A Torrential Memory

Rally the Troops!

2011-08-17T10:41:00.000-07:00

Alright, so school is about to start and that means that I'm going to be a lot more structured. Because of that, I want to use this blog to showcase finished short stories and drawings that I am working on and hope to incorporate into a freelance portfolio (no, I have no idea what I'm doing). I figure that this is a great chance to learn more about socializing and sharing my passion with the world, and having a rule of "polished pieces only" gives me more accountability. At this point I have links to my amateur pieces and am sketching out a novel I want to write, and I'm exploring my cartooning more frequently, so updates on this blog will be sporadic, but I promise they will be good (and if you don't think they are, the next week they will be! :) ).

For readers who have been following me thus far, thank you. For future readers, welcome to a Torrential Memory. And for everyone, I hope you have a good day! :)

It's a Walk in the Park, Not a Race to the Altar

2011-08-07T09:46:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I've written about my (mis)adventures in the world of dating. This has been due mostly to the fact that some of my dates find this blog and then get a bit titchy just because they think they have been mentioned in a post, when in actuality they have been dramatized for entertainment purposes (you would think they could spot the difference, but we humans are vain like that).

A whole month has passed since I started hanging out with/dating a new guy, and this has been a major part of why I have been MIA around this blog. The other reason has to do with simply being tired from working and trying to get ready for classes this August, but that's hardly as interesting as very nearly being engaged in the first few hours of meeting someone new.

You see, in the area I live, marrying and settling down is more than a rite of passage. For a lot of people around here, marriage is THE life objective. Screw getting a career, applying yourself to solving social/global problems, or even just earning a lot of money. No. Around here, the most important thing you can do is meet Mr/Ms Right, settle down, and start pumping out human units. This is held to be the holy charge, and I thought that by me being a 'Mo I would be able to escape this mentality.

Enter new guy. He's sweet. He's cute. He's trying to get his life in order. And he opened up our lovely story of dating with the line "I'm looking for someone to settle down with". It wasn't anything like "Your eyes are amazing" or "I admire you for being able to synthesize complex thoughts in your head", no. It was a heavy dose of "If you like it you shoulda put a ring on it", which, for the past month, has been mostly ignored as I negotiated the complexities of keeping a guy interested without moving too quickly toward something a tad too committed.

Don't get me wrong. I really do like this guy. Being around him has made me think about things that I hadn't considered in years (like how much I actually do want to be around any boyfriend/husband figure), and the more that I get to know him the more I find myself becoming someone I thought I would never become: a domesticated partner.

Yeah, I always thought I would be alone, so I never really stopped to consider what kind of day to day I would enjoy sharing with someone. Over the past month though, this guy has jumped in to help me cook and clean, we've explored parts of Arkansas that others have never explored with me, and, most importantly, he and my best friend/roommate have started forming their own friendship. A few weeks ago the three of us spent the day cooking, listening to music, and making friendship bracelets, and about five hours into the day it hit me: this is something I want.

You see, I have spent the last three years thinking that I was looking for someone who fit all these criteria that I had written down on my "Rules of Dating Raijen" list. Being around this new guy has opened my eyes to the fact that I really did not completely know what I wanted. It happens. We get fixated on these ideas of who we are and what we want, illusions of desire, and then we meet people who make us reconsider and consider for the first time those little things that we love. Like how he takes my plate to the kitchen after we are done eating or holds my hand while I'm driving.

These are little things, yes, but they are part of walking through the park of life, getting to know someone as the two of you meander your way toward either lifelong friendship, the altar, both, or something else. They are the things that we don't really stop to think about, but when they happen we instantly know how important they are. Something in our spirit starts running ninety to nothing because we realize how much we enjoy being respected and adored.

Of course, there are always those pesky negatives to consider, those darker possibilities that scare us away and keep us sober in our views. That's how it's supposed to be. There has to be some thorns and brambles to snag the wedding dress in case a mad dash is attempted. What started for me as mild interest has gradually grown and now I find myself missing his presence when we are apart, something that has never happened to me before. As you amble along the path and things come to light, you start seeing what kind of person the other guy is, and where usually I become disillusioned with men, this one has a certain spark that catches my eye.

This isn't to say that wedding bells are in the near future, no. Even though he was chomping at the bit at first, we have talked it over and come to the conclusion that if we are "meant to be together", there isn't any reason to rush to the end of the dating phase. If we are "meant to be" then we will be together, and any time before that will be icing on the cake. This kind of view is far different than the compulsive marrying mindset around here, but so far it has proven to be a great method, allowing for consideration and appreciation of the other person. Who knows? It might even be the "proper" thing to do, one of those things that, if others did it, might decrease the divorce rate.

But I don't know. I can't see the future, only make my way towards it, and right now the possibilities are looking better and better. Let's just hope that he doesn't break into a gallop toward the wedding cake; I'm still not sure that I want to be chained to anyone just yet.

Illusions

2011-06-22T11:01:00.000-07:00

Time for something kinda personal, written in the hope that someone will find something useful in it to apply to their own life.

I've taken the MBTI at Humanmetrics several times over the past seven years, and every time I end up being an INTJ (if you want to know what that is, click here). The only thing that's really important from this data is that I have an iNtuitive mode of relating to the world. In other words, I "see" connections and relationships very easily, and imagination is my strongest asset.

But the downside to this is that it's very easy for me to get caught by what I call "illusions". These are the thoughts that infect my mind for stretches of time, images of something going wrong with the car or at work causing my gut to squirm in nervousness. Sometimes they are more positive illusions (such as the thought "oh, he's cute and he likes me! If I do A, B, and C we'll live happily ever after), and sometimes they are neutral (if I finish my degree, I'll suddenly know what I want to do with my life!).

But... the thing about "illusions" are that they are intangible. They disrupt the serenity I so wildly hold on to, the tranquility I need to soothe the spastic gut and fall asleep at night. These illusions end up becoming fixations for my mind, and since I'm constantly bounding from one idea to the next related idea, the emotions associated with the ideas that I'm fixating on have a big effect on me and my interactions with the world around me.

So after twenty-three years of going through these seemingly infinite cycles, my brain has decided that it's going to learn how to slip out of the snares that these illusions create. The last few days has been an experience in letting go of the illusions.

Yes, that's right: I think that one of the ways we grow as people is to learn to let go of the illusions, of the "hopes" that we cling to and work toward with our daily existences.

No, I'm not saying that we should quit caring, that we should just give up. That won't do anything but keep us stagnant and eventually kill us. The only constant in life is change, so learning to let go of our illusions is better understood to mean "learning to change with the circumstances". Being flexible, adaptable, open to evolution in thoughts and behaviours; in other words, going with the flow.

So what are some ways that we can let go of the false hopes that keep us tied down and stressed out?

