B

Those Damned Boys (to be continued)

There was only one house in St. Juiet, Tennessee where you could find people outside barbecuing in the start of winter, without their shirts on. This was at the Goodwill brothers’ house. All six brothers stood outside, goose bumps dotting their skin, with beers in their hand, except for the oldest. He drank whiskey. From oldest to youngest, their names were: Daniel, Adam, Matthew, Nathan, Ethan, and David.
Phoebe Goodwill was washing the dishes sixteen days after David’s second birthday when she realized her error, as if she had pricked her forefinger on the point of a knife. Two days later, at a neighbor’s dinner party she found out that the town referred to her six kids as the “damned boys” instead of the “Goodwill boys”.
Since birth, they’ve been inseparable. From youngest to oldest there was a ten year difference, but this mattered none to all of them. At 18, David moved out of the home he had grown up in to live with his brothers. And that winter, there they stood, 19, 21, 23, 24, 28, 29, craving burgers and hot dogs, Matthew manning the grill.
“All right, Boys. Let’s try’n be civilized tonight and set the table instead of eatin’ in front of the TV again. Matt, holler when you need a hand,” Adam said after giving the proper laughter to one of Daniel’s stories.
“Thought I was the older brother?” Daniel asked, taking a sip from his whiskey.
“Yeah right. We all always knew Adam was the leader of this pack,” answered David, earning himself a shove as they all laughed, making their way in the house. Nathan stayed behind.
“I’ll wait out here with Matt, bring in the food when it’s ready. Shouldn’t be long, should it?” he said
“Nah. You can wait,” Matthew answered.
“All right, then. See you guys inside,” Daniel said.
Nathan walked up next to Matt, staring down at the sizzling burgers as he took a long swig from his beer.
“What’s up Nate?” Matthew asked.
“Nothin’.”
“Nothin’ my ass. You’ve been quiet all day.”
“Just a bit cold.”
“All right. I’ll leave it.”
Nathan took a look around the small yard. He noticed the house was too small for six guys to be living in, but it was exactly how they wanted it. The fact that there was no privacy was never an issue for him, and it was never an issue for any of the brothers. Hearing Matthew whoop brought his attention back to the present.
“Wendy Adams! Back from the dead. How you doin’, Girl? Haven’t seen you around here for a month now,” Matthew yelled, laughing at his own comment.
“I’m doin’ fine. Been busy and all, you know how it is. Where’s your brother?”
“Oh, so y’all are still together? I wasn’t sure with your extended absence. He’s inside settin’ the table with the other guys.”
“All right.”
“You want somethin’ to eat? I could throw another dog or burger on.”
“Nah, I’m fine.”
“All right, then.”
“I’ll see you inside. Hey Nathan.”
“Hi,” Nathan answered. Wendy went inside.
“Fuck. Who invited her here?” Nathan asked, feeling more cold than before, bouncing up and down to get warm.
“What do you mean? She’s always invited. She’s Daniel’s girlfriend.”
“Yeah, but…she hasn’t been here in a while.”
“So?”
“I don’t know…just seems wrong.”
“I don’t know what you’re gettin’ at Nathan.
“I don’t know either.”
“All right. I’m gonna head inside and get some barbacue sauce to put on these burgers right quick. Be right back.”
Matthew headed inside, leaving Nathan bouncing and staring at the burgers. He took another long swig from his beer as Wendy came back outside.

StrikeSlip (To be Continued)

Julius walked down the deserted main road of his quaint town with his hood up, as if there were people he had to hide his face from. His eyes moved along the fluorescent signs advertising cheap beer, cheap food, lottery tickets. He then moved down to the innards of these stores, the white lights white washing empty isles. His eyes then moved down to the pavement that moved below his feet, taking in every crack, and in his mind, each and every crack became the roots to a tree, and he’d follow the longest one until it tapered off, before picking up on another root. These roots in the pavement lead him to the only place where he’d find another human body.

He walked through the revolving doors of StrikeSlip. He saw all the blue doors were closed, except two.

“Took you long enough,” a young man said behind the counter, “I’ve been waiting all day for you.”

“Sorry. I had things to work out,” Julius answered.

“Like what? There’s no one out there.”

“People still have bills to pay.”

“That’ll change soon enough.”

Julius took another look down the long corridor, where behind every door he knew there were bodies after bodies reduced to the slip state. He thought back to when the drug was first introduced. He thought about the slogan: Escape. It was all looked down upon. It was served at less than reputable bars in a glass, mixed with gin. Usually taken by the divorced, the dying, and those who had recently lost someone to death. It was for those who couldn’t cope. Who couldn’t move on. Couldn’t look forward. But it spread like a virus until the seedy bars serving StrikeSlip in a glass with gin all uniformly changed their names to StrikeSlip, and made it available to consume intravenously. Now they looked more like celebrity pharmacies than seedy bars with sweat you could wipe from the bar. And towns were deserted. Cities were deserted. The only people who were still conscious were a collection of scientists and doctors. The ones who manufactured StrikeSlip.

“Regular dose?” the young man asked.

“No. Double it. End of the month. I wanna be out for a while.”

“Guess those bills got the better of you.”

“Yup.”

The young man took out a vile with a pink liquid inside. He put a sterilized needle into the vile, and drew out the pink liquid to about half of the needles capacity.

“Enjoy your escape.”

“Yeah.”

Julius walked down the long corridor to the very end, going into the last room and closing the door behind him. He layed down on the cot provided and stared at the pink liquid before he put the needle to his forearm. He injected the liquid into him and closed his eyes, laying on his back, arms at his side. He felt the familiar thin vibration in his bones as the drug struck his core. In slow motion, the humming of the lights in the room began to fade away. In the middle of the back of his eye lids, he could see a white dot that grew in time with the fading sound, until, finally, he heard nothing at the same time as he saw nothing but white. Then he felt nothing at all, slipping into his escape.

Moon Child

Moon Child

I reverberate in an empty room,
no audience to hear my melody,
no one to love my harmony with lonliness.

I fill my glass with reflections of the
Moon.
I sip slowly,
savoring the cleansing
of my tar filled veins.

The trees become jealous of this orphan,
they once soaked in her light.

Now she saves it for me.

Night

I, like many a human before me, am fascinated by the night.

I don't know why, but I'm easily transfixed by a clear night sky.


