determination were a necessary part of the recipe for that evening's success. On the other hand, the news that they had received from Clyde wasn't really to be classified as 'good news'. The Vice Magistrate was working on some kind of treatment meant to convert Naturals to the side of despair. Project Arcane was real, not just some gossip on the street. It was real and it was coming for them, all of them. But now, with the Day shift starting, Jake was headed home for some R&R for the first time in weeks. They would fulfill their promise to Clyde. They would try to help him deal with his demons. Even more, he needed it now. Old scars are harder to heal than new ones, the Doc would say.

In the increasing light of dawn, walking down the dark streets of the city which was the center of this New World, but was equally about to come apart at the seems, Jake walked with his head high and purpose in his step. Just like the light of a new day, thought Jake, there is a hope.