Well, the first one (and easiest one) is to set aside time out of every day to just do something fun, something that has no direct practical value. Go for a fifteen minute stroll. Doodle a cartoon or picture. Write a letter to someone you value but with whom you don't get to spend much time.

Another thing is to try to periodically take out a day here and there to turn off the phone, the computer, the television, and just spend the day doing absolutely nothing except what you feel inspired to do. Again, just be in the moment. Don't worry about scheduling "chores" or "errands" to do on your free day (that's what the rest of the week is for!). Just relax and give your mind the chance to digest all the information that's been bombarding it since the last time you just vegged out on the beach.

These things are NOT magic bullets. In themselves, they hold no power for making your life drastically better, because getting yourself out of the trap of illusions isn't some hocus-pocus, "drink this potion to restore health" type things. Hoping, clinging to illusions, is a mental habit, and like all habits, it takes time, dedication, and perseverance to alter them.

That's what the above techniques are for: they allow a space in which your brain can step back and figure things out for itself, without your intervention and demands. I don't know exactly what happens in the back rooms of the mind, but somehow, drawing a flower or taking a nap on a sunny afternoon, cooking your favorite meal for yourself or just enjoying a cup of tea allows fresh air into those musty places we rarely visit, and this breath of life allows the brain to sort through those things that make us suffer in our daily lives.

I hope that the lovely readers find something of value in here, and if not, at least some confirmation that yes, you are on the right path.

Ideas (or, Opinions Are Like Well-Oiled Leashes)

2011-06-20T17:52:00.000-07:00

So... To set up this post, I was intrigued by some comments that David Tyree (an NFL player, if you're like me and don't understand the sport past the homoeroticism) recently made when interviewed by CNN's Kyra Phillips.

Personally, I don't care for his views on the legitimization of same sex marriage, but he himself made me ponder a few things about humans and our fascination with ideas.

In Tyree's case, his idea of dichotomy(left/right, wrong/right, normal/abnormal, natural/unnatural, etc.) were amusing, they can open the discussion further. First of all, let me say something about Tyree's distinction of "natural" and "unnatural".

Something that is "natural" is necessarily "occurring in nature". Right off the bat biologists assure us that homosexual behaviour is documented in several animal species such as penguins, dolphins, dogs, and others. If two dude penguins are getting their jollies off together, I would say that it must be natural (though I'm sure Tyree would argue that they are being "unnatural";I find it amusing that sheep seem to be one of the rare animals that can have a homosexual "orientation").

All facetiousness aside, David Tyree got me to thinking about the fact that all of our thoughts are caused by biological processes. Blobs of protein are firing sparks at each other in our bodies, reporting to our brain that it's cold outside, that we're hungry, that the dude penguin over there is eying us over. All of these biological processes are naturally occurring phenomena. This means that even the things we experience and call "thoughts" and "ideas" (anyone care to define the difference for me?) have origins in natural roots. In a sense, all "ideas" are natural, and thus everything that a human thinks is natural!

This little nugget got me to thinking about how some ideas are right (gravity is a constant, fire is hot, rocks are hard), while others are not so right (women are always inferior to men, skin color determines a person's value, god is in the wind). In fact, some ideas are just plain imaginary.

But, some imaginary thoughts are useful, like counting. Although numbers are not "tangible" (when was the last time you ate a plump, juicy "4"?), the fact that they are "imaginary" allows them to be used to accomplish some really important things like engineering big buildings, vehicles, and keeping the accounting records for really big businesses so that when they try to screw us over, the accountants can sound the alarm (here the author gives a very encouraging wink toward accountants everywhere).

So, could the idea of an imaginary "natural/unnatural" dichotomy have a use like the idea of numbers? After thinking on my research on identity last semester, I would say that yes, the idea of something being "unnatural" can have a very powerful use.

In a nutshell, who we think we are, our "sense of self", comes from our observations on how people treat us. Our "sense of self", or ego, is just the thing that we experience in our day to day, the part that does the thinking and the remembering and the daydreaming and fantasizing about penguins. It, too, is just an idea, and though it is naturally occurring, calling an aspect of someone "unnatural" can really mess with a person's head, especially if being "natural" is associated with being "right", "correct", or "Special".

So, it's kinda neat that David Tyree has been recorded saying what he says. Yeah, he's a bit of a douche, but he's just doing what every human does: operate by naturally occurring ideas that govern his opinions, actions, words, and behaviours. He's being completely natural, and that, I think, is a great accomplishment for him.

In the mean time, the data he graciously gives us is a classic case study for identity theory, memetics, and biopsychological theory. Thank Hey Zeus! for bigots!

Write Write Write

2011-06-15T11:59:00.000-07:00

Alright, so I've definitely been writing. In the past two days I've added over ten more pages to this short story, and I'm easing back into my rhythm. Getting used to a new job is overwhelming when you're an introvert, but it's nice to have writing as an outlet now. I think it will help me from over-stressing myself, which is always a danger since I throw myself into whatever it is I'm doing (note to self and others: never identify with the job you are doing. It's a job, not who you are).

But yeah, so I'm on page forty-four right now, expecting to have seven to ten more pages and then I begin to polish up the story and get it ready to send out to the lovely readers (anyone who is interested in a free story, basically).

Anyways, just wanted to report to the loyal readers who are waiting for another story and share a link that I found to be really good.

Faithless- Mass Destruction

About That Two Week Hiatus...

2011-06-13T09:43:00.000-07:00

So I kinda took two weeks away from blogging so that I could focus on job hunting and working on a short story (not like this blog is paying the bills...unfortunately). Thankfully, I was recently hired by a chain restaurant and expect to be gainfully employed until at least October of this year. Still not quite sure if I want to work in the kitchen long term though; I enjoy cooking good food, but on my own time, not to the pace of a high volume restaurant.

Oh well, beggars can't be choosers, eh? I reckon I'll keep looking for a more laid back job in the mean time while I continue to write and blog.

In other news...

I'm working on a short story about a young man who has to attend his grandfather's funeral and face the past he has with his family. It's been a steady progress, made doubly interesting because in writing this I'm having to face some of my hangups with my own family (or rather, with the specters of the past that I've been clinging to). It's funny how having a friendly voice can really impact a character (the main character has a boyfriend who is a rather good partner), and in writing their relationship dynamic I'm coming to understand a lot of things about my own past and present.

Admittedly, there is a lot of real life inspiration in this story, but that's what happens when the brain wants to write a cathartic short story. Issues get brought up and into the light of consciousness so that they can be processed and put down. I find that with each scene I write, the weight of the past lightens and I find myself feeling more at peace. It's enjoyably painful, the aches of growing up being a reward in themselves as I try to become a more wholesome person.