I was thinking about this love for the night when I came upon a great poem, which then reminded me of a great song. It's a pretty popular poem, but for me it was like going through a chest in the attic and being gratified by sudden elation which is then suddenly washed away by the ever stronger current that is melancholy. I hope you enjoy it, be it your first or fifth reading:


Do Not Go Gently Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieve it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And for the song, it's something I would listen to on drives home in the fall or winter at night, maybe after dropping friends off at home and I was alone in the car.

It also reminds me of one time during a drive down to the beach at night, I was with my friends Justin and Jordan, and the song came on. It was one of those moments where you felt you were looking into the rest of your life, and you think about each and every passing second as hard as you can so as not to let go of it and in doing so, you burn that seven minutes into your memory.

Here that is:

Sorry Ted

I have a confession to make.


I've hated Ted Hughes for the longest time. Since Freshman year of High School at least. Ever since I found out what he did to Sylvia Plath.

To me, Sylvia Plath was one of the most beautiful people in the world. I'll even admit...

...I had a crush on her.

How could someone hurt so badly someone so beautiful?
Every time I think about the pain she must have gone through (she wrote a sequel to the Bell Jar for Ted's birthday, and then burned it when she found out about his affair. The pain she must have felt to have burned over 200 pages of her life...) because of him bile raises to tickle the back of my throat.

I know this is all pretty harsh and probably really annoying to read through. But there's a point. I'll start speaking in short sentences:

Ted's a poet. I refused to read his poetry. I happened upon one of his poems. It was this one:

Lovesong by Ted Hughes

He loved her and she loved him
His kisses sucked out her whole past and future or tried to
He had no other appetite
She bit him she gnawed him she sucked
She wanted him complete inside her
Safe and Sure forever and ever
Their little cries fluttered into the curtains

Her eyes wanted nothing to get away
Her looks nailed down his hands his wrists his elbows
He gripped her hard so that life
Should not drag her from that moment
He wanted all future to cease
He wanted to topple with his arms round her
Or everlasting or whatever there was
Her embrace was an immense press
To print him into her bones
His smiles were the garrets of a fairy place
Where the real world would never come
Her smiles were spider bites
So he would lie still till she felt hungry
His word were occupying armies
Her laughs were an assasin's attempts
His looks were bullets daggers of revenge
Her glances were ghosts in the corner with horrible secrets
His whispers were whips and jackboots
Her kisses were lawyers steadily writing
His caresses were the last hooks of a castaway
Her love-tricks were the grinding of locks
And their deep cries crawled over the floors
Like an animal dragging a great trap
His promises were the surgeon's gag
Her promises took the top off his skull
She would get a brooch made of it
His vows pulled out all her sinews
He showed her how to make a love-knot
At the back of her secret drawer
Their screams stuck in the wall
Their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves
Of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop

In their entwined sleep they exchanged arms and legs
In their dreams their brains took each other hostage

In the morning they wore each other's face



...After reading this...a hot feeling came over my face. I was really embarrassed for hating a man who wrote such beautiful words.


Sorry, Ted.

Gray Street

Kind of long...but I hope it's worth it.



Thomas Mueller stood outside under the green , tarp like overhang of the entrance to his hotel in a peacoat, with an umbrella in hand. It was raining, and the big city looked gray. He noticed this as he was about to step through the curtain of rain to his meeting. He noticed that the rain had a way of sucking the color out of buildings, cars, even trees and people. Even the green overhang above him was now gray.
This observation had stopped him from going to his meeting momentarily. Then, as he was about to continue, a man named Bill, holding a newspaper above his head, ran under the overhang and smiled at Thomas.
“Nice day, huh?” Bill said to Thomas.
“No. It’s raining. And everything looks gray.”
Bill took a quick look around before he shook his head, “No it doesn’t. It all looks-“
At that moment, a man sprinting down the street in jeans and a T-shirt slammed into Bill’s shoulder, knocking him almost completely off balance. Thomas reached out with his free hand and grabbed Bill before he could fall.
“Are you OK?” Thomas asked.
“Yeah. Fine. Don’t worry about it.”
“What’s your name?”
“Bill. And yours?”
“Thomas. Are you staying here at this hotel, Bill?”
“Yes. I just got back from the park.”
“In the rain?”
“What is it that you have against the rain?”
“Nothing. It’s just…why not go when the sun’s out, in a T-shirt, get an ice cream…”
“That guy was in a T-shirt. You let the rain dictate what you wear?”
“That guy was an ass hole.”
“Or in a rush.”
“I don’t know.”
“All about perspective.”
“I suppose. Listen, Bill, I’m actually on my way to a meeting. When I get back, maybe we can continue this conversation. What’s your room number?”
“346.”
“OK. Maybe I’ll ring up to you.”
“See you then.”
Thomas wasn’t sure if he’d actually ring up or if he used that moment as a way to get out of the conversation with the man he just met. What he did know was that he would probably be late to his meeting.


Mark crumpled up the paper and tossed it over his shoulder. This had become a tradition when he was designing buildings. He would sit at his desk for hours and crumple up countless sheets of paper and just throw them behind him and his apartment floor would be littered with balls of white paper.
Sometimes, if there was part of a design that he liked for his current failure, he would get up and sift through the curled up pieces of paper until he found the right one. Over time, it became easy to detect which one he needed. Through years of this process, the discarded paper became his companions in rejection and in sympathy, they tried to make his job a little easier by pointing the way to the discarded design he was looking for.
When he was younger, back in college, he had always dreamed of designing famous structures. He knew that his ideas would be used to house celebrities and their cocaine habits, ruthless business men, and just useless people of a higher class in general. His magnificent drawings would be of overpriced hotels, fortune 500 companies’ office buildings, but they would each be a pillar of man’s ambition and dominance over this world.
Today, instead, he was working on a simple Victorian home for a complex of houses of a retirement community. Every house a copy of a copy of a copy. But he was not one to be choosy when he couldn’t afford cable television, internet, or even the morning paper. Becoming an architect was a harder occupation than he had imagined.
He got up and walked less than ten feet to his kitchenette to get another cup of coffee. He needed to keep working if he was to meet his deadline. He put off projects until the last minute every time. Though he knew he needed the money, a part of him hated himself for accepting such useless jobs. He walked to the window which had been incessantly tapped on by the rain. It was begging him to come take a look and finally he succumbed to it. Directly outside his apartment was the hotel which he had first been commissioned to design before the owners decided to go with a more commercial group. He sipped his coffee and looked down at the part of the hotel he hated most: the green overhang. Outside such a place of wealth and high standards (it was five stars) green tarp only served one purpose: To keep people out of the rain. It wasn’t majestic, or breath taking. It was just an extension of the building that had been thrown on last minute for lack of inspiration.
Currently, there were two men under it taking refuge from the rain. One of those two men could have been him, having a conversation as he waited for his limo to pull up for him to get in, so it could take him to a presentation for the next five star hotel. He returned to his desk. To make the few scraps of money he needed to pay his rent, he had to keep his dreaming to a minimum.

“I really think you’re making a mistake here, Bill.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…that green, tarp overhang gets the job done.”
“Yes. It merely gets the job done. This isn’t a two and a half star hotel on some forgotten highway. This is the Milton. Five stars. I don’t want something that gets the job done. I want something to look at. Something nice. Something more than nice. ”
“So you want to hire that guy that lives across the street from the hotel?”
“Yeah.”
“The same guy you said was too much of a dreamer, and all his designs were fantasies before you decided to go with Simmons & Hartley, the most respected architectural firm in America?”
“Yes. Him.”
“What’s gotten into you?”
“Just send him the letter.”

Thomas was speed-walking when he was making his way back to the hotel. It had stopped raining, but the skies were far from clearing up. How could he have known that earlier he was having a conversation with one of the most famous hotel tycoons in the world? The man came across as crazy. Going to the park in the rain wasn’t a thing for someone worth millions, if not billions, of dollars to do. And having fallen out of the public’s eye for unknown reasons, it was easy not to recognize him. But now he knew.
He pushed through the golden revolving doors of the hotel in a hurry and got to the concierge’s desk, where he was greeted by a young man with a smile.
“Can I help you, sir?” the young man asked.
“Yeah. I was wondering if uh…Bill was in?”
“Your name?”
“Thomas Mueller.”
“Do you know the room number?”
“Yeah, 346.”
The concierge picked up the phone and started dialing the digits.

As soon as the meeting was over, Thomas got up from the conference table and walked over to his new client to thank him.
“Mr. Hartley, thank you so much for this opportunity to help your company advertise. I think together we can make Simmons & Hartley the most well known architectural firm in the world.”
“I sure hope so,” At that moment, his phone rang, “Hold on, could you give me one sec?”
“Of course.”
“Hello? Yes, Margaret? Yes, I remember. He decided to what? Can he even do that? That man…he has literally gone off his rocker. Call one of our lawyers; we will go see him first thing in the morning.”
“Everything OK?”
“Bill Milton. The man has gone crazy. He’s going to reconstruct this overhang we put up for The Milton with a new architect. Some loser amateur. This is ridiculous.”
“Ah. That’s actually where I’m staying.”
“Oh yeah? You’ve probably seen that nut case around then. He stays in the hotel. Ever since his wife and kids picked up and left, he went from organized, precise, and meticulous to absolute insanity. He’s lucky the people he hires are under contract not to talk about him with anyone, or else he’d be bankrupt in a month.”
“He stays in the hotel?”
“Yeah. Room 346.”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck this guy. All I want to do is go home, and he comes in right as I’m leaving? I fucking hate working hotels. Concierge at The Milton. Fuck this shit. I’m quitting tomorrow.

“Hello?”
“Mr. Milton, there’s a man here to see you. His name is Thomas Mueller.”
“Ah, yes. Send him up please.”
“Of course.”

When Thomas knocked on the door, Bill answered immediately.
“Come on in, Thomas.”
Thomas stepped into the modestly furnished hotel room and opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it right away, a motion that didn’t go unnoticed.
“What is it?” Bill asked.
“Nothing. I just expected…more,” Thomas responded.
“Ah, yes, I suppose you would. Have a seat.”
They both sat down. Both were silent for a little.
Thomas broke the silence with “Why do you live here?”
Bill smiled, looking Thomas directly in the eyes “This hotel is all I have.”
“Your family left you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you think this conversation is a little personal for someone you just met?”
“Yeah. I guess you’re right…I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK.”
“Simmons & Hartley plans on suing you.”
“You’re just full of good news, huh, Tom?”
“…I’m sorry. But why do you want to reconstruct that overhang? Is it worth getting sued?”
“I’ll just settle with them. And yes, it is worth it. I’d be giving a little known architect a chance. Designing even a small part of a famous hotel can be really amazing for an unknown architect’s career.”
“Why didn’t you give him the job in the first place?”
“I was a different man. I saw things differently.”
“What do you mean?”
Bill looked at Thomas hard. He mulled over the question for a moment, then answered “Well…let’s put it this way…rain is my sunshine now.”

No no no no. Please let her be OK. Please please let her be OK. That was all I could think about as I ran down the street. In a T-shirt and jeans while it rained, the thought of a cold or flu didn’t even enter my mind. All I wanted was to get to where I needed to be.
Be OK. Please be OK, Baby. As I thought it, I shoulder barged into a man standing outside one of the most expensive hotels. The name escaped me. I nearly fell, but regained my balance and kept moving. There was no time for apologies, I was so close.
Be OK baby girl. There was a crowd of people around her as I reached the spot where she was laying. I had to yell to be heard.
“Let me through! Move! I’m her father! Let me through!”
Finally, I reached her, but her body was already lifeless, a pool of blood haloed her head. I dropped to my knees and cradled my baby girl in my arms and rocked her back and forth like she was still four-years-old. For a moment, I thought I felt her move. I thought she would finish college and go on to play first chair violin like she always dreamed. But then I saw the fatal bullet hole. Enter and exit wounds through her temple.
Everything looked gray.

Mark re-entered the apartment. He had left to submit the designs for what he had begun to refer to as Clonesville. On his way back he had picked up the mail and things he needed from the hardware store, which were in a brown paper bag. He glanced through the mail and saw the usual things. Bills, bills, bills, bills, bills. At the back of the pile there was a slightly larger, cream colored envelope. New bills. He dropped the bag and the mail on his kitchen table.
Mark let out a deep, exhausted exhale. He rubbed the inside of his eye for a moment, as he moved to the window, staring out of it, watching people move about living their lives, not aware of the man in the 4th floor window. He wanted just one face to look at him.
After a few minutes, he turned around, giving up on his hope of making eye contact. He walked by the kitchen table, picking up the paper bag and walking into the bathroom.
He took the rope out from the brown bag, tying it around a fixture in the ceiling. Then, he stood on the toilet with the noose around his neck.
His last thought was: It would have been made of marble.




Dear Mr. Mark H. Albright,

You have been commissioned to design the new overhang of the Milton Hotel. Mr. Milton himself would like to have a meeting with you as soon as possible to discuss the new plans. Please call the number 202-346-4808 to set up an appointment. Congratulations on your new position.