Maybe, in the end (both of the story and in life) it's all about who is standing by your side. I hope so. And I hope that it's you when that time comes.

Bartholomew Speaks

2011-05-31T15:27:00.000-07:00

Given that a Stumbler thought that this was a personal post instead of a character sketch, I felt the need to preface this entry. THIS IS FICTION. IT IS A CHARACTER SKETCH FOR A NOVEL I AM WORKING ON.

With that said... I hope that you enjoy it. :)
-----------------------------------------------------

It's been a long day. Classes, school in the real world, that illusion of people who care and who spend their days playing their videogames, listening to their fucking hip hop and pop trash music, I'm just glad that I'm done with it, for now. I can step away from that place where they all smile at you and say "have a nice day". I know they don't mean it. They won't look me in the eyes like she did.

I step into my apartment at the Commons, enter into that place where the roommate has trashed it all over again. I just cleaned up the other day, I was so sick and tired and done with waiting for his lazy ass to pick up his empty pizza boxes. I would do to him what I did to Geoff and Neira and Julia, but he has ties to the world of illusions, the "real world" as people call it. I'm sure his parents would start to wonder why their precious son hasn't called home to let them know how he's failing out already. Didn't have it in him to put the book to his face and read for once in his pathetic life.

God. He's left his socks on the floor again. I've told him a thousand times, his stuff belongs in his bedroom. Can't he figure out how to live like a normal human being?

My room now, safe from the outside world, away from all those demands on my time and energy. I can focus on figuring out how he destroyed my Nightmare, to find what is left of my friends. I hate that I had to weave them into that darkness, make them something that would bend to my will, but it was either that or die, and I can't die just yet. I've got to find a way to bring her back, to have Julia back in my life. She was the only one who gave this existence any meaning.

The last bottle of her perfume is on my nightstand. I want to smell it again, to relive her presence, but the bottle is already halfway used... I know as soon as it's gone it will be difficult to resurrect her memory, and that's what I need if I'm going to restore her from Death.

How long has it been since she found me on that bridge with stones in my pocket? Her blue eyes pierced my soul that night, I still hear her voice in my mind, "Please don't end it. Come with me, let me show you how it isn't something to fear or run into." She found me when I was going into that darkness, she showed me how to tame that monster that followed me everywhere. Don't fear that urge, that impulse to self-destruction but rather, turn it into your best friend. Find a reason to live, even if it isn't what others tell you to believe in.

Laying on my bed, I think about that moment when I realized that any meaning I could put in life was through the people I knew, through her, and my love for her.

Why did she race ahead of me into the darkness that waits for us at the end? Why did she save me from myself just to take herself out of my life? Why did Geoff and Neira have to get in my way that night?

I don't have friends anymore. Maybe I never did. It seems that people are more useful, more alive, when they are dead. At least then their existence has meaning.

Meanwhile, people like my slob of a roommate feed their face and watch trash television, smoking their dope, completely unaware that there is another world outside themselves. Where is the meaning in that? What kind of justice is that?

Speaking of justice... That stranger, that... Aksel? Was that his name? What sort of name is that? What sort of person is he to take away my Beckoner? I had Luis right in the palm of my hand, I could feel his spirit right there in front of me. Damned world-walker, interfering, destroying Geoff and Neira's Essence. He has taken two of my friends and the piece I needed to bring Julia back.

Aksel must pay. He may have taken Luis from me, but there is still another avenue. She is quite talented. Her music was beautiful, a true Artist. I may not be able to have a Beckoner, but a Musician... There are many ways to call the spirit back, and Claire is beautiful, just like Julia.

Yes. The path always opens when you need it to.

Dear America

2011-05-27T14:14:00.000-07:00

Why did Jose Guerena, a former Marine who had served two tours of duty in Iraq, get killed in a cannabis raid? Why did his wife and children have to listen to seven seconds of seventy gunshots? Why did the Pima County Sheriff’s Department prohibit medics from treating Jose Guerena’s sixty bullet wounds for over an hour?

These questions crowd my mind while the police pick up Guerena’s AR-15 rifle, the red-blood fingerprints covering the grip as they find the safety was still on. Seven seconds of decision for a Marine, seven seconds in which he endured sixty wads of lead ripping through his body.

It wasn’t supposed to be like that. The search warrant was only for his house, not for him. A search of the property netted nothing illegal when searched. When the SWAT team arrived at nine in the morning, Jose had just finished working a twelve hour shift at Asarco Mine. He grabbed his gun and told his family to hide due to fear of home invasions that had been happening in their area of the world. The police say that SWAT identified themselves. Whatever the truth is, Guarena's wife, Vanessa, saw her husband as she was dragged through the house after the rain of bullets.

He was bloody and gasping for air like a fish taken from the pond, bullet holes perforating his chest and abdomen. Why did Vanessa have to see her husband, a United States veteran, riddled by bullets bought with their own tax dollars?

They say the murder was related to cannabis cultivation, yet now they are sealing the information on the case. As Guerena is buried in the earth so too are the facts. Will the truth decay with the body, locked away in a dark box, all alone and inaudible to the world?

What do you think, America? Where are our answers?

Topic: Body Glitter

2011-05-26T10:16:00.000-07:00

Right, so this is the result of being handed a topic by my roommate. The topic? Body glitter. Hope you get a giggle from this cartoon, and if you would like, leave me a topic in the comments section and I'll make a cartoon from it. No guarantees: I don't really know what this brain will come up with!

Nihilism

2011-05-22T21:34:00.000-07:00

Nihilism, or rather, existential nihilism,the belief that nothing has inherent meaning, has been in my thoughts recently. Nothing has meaning, nothing holds value, unless a person believes it to have meaning or value. Keep in mind though that eventually all these personal acts of value addition are without meaning or value though, so basically our opinions and ideas are, well... Useless.

The ideas of who we are, of what good and evil are, of the very meaning of the words we use are all useless. They are like jewelry we wear, accessories that set us apart from each other. With this in mind, I say that our beliefs and opinions and ideas are therefore something we can choose on a whim and change on a moments notice. I mean, if Nihilism is true, then it doesn't matter if we are rational or irrational. Indeed, I would argue that the only thing that matters in the end is that we can smile.

Irony is the flavor of the Universe, after all.

Should I Stoop Like This?

2011-05-18T22:26:00.000-07:00

I was planning on writing some of a short story when the Yahoo page opened up with Yahoo Messenger. Usually I ignore the homepage, but a story about a fashion editor letting her boyfriend dress her for a week caught my attention. (Click here for a wonderfully bizarre example of fetishism)

I'm honestly at a loss. I've been blogging for months now, working on short stories, making jewelry to sell, applying to jobs and checking back on them routinely, and here is a woman who gets paid to keep a blog over a week of her boyfriend playing dress up with her.