Sincerely,
Jason Friedman
Public Relations for the Milton Group

Hey, Bud.

First slam poet I ever listened to. This isn't the poem though. The first poem I heard was "Human the Death Dance"

A Small Update

So I wouldn't call myself a music aficionado by any stretch of the word. I enjoy music like everyone else, but there was definitely a time in my life when I was into it way more than I am now. I think that hit a decline my Freshman year of College, actually. I still love playing guitar...when I'm around one.


But, the true meaning of this post is to maybe introduce you to a band you haven't heard of? But maybe you have at least seen the name on your facebook "advertisements" (in all honesty, that's where I found them).


The band is named fockea crispa, and they aren't bad. I wasn't into at first, but I didn't turn it off immediately. Instead, it became this relaxing background music. I wasn't fully conscious of the fact that it was surrounding me until I went to close the myspace and saw that the song was still playing and was 7 minutes in. The music just seemed as if it belonged in my apartment.


They're Japanese folk meets Ambient. Give it a listen! Click here

Eddas, Sagas, Grapevines, and the like. (Plus "With What I've Got")

I haven't posted in a while, I'm aware. I tried to post the moment after I saw the Northern Lights and wasn't able to because there was an error of sorts.


Oh, I was in Iceland. That's why I saw the Northern Lights.


Were they breath taking? No more than ALL of Iceland. Everything about the place is ... other worldly. Mythical was a word I used to describe it a lot. At times I felt like I was on another planet, and at others I thought I was in Lord of the Rings.

Anyway, I'm not one to talk about trips in person, so I won't do it in my blog post either.

Instead, I will post something I've been tinkering with.


With What I've Got (Unedited Unrevised)


I’m moving on
With
What I’ve got.

What I’ve got
Is
Soon to be,

Soon to be
A
Worn, empty sack.

Worn, empty sack
And
Too small shoes.

Too small shoes
I
Will always wear.

Will always wear
Your
Too small shoes.


I forced myself to write in a form. But due to the fact that I hate constricting myself to forms created by other people, I created my own form. I don't have a name for it.


I don't know how many poets read this, but if you wanna give it a shot, and it's not clear just by reading the poem what the form is, here are the rules:

Rule 1: Every stanza must be 3 lines: three words in line 1, one word in line 2, and three words in line 3.

Rule 2: The first line of every stanza must be the same as the last line of the previous stanza (except, of course, the first stanza)


Ah. One more thing.





On the most basic level, this is adorable.

On another level...how does such a young girl know about abusive boyfriends?

Interviews with...(no, not vampires)

Hideous Men! Interviews with Hideous Men is a fantastic film. It's an entirely too short (running at about 80 minutes) about a woman who interviews various guys and they tell her what they think about...well, mainly women. It attempts to cover all elements of film: Romance, Humor, Heartbreak, Shock...you name it, it's in here. Except maybe action.

But, I bring it up because of the very last interview. It's a monologue by John Krasinski (Jim from the Office) who also directed this movie. It's an eye opener.

I'll post the link, so if you want to watch it, you can. If you don't want to ruin it for yourself so you can watch the whole movie, don't click. But it really is something worth watching. The whole movie is, really. I recommend watching the whole thing from the beginning to end, so that the last interview hits you full force, sending you through a bunch of emotions before this finale.

I'm Loving This

I’m loving this.
Face down on Spring’s fallen leaves.
Luscious and green.
Waiting for the dew to cling to bits of hair.
Waiting for Mother Nature to mistaken me for greenwood scrap.
Haze and humidity thick enough to blanket me.
As morning breaks.

I’m loving this.
Staring up at the atmosphere.
Clear sight of clouds, cut and shaped by mountaintops or faraway skyscrapers.
There’s moments where I’m watching myself breathe,
air crystallized by the cold.
Will my breath ever drop in beads of ice to my chest?
It starts to snow.

Haruki Murakami

I read once that the Japanese writer Haruki Murakami writes like J.D. Salinger. I was immediately intrigued so I bought his book.


He doesn't write anything like J.D. Salinger.


But he does write well.


Enjoy.

How to Be Alone

Start simple. Things you may have previously avoided based on your avoid being alone principals.

Hypocrite

I am a firm believer in the fact that you shouldn't hate anyone or hate anything. I think life's too short to hate.

That being said, I'm a hypocrite.

I HATE when I get out of the shower and realize that I didn't put the towel back on the towel rack and I have to walk through my apartment wet, dripping water EVERYWHERE, to get my towel.


I hate it.

Mamma Genuine

Moleka

Kind of behind in my reading for class, so I shall make this quick.


Professor Matthews has always asked us "What was your favorite nugget?" Usually about a poem, we've read, we'd find our favorite part, a verse, a line, two words, whatever, and read it out loud.

As I was reading Maru for Modern Women Writers, I was beginning to think about how boring this book was. Then I came to this part:

Dikeledi immediately dived into the packet of Marmite sandwhiches, sat on a desk, tilted back her head and quietly threw her thoughts into her own heart. She was thinking: 'Moleka's kisses taste like Marmite sandwiches. Moleka's kisses taste like roast beef with spicy gravy. Moleka's kisses...' And while she dwelt on these earthly things, a very spiritual look of divine happiness appeared on her face. Her companion sitting opposite her, watched this pretty communication in silence.


My nugget.

Last Summer

Last summer was the summer I started to hate my dad. I was seven and I loved him. But now I hate him. It didn’t have anything to do with the fact that it was summer. It didn’t have to do with anything except me and him. And maybe baseball.

I love baseball. Which is mostly why I love summer. Summer league baseball is the best and my brother was the best at summer league baseball. We both love baseball because of my dad. He played in the farm leagues. He was almost in the majors. Now he owns the best restaurant in our town in North Carolina. They make the best hot dogs. Dad and I would always get two hot dogs with everything on them before going to watch my brother play. He was the best.

One time on the way to my brother’s game, I told my dad I wanted to play baseball just like him. He laughed and said “You should play like your brother. He’s better than I was at his age.” I looked out the window and looked at the lights making the field glow as he parked the car and whispered so he couldn’t hear “I wanna play just like Brett.”

Brett took me to baseball games that summer. In the beginning of the summer, early in his summer league season. We would watch the minor league team from our town at all their home games. He would put me on his shoulders so I could see the whole field and maybe catch the ball. He would ignore the people whining behind us. Babies.