Things would be perfectly alright with me were it not for the fact that this article ended up wasting ten minutes of my time with annoying popup ads and an entire page devoted to an advertisement. I'm sorry, but if your blog about wearing clothes is being hosted by a big name like Yahoo, there better not be friggin' ads every five seconds. This isn't television ya know!

But enough of a rant. I just wanted to vent at the disconnect that seems to be glaring there. Instead, I'm going to say this: If it will get me thirty-thousand dollars for ten minutes of drivel, I will write quality drivel that looks far better than the fashionista playing dress up with her boy toy.

Any takers?

Kangaroos and Polar Bears

2011-05-18T10:55:00.000-07:00

I have always been a kangaroo among polar bears. My early curiosity was often answered with a “go look it up” whenever relatives and parents could not answer my questions, and the knowledge I gathered was absorbed by the inherited creativity from both sides of my gene pool until I had a deep personal well of lore and story. This mental world born of circumstance and inquisition formed the very thing that separates kangaroos from polar bears—the ability to bound across the terrain like a rust-colored greyhound on cocaine.

This distance that I have always felt between me and my family of polar bears has always been something that was only half-understood by everyone until this past Monday, my mom’s latest birthday. That morning began with a text message from my sister reminding me to call Mom and wish her a happy birthday. A few minutes later my mother’s husband called to tell me that she was rather upset, and by the time I had the morning coffee brewing, my sister was calling me to tell me to come to her house, an hour away, for a party she was putting together for Mom.

At first I looked for any reason to not go. I had made plans for that week on the Sunday before, and I was really looking forward to enjoying my alone time to make some leaps and bounds on projects I have been working on in spurts. When my sister began asking if I had any plans, my intuition told me plainly what she was saying.

Sister: (via vibes) You’re coming.
Me: (in my head) Do I have to?
Sister: (via vibes) Only if you want to avoid the inevitable guilt trips you know we will put on you.

Gotta love family, especially when they manage to speak your language without trying (I believe the guilt trip is something especially designed by Southerners in order to get our way without having to waste energy in the heat and humidity). After some of the usual bribery and blackmail, I grumpily got off the phone and started showering and getting ready for the day.

People have asked me before if I hate my family. It’s a question that takes time to explain properly since I don’t often stop to think about it. As I made my way along the asphalt highway on my unplanned day trip, I pondered how I felt about my family besides the knee-jerk reaction that I have towards people in general (get them away, far far away). Do I hate them? Do I love them? Do I feel anything for them?

Getting out of my car when I arrived, I still had no answer, and the question was put out of my mind as I said hello to my sister and two year old nephew, helping her finish up preparations for the party.

Eventually relatives started showing up, my youngest cousin and aunt having a spirited discussion about the trouble he has been having lately with his suicidal first love. The timbre of his voice made me smile as I remembered my own adolescence and the angst of the emotional roller coaster. As my aunt calmly talked about what would be the best course of action, I thought about the Madness that runs in my family’s blood, the rush of emotions that we feel when stressed, the way that our thoughts sometimes get fixated on false perceptions of reality. Listening to my cousin, I was reminded of the psychological study I had read about creativity and schizophrenia existing on the same axis, and I smiled as I talked about it with my sister; we both know that creativity runs high in our family. Two of our cousins are excellent with pencil and line drawings, our aunt, mother, and grandmother have always had a decorative touch with homes, our dad is an expert carpenter, and of course, I’ve been writing since I was a kid.

We just all try to ignore the Madness that rattles in the back of our minds when it starts getting dark outside.

Eventually Mom arrived, and the party began as we all hugged and caught up with each other, my protective side keeping an eye on my nephew as he ran around outside, my aunt’s fiancé grilling burgers for us. The evening passed wonderfully, and as I said my goodbyes and gave hugs, the question of how I feel about my family welled up again on the drive home.

Before I can say whether or not I dislike my family, I have a confession to make. I always thought you had to understand someone before you could love them. I thought they had to know you completely or else any claim of love was baseless. After running around the yard with my nephew though, I realized that I’ve been looking at it the wrong way. Love is not about understanding, but rather, about acceptance for who and what the other person is. I don’t understand the polar bears, but I accept that they are people and as such are worthy of love.

As I thought on it a bit more, I realized that my wanting to be understood was getting in the way of accepting my family’s love. For me to want to be understood by others was unfair, because a kangaroo can only truly understand itself, and perhaps another kangaroo. Because we spend our time jumping from place to place, it’s difficult for us to understand the world of ice and seal blubber that our polar bear loved ones inhabit. It must be equally difficult for a polar bear to understand the joy of bounding across the Outback, but that doesn’t stop them from accepting the fact that the kangaroo has to jump.

So, do I hate my family?

No, I don’t hate my family, because how can I hate people who decorate their birthday cake with Cheetohs and Funyuns? To dislike them because they have some of the same traits and flaws that I have in myself would be the same as disliking myself, to be self-loathing. I’ve spent enough time doing that, and I would much rather sit in quiet serenity, toking a joint while they take their meds and smoke their cigarettes, secure in my knowledge that we are all content in our personal corners of the universe because we know that we all love and accept each other for the kangaroos and polar bears that we are.

In the end, only I can understand myself, and only another kangaroo can really understand what it’s like to be a kangaroo. I’m okay with this, really, because I think it’s better that way. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there is this really cute kangaroo I need to chat up….

Excerpt from "Exodus"

2011-05-11T12:53:00.000-07:00

Marie’s green eyes were filled with tears when Rolling Rock punctured her hope for change with the news of the meeting. She hadn’t wanted to leave the City, to abandon all hope of peaceful revolution. She had wanted to see things go back to normal, to see the end of chipping and of the new curfew. Now she and Rolling Rock were packing the necessities that they could carry, Elora sleeping soundly in the bedroom.

“So… They’ve won,” she said, packing away her sewing supplies. Rolling Rock nodded, his knives spread out around him as he sharpened them.

A sigh escaped, her hands slowing to a stop as she looked to her lover.

“Why does it have to happen this way?”

Rock couldn’t meet her eyes. He knew what she wanted to hear, but he loved her too much to lie.

“I don’t know, Marie. Maybe things have to come to an end. Maybe bad times always follow good times. All I know is that we no longer belong here. We are not part of the system, we are everything the Municipality cannot stand. We are free, and freedom comes at a great cost.”

Marie nodded her head. “What if I don’t want to pay the cost?”

He looked her straight in the eyes.

“You have that choice. Would you give up your freedom, your family, for security?”
She was quiet, still. He waited patiently, the grating of metal on stone filling the candle lit apartment.

“That isn’t a fair question, Allan.”

“I agree. It isn’t fair. But I’m not the one who created the injustice. I do, however, have the option of walking away and trying to make a better life. Think it over, Marie. Take the next couple of days to decide if you are coming with us.”