When the peanut guy came around, Brett would ask “Brody, do you want peanuts?” if I said no, he knew that I wanted cotton candy. I almost always said no and I would eat my cloud of sugar while on his shoulders, cheering on the team. I loved him.

Sometimes, I wouldn’t be with Brett. I would be with my friends from school at the lake. It would be fun to be at the lake swinging on a rope instead of being at school. And it was allowed because it was summer. After we were tired from swimming we’d lay on towels and rest. I would talk about Brett and how he was going to go pro. They would say it was impossible, that no one from our town has ever gone pro. I told them that at sixteen he already had college scouts looking at him. They didn’t believe me. I told them to come to his games. They were always busy on nights that Brett played.

About half way through the season Brett hit a home run. It wasn’t his first, but it was his most important. It was the bottom of the twelfth; game tied at 2-2 nobody on base, zero balls, two strikes, two outs. Brett hit it right out of the park. Way over the fence. The pitcher hung his head while Brett rounded the bases. There was a lot of yellow and black around the plate as his team waited for him. It looked like a bunch of bumble bees.

On the drive home, we stopped at dad’s restaurant. Dad bought everyone in the restaurant a hot dog to celebrate Brett’s home run. I had something else to tell my friends about.

I remember we sat in the drive way talking about the game. Dad said it was too bad that there were no scouts at that game. Brett said, “It didn’t even matter. When I was standing at the plate, I could see the fire flies flashing on and off beyond the fence. Like they were cameras from fans. I heard cheering in my head. I gripped the bat tighter and all I could think was ‘this is for you.’ And I thought about you, Dad. And you, Brody.” It made my heart hurt.

A week later, Brett took me out to get ice cream. He got plain vanilla. I wanted to get what he got, but vanilla wasn’t enough. I added chocolate sprinkles. We sat at the wooden tables outside. It wasn’t humid anymore because it was almost night.

I watched Brett eat his ice cream for a little then said “Brett, I wanna play just like you.”

He smiled and said “These are pretty big shoes to fill, Brody.”

“I’ll fill ‘em.”

“You think so?”

“Yup.”

Brett smiled and said, “I hope so.” I smiled back.

More and more scouts came to Brett’s games as the season went on. Brett’s team was going to be in the State Summer League play offs. Dad told him all the time not to get stressed out. Brett promised he wouldn’t.

Me and my friends had spent an entire day at the lake. The sun was behind the trees but we could still see bits of light, cut up by the leaves.

One of my friends said “I saw your brother in the paper.”

“Yeah. My dad saves all the clippings.”

“The papers say he’ll be better than your dad if he keeps playing the way he’s playing.”

“Yeah. My dad says that too.”

“Can I come watch him play?”

“You want to?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure.”

We decided they’d come to the first playoff game.

The night of the game, dad caught Brett on the phone with our mom. He made me go into the other room, but they ended up yelling so I could hear everything.

“It isn’t any of your business, Dad!

“Of course it’s my business! She’s my wife!”

“Ex-wife.”

“What did you say?”

“I said she’s your ex-wife. Ex.”

I heard dad slap Brett across the face.

“Never again, Brett. You will never talk to me that way again. And don’t you ever call that whore again.”

“Fuck you.”

There was a lot more hitting.

Brett didn’t go to the game that night.

The next day at practice Brett told his coach that he had fallen down the steps and had to go to the hospital because he got knocked unconscious. The coach told him to take the day off and go and rest. Brett took me to the lake instead, but he didn’t speak to me at first. It had been a long time since Brett spoke to me. We sat at the lake without going in the water. Brett stared at nothing; I stared at his swollen lip and black eye, then at nothing with him. I listened to the early crickets. They were quiet. Kind of like they were respecting Brett’s thoughts. Finally, Brett spoke.

“Hey Brody. Promise me something.”

“What?”

“Promise me you’ll love Dad no matter what.”

I didn’t say anything. I was angry with Dad for what I knew he did to Brett.

“Brody.”

“What?”

“Promise me.”

“No.”

“Brody…”

“He hit you.”

“I know…But he just wasn’t thinking.”

“Why’d he call mom a horse?”

This made Brett laugh a little, I don’t know why.

“Because she did something to upset him. Because she left us. But don’t you ever call a girl a horse. OK?”

“OK.”

“And promise me you’ll love him no matter what.”

“Fine.”

Brett smiled at me.

“Don’t smile,” I said.

“Why not?”

“You look weird with a fat lip.”

He laughed and threw me in the water. That wasn’t why I hated him.

Brett’s team made it to the semi-finals while he was getting better. They went to the 13^th inning with the team they played in the quarter finals and everyone knew if they wanted to win the semis, they needed Brett. The coach told Brett he should only play if he wasn’t in any pain and felt he could. Brett said he was ready.

The night of the game, Dad apologized to Brett. I listened from the living room while they talked in the kitchen.

“Are you apologizing because you mean it or are you apologizing because you don’t want me to screw up?”

“Both.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Brett…I really am sorry.”

“Ok, Dad. Let’s just go, we’ll be late.”

“OK.”

They played in the stadium where the local minor league team plays. There were stands and everything. They played under the lights. Everyone from our town and everyone from the other team’s town were there. There were also a lot of scouts, all for Brett. It was loud as people started chanting. When the game started, I lifted my arms to be put on Dad’s shoulders. He didn’t notice. I watched the game standing on my seat. It was close.

In the top of the 6^th, the other team scored two runs. The pitcher was good and everyone had lost hope. In the bottom of the 9^th, with a man on second, and two strikes, Brett hit a home run. It was like he knew the pitcher would give him a fast ball right down the middle. The game went into extra innings.

Both teams put on relieve pitchers in the 11^th. At the top of the 13^th, a player on the other team hit a home run. Nobody knew who he was, and nobody cared, because Brett would bat third when his team was up. The first kid got out, but the second kid hit a double. Everyone was cheering. Even Dad was going crazy. Brett would put them in the lead. The catcher ran to the pitcher with the coach, and everyone in the stands started booing. The pitcher was shaking his head, and when the catcher went back, he got into position instead of standing off to the left. Everyone was cheering. The pitcher threw two balls. The third everyone thought was a home run. But it went foul. And so did the fourth. Just before the pitcher pitched, Brett stepped off the plate, giving the bat a few practice swings. He looked right at Dad. Finally, he stepped up to the plate. He swung with everything he had at a horrible pitch. His stance was all wrong and so was his follow through. He was out. The other fans started cheering. The next kid at bat popped out. The other team ran out and lifted the pitcher on their shoulders. He had struck out the best hitter in the State. And they won. Our side was silent.

On the drive home, the car was quiet for a while. Then Dad spoke.

“How did you misread that, Brett?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? You read one of the best pitchers in North Carolina’s fast ball but couldn’t read a relieve pitchers’ ball? It was textbook. He was obviously going to throw a ball.”

“I guess I’m just not as good as people thought.”

“Yeah. That’s definitely what those scouts think.”

Brett whispered “Good.”

While driving, Dad started hitting him. He was swerving the car.

“Good? You swung on purpose didn’t you?” Dad yelled while he was hitting Brett. Dad knew he swung on purpose. So did I.

Lights flashed in the car just before the other car hit the passenger seat.

Brett didn’t make it.

Free...Hugs?

Again, I haven't posted in a while, I seem to lose my thoughts and don't ever really know what to write. But last night helped me figure it out.


Last night, I hugged quite a few people. People I knew and people I didn't know. It might not have been quite a few. It might have been an average amount of people exaggerated in my mind's eye for one reason or another.

But, as I was getting and giving all these hugs, two things happened at the same time which leads me to believe my heart had a thought.

At the same instant that I felt this comfortable pressure inside my rib cage, the words "why don't people give more hugs?" flashed through my consciousness.

It's an oddity. Hugs feel so good. It's something about the act of wrapping your arms around another human being and their willingness to accept this by wrapping their arms around you that sends a calming happiness through someone. Maybe it's the feeling of protecting while feeling protected. I don't know. But such an act can bring such warming results yet it's reserved for friends and family. This needs to change, I think.


These guys have the right idea. =)

Graphic Poetry

Poetry of tomorrow? Maybe. Check it out.

It's been a while...

Pablo Neruda Me Gustas Cuando Callas Me gustas cuando callas porque estas como ausente, y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te toca. Parece que los ojos se te hubieran volado y parece que un beso te cerrara la boca. Como todas las cosas estan llenas de mi alma emerges de las cosas, llena del alma mia. Mariposa de sueno, te pareces a mi alma, y te pareces a la palabra melancolia. Me gustas cuando callas y estas como distante. Y estas como quejandote, mariposa en arrullo. Y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te alcanza: dejame que me calle con el silencio tuyo. Dejame que te hable tambien con tu silencio claro como una lampara, simple como un anillo. Eres como la noche, callada y constelada. Tu silencio es de estrella, tan lejano y sencillo. Me gustas cuando callas porque estas como ausente. Distante y dolorosa como si hubieras muerto. Una palabra entonces, una sonrisa bastan. Y estoy alegre, alegre de que no sea cierto. I Like You When You Are Quiet I like you when you are quiet because it is as though you are absent, and you hear me from far away, and my voice does not touch you. It looks as though your eyes had flown away and it looks as if a kiss had sealed your mouth. Like all things are full of my soul You emerge from the things, full of my soul. Dream butterfly, you look like my soul, and you look like a melancoly word. I like you when you are quiet and it is as though you are distant. It is as though you are complaining, butterfly in lullaby. And you hear me from far away, and my voice does not reach you: let me fall quiet with your own silence. Let me also speak to you with your silence Clear like a lamp, simple like a ring. You are like the night, quiet and constellated. Your silence is of a star, so far away and solitary. I like you when you are quiet because it is as though you are absent. Distant and painful as if you had died. A word then, a smile is enough. And I am happy, happy that it is not true.

Hey Darlin'

The temperature outside was begging for brown leaves to be littering the streets and trees to be baring their skin. But for now, the portrait would remain an illusion of summer. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his brown bomber jacket and walked leisurely along the sidewalk to his near by destination.
Thomas could see his breath forming in wisps of smoke before his breath and recalled younger days, when he and friends past would form a narrow "V" with their pointer finger and middle finger, pressing the illusory cigarette to their lips, then blowing out the nicotine air. In days not so far gone, the angelic, thin air morphed into thick, smoke screens, and the space between his finger tips was replaced by Reds. Now, he had gotten over the habit and didn't even pretend to look cool.
He was tugged from this day dream by the ringing of a cow bell. He had reached the school just in time. He looked at his watch as he stood outside the gates and realized it took him fifteen minutes longer than usual to get there. He looked back and wondered if he took a different route. He wondered how he got there at all. It's times like these I wonder if a child in my custody is the best idea.
"Dad!" he heard his daughter cry out as she ran towards him, looking like a pink marshmellow as she ran towards him in her puffy jacket.

Free Write, all right?

Thomas stared at the sheet of paper that was on his podium. The little strands and worms of eraser once again littering the blank, white sheet as he erased that one starting line. What would it take to start? The design for the building had to be finished by the next morning and he didn't even have an idea.
Hello. My name is Thomas Moore. I'm an architect. It sounded better than it felt. He looked up, outside the window as he picked up his mug of beige colored coffee (it was more milk than the black shit itself) and took a sip, squinting a bit as he did so. His eyes wandered across the street, past the home of his across-the-street neighbor and into the green behind it. He saw a long neck flicker up from the ground, and two eyes stare past him. They never look at you, do they? In a flash, the doe had scampered off to be devoured by the green forest.
Thomas glanced at the clock. 3:32. I'll be early if I leave now. His eyes moved back to the paper, as if he expected it to make an attempt to stop him. He shrugged, grabbing his jacket of f the coat rack and making his way out the front door.

Food Blogs!

Hey...

I really love food. Mostly, I love preparing different kinds of foods. I love cooking and baking. Most times I cook and bake to give it to other people, more so than eat it myself.

I just wanted to share this other blog, called Food Wishes with you. It's a video blog and this guy, Chef John, gives the step by step to preparing different kinds of food. It's well organized and all. I made my room mates banana nut bread from his page and they loved it. I'm always excited to try his recipes and never get around to it...but I'm sure some of you might actually have the time and would love to try it too!