He continued sharpening his knives while she packed Elora’s clothes, each lost in the chaos of their hopes and fears.

The next day Marie took Elora and their belongings, leaving Rolling Rock alone in the dark, crumbling apartment. She had family in the West Ward, and wanted to be among them. All day he laid in the darkness, on their bed, staring up toward the ceiling unseen.

What else could he do? The heartbeat of his life had stopped. He was deserted, left to wait the remaining two days in the despair of solitude.

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

The second day Les came to check on him, bringing a peanut butter sandwich and a canteen of water. They spoke little, Rolling Rock caught in the web of memories and questions unanswered.

“Don’t forget, tomorrow we leave with the Dhijobain. Are you ready?” the Grid-hack asked as he got up to leave.

“Yeah. Packed, set, ready,” rolling Rock answered.

Les nodded in the candle light.

“I hate to tell you this, but you have got to let it go, Rock,” Les said.

The chief looked at Les, calm and distant.

“Do you have a daughter, Les?” he asked the younger male.

“Er…No…,” he admitted.

“I have a responsibility, and to not be allowed to fulfill it hurts in a way you can’t comprehend.”

Les grunted as his hand lingered on the doorknob.

“Do you want us to wake you up in the morning?” he asked.

Rock nodded.

“Yes, please.”

Les nodded, then left, Rolling Rock listening to the receding rhythm of footsteps tell him off, the regular clicks a steady accusation, what about us?

Dining with Yankees

2011-05-10T17:13:00.000-07:00

Growing up as a Southern gentleman, I often heard terrible things about the northern Yankees, things that as a refined person of class I chalked up as merely vicious gossip and slander. Considering that the North was where most of our founding colonies were set up, I always thought that they couldn't possibly be as bad as the jokes down South made them out to be.

Imagine how surprised I was to find out during a recent wedding I attended that Yankees are indeed a different breed.

A mutual friend of my roommate and mine recently married her fiance, a nice pill addict from the Air Force, and we were invited to attend the pre-ceremony dinner and help get the shebang set up. We arrived Friday evening and had dinner at the sports bar of the Embassy Suites in Little Rock. Upon arriving, the mother of the bride graciously introduced herself, and as she crammed a Long Island Iced Tea into my hand, I realized that I had made a new friend (funny how alcohol makes friends of Southerners). We all chatted for a moment, and after being introduced to the bride and groom's families, we sat down to a long table and placed our orders as I drank the Long Island.

It turns out that I ended up sitting well away from the bride and groom, which was fine with me since they formed the hub of conversation and I much prefer observing from a distance. It was a very nice Jane Goodall moment, watching the people in a new environment as they strained to keep their civility in check (I'll explain why in a later blog post). As the conversation on the far end of the table wound its way around several topics, I tried to make small talk with the twenty year old brother of the groom.

Our conversation revealed that he lived in Massachusetts, working as a landscaper, and that he was rather surprised (as was his mother) that we'uns in Arkansas have air conditioning. I assured him that it was a rather recent development, that our schools had just started teaching about the Internet and a few daring souls had ordered Trane units online with the fancy debit cards ARVEST bank had just issued a few years ago. He seemed rather interested in Arkansan society, so we spent the evening discussing the differences between Yankee and Southern culture.

Naturally, in the South we discuss the weather. This isn't because we are slow or ignorant, but rather, because we understand that most everything you can discuss involves making an opinionated statement. This invariably leads to arguments and hurt feelings, and between the heat and humidity of the South, we don't have the energy to kiss every owie and coddle people with bruised egos; yes, we talk about the weather so that we don't actually have to make the effort to get to know each other.

So, as we talked about the weather, Mr. Massachusetts learns that yes, we do get snow in Arkansas. Quite a bit of it this past year, as my roommate and I told him, and he told us about how they get twenty feet of snow in Massachusetts and that they race snowmobiles at two hundred and fifty miles per hour during the Winter.

Dear readers, my roommate and I just recently did research on bullet trains and found that their max speed is around two hundred and thirty miles per hour. That is fast. Mr. Massachusetts would have us believing that he and his friends zip around their home in speeds faster than a Japanese magnet train and somehow survive the inevitable collisions with trees.

While the roommate and I mulled this over, Mr. Massachusetts stood up and told us all, "I'm going to take a piss."

This is when I first noticed something different about Southerners and Yankees; in the South, we merely say we are going to the restroom, if indeed we say anything at all about the fact that our bladders are about to explode and make a mess for the hostess. Apparently, in Massachusetts, it is customary to yell about your urinary excretions when excusing yourself from the dinner table. I must make a note of that.

When Mr. Massachusetts returned, he and the father of the bride talked between themselves for a while, leaving my roommate and I to hold a silent conversation with our eyebrows.

Her: Is this dude for real?
Me: Unfortunately.
Her: At least we don't really know anyone here...
Me: I know. Why am I here again?
Her: I love you!

(She and I have had years to learn telepathy and from the above conversation, you can tell to what degree we have mastered the art)

Eventually Mr. Massachusetts looked back to me and asked of the menu, "Is this all?"

I couldn't help myself.

"Yep. This is fine dining right here. Look, they don't even list the prices! Just numbers that you match up to a chart on the back... Hey! They're so fancy they don't even have the chart!"

He looked over the menu, unsure of whether I was messing with him or not as I had a better poker face than Lady Gaga. Gazing over the two page menu, I asked, "So, have you ever heard of an electric paddle?"

"No. What's that?" Mr. Massachusetts asked. The father of the bride once more looked over and said, "It sounds like an erotic toy."

Now this is, of course, a conversational no-no. It's just rude to steal someone's thunder, so I had to think on my toes to take back the joke. I looked Mr. Massachusetts in the eyes and asked, "You wanna try it out?"

"No, no!" he muttered, looking back to the menu to hide the fact that he may have been a bit more curious than his mommy and daddy would like. Smirking, I ordered a chicken sandwich when the server came around to take my order. Conversation shifted once more, the Yankee and bridal father discussing how drunk they had been the night before while I looked around the empty room and wondered how many favors my roommate now owed me for accompanying her to this awkward dinner.

Eventually the food came out, and as I poured mustard on the chicken. Mr. Massachusetts stood up to announce that he had to piss once again.

"Perhaps you should do a Public Service Announcement, let everyone know where you're going," I offered him some advice. For a few moments he prepared to yell to his mother across the table, then thought better of it as he left for the urinal (I'm assuming he uses those, though, given his manners, he might use a bucket).

When he returned, he made one last stab at conversation.

"Have you ever had honey mustard?"

Dear, dear readers, I have worked as a Sous chef. I cook nearly everyday. I love to taste new foods and have a very discriminating palate. To ask me if I've ever had honey mustard is like asking a stripper if he's ever taken his clothes off.