Keys

Many men prior to Elliot held Adelaide in a similar fashion. She laying a top the said man, facing the ceiling, one of his arms around her, palm resting on her abdomen. Albeit, sometimes she was staring at stars, the roof of a car, and in one particular case, the inside of a cardboard box; she was young ten.
For that reason, and a few others, she couldn't attribute what happened to how Elliot was holding her. Nor could she attribute it to the scenery, for she had seen more beautiful things than the ceiling of her living room.
It couldn't be his brown hair and brown eyes because htey were average. It couldn't have been the way he looked at her, or the delicate movements of his fingers, or even the way he nipped the tip of her ear, bringing his tongue out to lick it quickly right afterwards, so swift that she barely felt it, as it had all been done before.
So what was it? What was it, she wondered, lying there in his arms, both of them in a warm, comfortable silence, just moments after it had happened.
For years, she had promised not to get to close. On her heart, she had placed a master pad lock, 16 digit security code, reinforced steel, and a stick of dynamite as a last resort. All for nothing. In one, swift, unknown move, Elliod had found the key, slipped in the security code, melted the steel, and defused the dynamite before she could blow up her heart and become a heartless, uncaring bitch. Better to be that, then in love.
What was it?! At that moment, Elliot leaned in and nipped/licked her ear again...her insides clenched...was this it?...she waited...nothing. What had happened just before? She retraced the steps. He looked into her eyes, smiled (was the smile it?! ...No, no, he had done that before), leaned in, nip/licked her ear and then...
He spoke. He said words. Those words, the tone of his voice (a bear whisper, from back in his throat) were the keys, the code, the fire, and the defuser. When she realized this, it happened again. Her lungs restricted, she couldn't breathe, her heart stopped, her stomach clenched, and then there was a fantastic release. Her body became electric. She transcended being, emotions, and any physical feeling and only felt one thing: ...well...you know.
All the men who had previosly wanted Adelaide's heart needed only to speak those words. Those words that now...she can't remember, and was too embarrassed to ask him to repeat.

Adelaide had found the keys to Elliot's heart many months ago. The keys to his heart were her lips. The way her lips felt as they pressed to his, as if they fit right there. As if that was where they were meant to be.

Reply:

1+1=1

So...usually, I already know what I want to write for the day. I already have it all planned out in my head. In today's case, I want to ...add on to yesterday's post because I forgot to mention a key point in my belief.

But even so, even though I already know what I want to say, I usually wait for something to inspire me to start writing (read: I procrastinate. Until I see something that kicks me in the ass and says "...what are you waiting for?"). Today, it was this video. And I wanted to share it.




So, what I wanted to add on to yesterday's blog is short. I said the whole thing about your soul mate possibly being born in another time, blah blah blah. What I forgot to mention was: Even if you are lucky enough to FIND your soul mate. Your ONE true love...who's to say you're theirs?

Deeper pit of depressing thoughts, I know. But...to me, this is truth. And it's something I've accepted.

Why would you POST that?

(On love)
"You know how when you're listening to music playing from another room? And you're singing along because it's a tune that you really love? When a door closes or a train passes so you can't hear the music anymore, but you sing along anyway... then, no matter how much time passes, when you hear the music again you're still in exact same time with it. That's what it's like."


Hah. I don't know.

Recently, when I first came home from school, two friends of mine (Kaitlyn and Trista) and I were sitting in the latter's living room and talking about our opinions on love.

I don't think I'm wiser or more experienced than anyone else in the area that is love. I just have a belief about it that I want to share. I suppose this is a disclaimer. I'd love to hear anyone else's ideas about love, because if you ask any of my closest friends, they'll tell you it's my favorite topic. So, here it goes:


I'm a strong believer in that there is only ONE person for everyone. That if there's that check list in someone's subconscious that explains the balance of faults, assets, quirks, physical features, etc that their partner would need to have in order for the relationship to last forever, there's only ONE person that fits all of them. And no, I don't mean "in the entire world".

I mean in the entire history, present, and future of time. People who believe there is only ONE person for them, I agree with. But what makes them think that their soul mate is around today? What makes them think the person who's absolutely perfect for them is the girl next door or living on a remote island somewhere? What if they aren't even born yet? What if they're already dead?

I think most people settle. And when I say most, I mean 99.9(repeated indefinitely) % of people. They settle for someone who meets as many of those criteria, some people for someone who doesn't meet ANY of the criteria.

I realize this is a really depressing, unappealing way to look at love and finding the right person for you, but I believe in the one true love, and I don't think that many people ever find them. I think I may know one person who actually got lucky enough to be born in the same town as their one true love, and I think THAT may be a miraculous personal statistic.


I can write a lot more....but I got out of my head and into this post everything that I've been thinking about. Questions? Comments? Concerns? If you're reading this, you're probably on facebook. Message me.

First Short Story

I don't have a title for this yet either. I wrote it for two reasons:

• I saw a public service announcement about the US armed forces
• My friend Kim is going through something similar to this. And every time I think about what she must be feeling it hurts a bit. It's also unedited and unrevised. So really...I dedicate this to her.

“This…this is for you,” the little blonde girl handed Dan a folded sheet of paper. Maddy looked at the girl as she scampered away, grabbing her mother’s outstretched hand. The little girl reminded her of herself some 10 years ago.
“Aw! Maddy, look! It’s me!” Maddy turned her attention back to Dan, who, in the time that she had been day dreaming about her child hood, had opened the sheet of paper to reveal a green man. Maddy’s stomach wrenched. Of course, the green was to represent Dan’s camouflage uniform. A uniform he had to wear when in an airport, traveling to a far off dangerous place.
She looked up at him and his awkward, smiling face. She remembered what she had been told over, and over again. They left teddy bears and came back statues.
“Madison…” always by the full name when he knew she was upset. But she looked away.
“Madison, come on…look at me…I’m still gonna be a teddy bear when I come back! Those oafs need someone like me to lighten their mood! Come on! Don’t do this now…” of course he knew what she was thinking. He always did. It was some kind of clairvoyant entity about his person. Or maybe it’s just that she had complained to him about how he was going to change before. A thousand times before. Maybe because it was all she thought about, so her thoughts were easy to guess.
“How do you know? How do you know you aren’t going to change?”
“Because I’ve been through much worse.”
“Really, Dan? You’ve been through worse than war?” her tone was sarcastic and bitter. But of course, he just smirked back. A playful smirk.
“All right. I guess not. But I’m unchangeable.”
“No one’s unchangeable.”
“I am.”
“Just stop, Dan.”
“Stop what?”
“You know what.”
“No, what do y-“
“This happy go lucky crap!” her voice was loud enough to make everyone turn around. Dan’s face froze. There was no trace of a smile.
“Maddy…come on. Sit down.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her towards a pair of open seats.
“What do you want from me? You want me to be OK with this?” Maddy asked him. His playful manner was gone and he was just staring straight ahead, one of his knees bouncing. She had made him nervous and didn’t even feel bad about it. Good. He should be nervous.
“This is what I want to do. I want to do something. I don’t wanna give you the whole ‘I wanna go fight for my country’ speech because that isn’t even really it. I don’t have anything else but you. I don’t feel accomplished, though, Maddy. I can love you forever, but there’s always going to be something missing…something that I didn’t do, unless I do this. This is important for me. For me to be happy and fulfilled.”
“Why isn’t loving me enough?”
“Stop being selfish.”
“What?”
“That’s selfish. You’re putting me in a corner. There is no right answer to that.”
She shook her head at his unwillingness to answer. He was right. She was trying to start a fight. Maybe he wouldn’t leave if things were sour between them. Maybe he’d stay. Maybe he’d hold her and tell her it was a mistake. Maybe, maybe…
At that moment, she burst into tears. As suddenly as a firecracker goes off, the rivulets started streaming down her face. Her body jerked with each sob. Dan didn’t freeze this time. He slid closer and wrapped his arms around her shoulder, pulling her in close.
“Maddy, Maddy, please…please don’t do…” his own body jerked as he tried to choke back a sob. “…Don’t do this…”
“Dan, please don’t go…please please please stay home with me, Dan…I don’t want you to go…”
“Passangers for flight AA2330 to Berlin should proceed to gate D6 for boarding,” a female voice spoke over the intercom. Madison’s hands shot out and gripped Dan’s shirt.
“Don’t go...don’t go, don’t go…” she cried, tears still streaming from her eyes.
Dan wiped his eyes in an attempt to dry them. He moved his hands down to hers and held them a moment and kissed her forhead.
He whispered, “Wait for me.” Against her head. She closed her eyes as she felt his breath on her skin, comfort and tranquility flowed through her, starting from where she had felt his breath. He pulled away in her lapse of consciousness and walked quickly through the gate, to where she couldn’t reach him anymore.
“Dan! Dan, don’t go!” she yelled once more, another sob going through her.
She whispered to herself, lips quivering “Don’t go…”