"Honey mustard?" I asked, poker face going on once more, "What's that?"

His eyes lit up, so glad that he had finally found a chance to teach me something, to expand my horizons and be introduced to something outside my small puddle of a world.

"It's really great man! It's sweet and tangy and goes really well with chicken."

"It sounds like it would be really good if you make it with brown mustard."

"Oh yeah, man! That's the best thing right there!"

"Really?" I ask, smiling like a blonde bimbo working the room.

About that time Mr. Father of the bride spoke up, "I think he's fucking with you."

Mr. Massachusetts' face fell faster than a penny off the Empire state building as I smiled, letting him know that while the North may have beaten the South during the Civil War, the South has and forever will have a monopoly on the tongue in cheek humor made popular by Mr. Twain.

God I love Yankees. Too bad they don't much like me.

Gaga and Gnosticism

2011-05-05T20:51:00.000-07:00

So, the Lady Gaga has done it again. Apparently, this video is causing a bit of an uproar among the Christian fan club here in the States, but I feel bad that they are freaking out about the music video. I mean, it's a chance for Jesus to be sexy, and god knows that sex sells in our capitalistic society. Indeed, I think that if more churches jumped on the Gaga bandwagon and touted a hot, luscious saviour, there would be an increase in Sunday School attendance.

All brainstorming aside, the music video for Judas reminded me a lot of the Gnostic view of the Christ. He was an incarnation of the true God, yes, and for him to complete his divine mission here on this world, he had to be crucified and sacrificed. Judas was seen as the most beloved of the disciples because he was the one who had to betray Christ to the Jewish leaders at the time.

Gaga's taking of the role of Mary Magdalene in the video also ties in the old heresy, as Magdalene was seen as a disciple of Jesus in some sects of Gnosticism. She was seen as the feminine needed to balance the masculinity of the divine. Indeed, in the Proverbs wisdom is personified as a woman named Sophia, and the deity Sophia was very important in Gnostic thought.

And the scene where Gaga steps in with a lipstick gun, smearing Judas's face, is symbolic of how the Catholic Church smeared the philosophy and worldview of Gnosticism in their ascent to power (don't believe me? How much her outfit in the scene reminds one of Renaissance dress, and the ornate cross on her chest seems to bear that out).

Of course, there is the element of baptism by water, an important element in Christian and Gnostic thought, as the Sin must be washed away by holy water. The scene with Gaga in the tub with Judas and Jesus then can be scene as a baptism of the sins of the three, a making holy of the trio (in this scene they symbolize sexuality, divinity, and the need to sacrifice divinity in order to achieve it... Mystery traditions... You gotta try 'em to understand them).

Keep in mind that this translation is from a monistic school of Gnosticism which sees the material plane as merely an error of perception, a mistaking of what is seen with the higher truth. Gnosticism is a varied and ancient view of reality, predating Christianity and perhaps Judaism, so of course there are elements that are old or seem at odds with Christianity. Indeed, Gnosticism eventually took the terminology of Christian theology and blended it with existing philosophies from both within and without, creating a very complex, sophisticated mystery tradition that was much more focused on the individual's spirituality than the orthodoxies of the time.

Overall, this video was a rather interesting bit of visual magick, as many of Gaga's recent videos have been (think Alejandro, Bad Romance, etc). I really enjoy how she is pulling on ancient motifs and symbols to speak not only to our modern sensibilities but also our collective unconscious. This is high Art, and I tip my hat to all those brilliant minds that created the video to "Judas".

Pre-Game Planning

2011-05-03T15:04:00.000-07:00

So this is it. Tonight is the night that I start working on the next short story, shaping the rough edges into something vaguely resembling a coherent narrative.

Just kidding, it's gonna be great. This story sets up the back story of the Machinerys Cycle that I'm working on and introduces some characters that will be important later in the stories. I'm pretty stoked about it, since I had forgotten that I had that story written out in long hand.

All I have to do now is type up the rough draft and smooth out the wrinkles, add a few details, and get it ready to put for sale on the Kindle store. Speaking of... I need to download the program for my computer...

Always so much to do, it seems. Just keep leaping those hurdles.

A Journal from Eaarth

2011-05-01T21:49:00.000-07:00

It isn't over yet. It can't be. If I'm alive, then that means that I can still make an Art, I can shape the world around me. The Corporation can't have won, because I'm still drawing breath, I'm still feeling the sun on my skin. The sand around me may be drenched in the blood of all the others who gave their lives, but that I can see the rust-red grains means that I can still carry the torch, I can carry hope.

How long has it been since they owned the Municipality, since they owned the people? Surely since before I was born, since before I was aware of the suffering of the ones around me. Has it always been like this, perhaps? Have the few always commanded the many? All those people shooting at us this morning, are their minds and souls completely bought by the promise of the Info-grid and safety from the chaos of the world? Did they even think that they were killing humans while they gunned us down?

Do they fight for their dream, or for the dreams of others?

I don't have any answers. I don't know anything anymore. Everything I thought I knew was swept away in a crimson wave of realism, great slugs of truth ripping through our bodies and trucks.

I only know that I'm alive, and that gives me the possibility to carry the flag for freedom, for hope. If I'm the last one to have hope, I don't mind. If I'm the last free person on Eaarth, then let me be the last stand for everything it means to be human. Let me be the one who carries the banner of Outlaw into the belly of the beast, the last one whose blood runs in the streets of the Evil Ones.

Maybe, just maybe, my life will water the tree of liberty.

----
Excerpt from the Journal of Abigail of the Basin

The Division Begins

2011-04-29T14:12:00.000-07:00

When I was in high school, the student body divided itself along trends and politics, each kid choosing a label and sticking with it so as to have something to pin to their backpacks and coats. At the time, I thought it was harmless naivete, and compared to what I see happening now in college, it was.

Maybe it's because I waited four years before going to college, but as I round out my first year on campus, I've started watching friends drift apart from each other based on degree plans, engagements to marry, clubs, and now sororities.

Last night on Twitter someone I'm following reposted a tweet saying "If more women would sit down and be a lady, more men would stand up and be a gentleman". Being a bit hot-natured and feminist, I hastily replied along the lines of calling the poster a pillow biter (I thought it was a guy posting that). Turns out that the account that posted that one liner is a SORORITY account. Needless to say, I quickly amended my tweet to say that a real lady knows what it means to be a lady ('cause I think quickly on my feet sometimes).

Well, later that night the replies started coming in, two friends in particular apparently having had a Twitter snipe fest. After my roommate pointed out my faux pas, I began laughing and doing damage control, having a conversation with the two friends who had been flaming each other. As I meekly exited, stage left, it hit me: this is where the division begins.

You see, dear Stumblers and Followers, a lot of people around here take fraternities and sororities seriously. I guess it makes sense, people like to feel that they belong, but as the snarky hashtags and diatribes that were posted show, a lot of people use these organizations to schism among themselves, fuel added to the growing fire of hurt feelings and a sense of betrayal.

Personally, I don't understand the importance of Greek groups on campuses, but I also acknowledge that I'm a free spirit, so a lot of organizations are rather antithetical to who I am. However, I don't think that detracts from the value placed on them by those members who enjoy being part of something bigger than themselves. Indeed, value is subjective, and one man's trash is another man's treasure, as they say.

It is odd to me, however, that people would rather hide behind labels to rationalize their disdain for others rather than outright say "I just don't like you" or "I find your beliefs to be chafing". Is it wrong of me to think that we ought to just be honest with ourselves and others about our feelings?

Perhaps, in the end, I'm the naive one for thinking that we could unite and transcend our petty differences. Maybe we are more animal than I wish to concede. If that is the case, I can only be renewed in my determination to bring people together through humor and laughter (and maybe a bit of wine).

The Art of the Facepalm

2011-04-27T12:25:00.000-07:00

Leave it to me to end up sticking my foot in my mouth during an interview.

As you guys may have gathered, I'm still in the process of job hunting, and in the past six months I've landed an impressive two interviews. The first one, with a retail clothing outlet, went well, and I received a very nice email telling me, essentially, to fuck off because I didn't fit in with the company. I won't lose much sleep over that, seeing as the atmosphere in that store left much to be desired.

And then, today, I go to a local nursery and look around, getting a feel for the environment before ambling into the office and asking if they were hiring. Lo and behold, but they were, and there was another guy wanting to apply as well. He and I both took applications and filled them out, and when I finished mine he was finishing his interview.

The lady who interviewed me was very nice, had a very warm feeling to her vibe, and I felt confident as I introduced myself and told her about my major in Biology and interest in botany. We chatted for a few minutes, and I managed to turn in a resume as well (this is the first time I have ever messed with the damned things, so achievement unlocked!). Everything seemed to be going well, and she seemed really interested in me, so I thought I had everything in the bag.

And then she asked if I smoked.

Dear readers, I come from a household that when I told my sister I had found a roach in Dad's bathroom sink, she looked at me and asked, "You're talking about an insect, right?" So when the interviewer asked if I smoked, I couldn't stop myself. It was like a horrible slow motion scene in a movie, and I was watching from outside the film.

"You mean cigarettes? No, I don't smoke."

Her brown eyes looked to mine, crafty wrinkles playing around the corners of her mouth. "Do you smoke anything else?"

Frantically trying to hold back the blush, I spill out the story of how I've been clean for almost a year, and I'm doing my best to turn my life around (true enough: I am trying to better myself, after all). She nodded and said "Well good for you! I'm going to allow a few more days for other applications, but I'll let you know in a few days if we decide to hire you."

As I walked to my car after the interview, all I could think of was "Damn... Of all the times to do a facepalm, why now?" Sending a mass text message to friends and family to tell them the funny story, one friend messaged me back "Oh damn... She probably thinks you smoke meth". I asked her why she would think that, and was told that "most people don't say they've been clean from weed".

... I don't know about you guys, but I'm definitely thinking I am one of the world's best at putting my foot in my mouth. I've got it down to an art, really.

Eoster Hast Come (Let Us Paint Eggs in Celebration)

2011-04-24T12:04:00.000-07:00

So I'm not much of a theist, really (unless it's convenient), but Easter is one of those holidays that I love, mostly because of the inordinate amount of sugar that is used in the coordination of the celebration of rebirth and resurrection.

But I feel the need to point out that the holiday is, of course, a "holi day", and "holiness" is always about some imaginary sky fairy. Not that I'm against imagination, no, but it's my duty to my imaginary fairy to point out the truth as often as possible.

Easter was originally about worshipping Eoster, the spirit of fertility. That's how rabbits and eggs fit into the crucifixion story: you all know how the Church commandeered Pagan festivals to convert the masses. Apparently, the cunning use of chocolate will cause anyone to worship a bloody lunatic on a stick (a fact I have made note of).

Now that I've done my duty, enjoy the following pictures of cute Easter happiness. Happy Eoster, Stumblers and Followers!

Hurdles, and Why I Refuse to Doubt

2011-04-22T14:42:00.000-07:00

Trying to follow a dream is proving to be a challenge akin to climbing Mt Everest. True, it can be done, but do you realize how many people have plummeted to their deaths from 28,000 feet?

Of course, it isn't like I'm in actual danger of death, no. It's more like I'm in danger of spiritual death. Today I went to the mall here in Fort Smith to try to have some stones appraised (gotta sell what you have to get money, right?), and while I was there with a friend of mine several of her friends showed up and all had an impromptu hang out session. While they discussed their various jobs and I received a few dubious glances for not having one at the moment, I found myself staring off into space and eating a gyro for the first time (sidenote: lamb is delicious).

Of course, they all bitched and complained about having to go to work. It seems to be the American pasttime, to work a job one hates and then meet up with friends and have a mutual bitch fest about how horrible the minimum wage positions are. I'm not downing that particular activity (yet), but I am going to have a bitch fest of my own: just because you have a job does not give you the right to demean and devalue others who don't have one.

You see, dear Stumblers and followers, I've noticed over the past school year that a person's social worth is directly proportional to the money one is paid for whoring themselves out to a business. It's like a deranged badge of honor to work an exploitative job, and for some reason it seems the average American looks down their noses at those of us who can't get hired due to economy, situation, or personal history. Somehow, cleaning up after others, being a shoulder to cry on, offering advice and spending time with others when one could be working on their own jobs, these things don't count in American society. Being a genuine human is third-rate to being a cog in the machine.

But... It's just another hurdle, right? Another thing to face down and leap over. I'm not going to condemn these relative strangers for thinking less of me, for thinking me irresponsible simply because I don't have a soul-crushing job, but I will say this: just because you think your job is horrible, just because you hate your job, does not make you better than me. It doesn't give you the right to make snide comments and tell me what to do. These things are attacks on a person's faith, on their spirit, and those who would do that to people like me obviously have not learned the cardinal rule about us.

We. Refuse. To. Doubt. Period.

This dream I have, this inner vision, it is being achieved even while others look down on me for trusting myself. I have no problem with this, in the long run, because I know where I'm heading. I know how to leap the hurdles, while the rest of society seems to just want to stop and complain about the existence of the hurdles. Perspective, really, is all that this boils down to, and I refuse to doubt and compromise my own perspective.

The trick to riding lightning, dear readers, is to never see the flash.