“…Don’t go.”

Heartfelt

So at the risk of sounding like what society deems feminine, I'm going to post this anyway.

I was working today and taking an old couple's order. The conversation went something like this:

(Between me and the gentleman)
"Hey guys! Welcome to Mugs, can I start you off with anything to drink?"
"What kind of soda do you guys have?"
"We have... orange soda, I think, sprite,..."
"What I mean is, coke or pepsi?"
"Oh. Pepsi. Sorry."
"All right...well..."
at this point, he stumbled. He turned red a bit.
"...I'll just order when I order my meal."

(Between me and the lady)
"I'll order now. An iced tea, please."
"It's unsweetened. Is that all right?"
"Wouldn't have it any other way."
"OK."

I went and got her her unsweetened iced tea, and took their order. When I took their order, I forgot to ask the guy what he wanted to drink. When I came back, they had her unsweetened iced tea between them and they were sharing the one drink and the one straw. When I asked him what he'd like, he blushed again and said he was fine.


There's two points to this.



One, I think the fact that they shared a drink and a straw was the most adorable thing ever. When I was walking away from the table after he said he was fine, I felt put together. But like I had JUST been put together. It just seemed so right and...I don't know. Just right that they were sharing a drink.

Two, I hate that he was embarrassed and I wish he would have said "No, sir, I am going to share my wife's iced tea with her because we've been married for 46 years and I love her very much and I know EVERYWHERE that mouth's been for those 46 years and I trust her."

Maybe in real life he would have just said "I'm fine, thanks." or "I'll just share with her." But that he felt at first that he had to order something and skated around it for so long saddens me a bit.


I wonder what went through his head.


That's it. Have a good night. =)

First Poem!

Hello! I was on a flight from Costa Rica to Miami and I had an idea for a poem so I wrote it down on the back of my copy of 1984. This is without revisions or anything. It's not even titled yet.



Untitled

I'm wrting my dreams down on
shredded napkins (at a restaurant
in Paris) rolling them up, throwing them into
the gust,
to be carried by the wind, like
dandelion seeds.
Then I wonder:

Has a dandelion ever made it within
the city limits of Paris? Perhaps, clasped
between the fingers of a four year old?
Or pressed to the palms of two lovers?

Did they let their dreams float through
Parisian side streets to be kissed by rays
of the sun, Haloed by neon signs in windows,
choked by cigarettes?

Did they dream?

I'm writing my future and my past down
on bark and dry sticks, destined
for the fire, without care.

I realize:

The only thing that matters is the sweet
present that the Present is.

Birthday

It's raining here in Costa Rica, Netherlands just secured their place in the World Cup Final, and I have this poem running through my head...




She's so beautiful. Her words are beautiful. Check her out.

Affliction Astrology

In astrology, affliction means "one celestial body affecting another". Otherwise, it means something that causes pain.

Weird.

Anyway, day two of this blog, day four in Costa Rica.

We went ATVing and at one point, we were riding along this beach, and I have never seen water look the way the ocean did at this moment. It had a metallic shine to it. I don't know why I'm saying these rambling things...I just really wanted to write things down, so I'm writing things down. It's soothing, really.

I have nothing else to say.


Ah! I remembered there was a reason for this post. I wanted to explain why Ultraviolet Lily Pads.

It's in a poem I once wrote. I told myself I'd only use this for new poems and short stories, but I suppose this can be an exception. Here it is. I wrote it two years ago. I was under some kind of influence when I wrote it. Heh. The only part I like is the Ultraviolet Lily Pads...it's stayed with me.

Vision

As I sit here instructing on the writer's
tools. I forget my next thought, on correcting these
mistakes

Do you hear the thousand mocking-doves a singing?
Dressed in black.
A sheep in wolves clothing.

This heavy breathing sends shivers up my spine. It frightens me.
This underground world seems wonderful.
No lies. No Pain

Hit my spine with a metal bat.
My blood is a river of ultraviolet Lily pads.
What is abstract?


Nothing.


Maybe I'll rewrite this someday. Who knows.

A Clever Design

A rainy day on vacation, waiting to go eat dinner. What better time to start a blog?

15 unsuccessful minutes trying to change the background to lily pads (clever, I know), I nearly decided to quit trying to start a blog (for the umpteenth time). Then, I just took the leap. I hit "New post" and went with it.

I don't know what I expect from this and I don't know what you expect from this, but I hope it's enlightening for the both of us.

Ah! I lied. I do know some things we can both expect:

• Poems
• Short stories
• Videos
• Random ramblings

Yes. I did, in fact, lie on purpose to see how the bullets work.

Here's a video, as well.