After Luis Defeated Claire

2011-04-19T20:58:00.001-07:00

Luis watched Bartholomew stand up from Claire's cold body, wiping the blood from the gash in her side on his pant leg. The black haired Magus stared coldly at Luis, the young man taking a step backward as around them the Halfworld quivered. The anger floating from Bartholomew was cold, a rage that Luis had felt before, the night after he and Aksel had met at the Blue Lounge.

"You killed her," Bartholomew said, wiping some of the blood on his face and smelling his hand, "You killed my poppet."

"Just like you killed that innocent girl. Just like you killed those thugs a few weeks back. Yes, I killed your toy, Bartholomew, and now I've come to kill you."

Bartholomew laughed, his green eyes closing while Luis watched the blood streak his face. As a Beckoner, Luis could feel his Masques crying out from inside his mind, all the impulses and wild instincts begging to be let loose upon this maniac, this murderer who had killed without reason, killed in madness.

"Why did you do it?" Luis asked the madman.

"Why?" Bartholomew grinned, his face horrible in the moonlight, "Finally, a question that I can answer. Luis, you and I both know that there is more to life than what there seems to be. The fact that we are both here, in the Halfworld, about to duel to the death is a testament to that. But what about everyone else, all the people who go to work, go home, watch television, sleep, then repeat their meaningless existence again and again and again until they die? Why should they be allowed to live when those who have passed still have more life to live than those left in the world of seemings?"

Luis's brows knitted in shock. "You kill because they have no value?"

"Precisely. Those hoodlums, we both know they are merely a dead weight to society. Julia, my mentor... She had grown soft. She thought that everyone had a right to life as well, even though all despised her. That little girl... She would have grown up to be just as useless as all the others. Don't you see, Luis? In killing them, I gave their existence meaning. In death, they fuel your rage, your moral indignation. Without my actions, you would not have anything to expend your hatred upon."

The Beckoner shook his head. "Murder does not make anything meaningful. It takes meaning away."

Bartholomew's green eyes flickered open to stare at Luis.

"In the end, all meaning is subjective. Not even you nor I have any meaning except whatever we give ourselves. For that reason, I know that I will kill you tonight. My story has more value than yours, because you are merely the one pretending to be a hero. Face it, you weak-hearted Beckoner: you are only as strong as your own emotions. Your Art draws from yourself, and as long as it is only you, you are easily crushed."

"I think you're mistaken, Bartholomew," a voice said from behind the clocktower. Luis and Bartholomew looked through the grey of the Halfworld to see Aksel step from the shadows of the tower, his grey-granite eyes on Luis. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I am now."

Bartholomew smirked. "Good, it's better to kill two birds with one stone. You two are making my work difficult anyways. Aksel! You're just in time! Would you like to see Luis die first? Or would you sacrifice yourself to try to save him?"

Aksel was silent as he walked over to Luis, arms gently picking up the Beckoner as he turned away from Bartholomew.

"Not just yet, Bartholomew. We will meet in battle soon, but for now...," Aksel stepped away from the Death Magus, the air in the Halfworld stilling, "We all have our inner demons. May yours haunt you till the day you die."

From around him Bartholomew could hear soft weeping rise from the grey earth, the shadows echoing the sighs of those who had died and gone on ahead of them. While Bartholomew smiled at the sound of despair, he watched as Aksel carried the wounded Beckoner into nothingness, leaving him alone with the audio of his dark deeds.

"Yes... Soon we'll meet. And then I'll show you the weight of your own history."

Dear Luis

2011-04-17T10:10:00.000-07:00

I've been writing this story for six years, and now it comes to this. What is your purpose? Why do you exist in this story? I hope you clear that up for me soon, because it seems that everyone else knows what they are doing here. You have a lot of potential, and I really want to see you blossom as a character.

Don't let me down. :)

How to Get Twenty Thousand Dollars in One Year

2011-04-14T17:18:00.001-07:00

It's really simple to be paid 21,000 USD in the United States of America.

Go to school.

Funny how that works, huh?

A Teaser

2011-04-12T17:13:00.000-07:00

Hello, Stumblers and blog-fans! This is an excerpt from a novella I am currently working on. Please feel free to read it and leave a comment. Hope you enjoy it! :)

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

Lira had been reading through her tome when she felt the Call. From the kitchen she shared with Cara she heard the golem moan lowly.

"You felt that too?" Lira asked, marking her spot on the passage about illusions and glamours. Her golem replied as she left the armchair to check on her.

"That was stronger than I've ever known," Cara spoke. From the kitchen Lira could smell the coffee brewing. She smiled, glad that she and her creation shared a dependency on the hot, strong brew.

"Honey today, madam?" Cara asked her mistress, the human Magus smiling and kissing her on the cheek.

"Yes, please," Lira said, Cara blushing softly as she made two cups of coffee, pouring honey into ceramic mugs while Lira pulled the milk from their refrigerator.

Lira was older than most other students, twenty-six years old where most others were in their late teens to early twenties. She had spent the past twenty years studying the Art of Magery, and during her apprenticeship to an old Magus she had crafted Cara from river clay and lines of forbidden scriptures. Upon her success her mentor had declared her a full Magus. Having completed her training at twenty-five, Lira decided to go to college to become a psychologist.

"Should we answer the Call, madam?" Cara asked Lira as she poured the coffee.

Lira shook her head.

"I don't trust it. Someone has been playing with the Otherside around here; that Call could be a trap."

The golem nodded.

"It's odd. You humans tend to gravitate toward traps and domination. Why is that?"

Lira added milk to their coffee.

"We have been asking that question since the beginning of time, Cara. The most I can say is that the fear of dying leads humans to do not-so-kind things."

Cara nodded as they took their coffee into the living room, blinds lowered against the afternoon sun. Lira resumed reading her thick book while Cara read through her programming textbook. Lira watched her over the top of her tome, the blonde golem unaware that she was under observation. Her creator's dark green eyes traced the curves of Cara's body, each contour shaped by Lira's hands. The process had taken well over a month, the rituals for animating a clay doll being akin to neurosurgery in their complexity.

Now, admiring the creature as it learned and made plans for its own life, Lira felt a pang of regret, a slight bit of sick shame. Cara was mortal, beautifully so, and Lira had not intended to grow attached to her creation. She had only given Cara four years of existence, and as the second year was coming to a close Cara's oblivion grew heavier on Lira's heart with every passing day.

Lira sighed, sipping at the steaming mug of caramel-coloured coffee. Occasionally, like now, she wondered if she should tell Cara of her looming expiration date. Was it fair to let the golem work and plan and live under the delusion of a longer life expectancy?

Cara looked up to Lira, her blue eyes smiling in the soft afternoon light. "Is there something on your mind?"

A small smile crossed Lira's face.

"I think we may go check out that Call after the sun sets. Did you get a fix on where it came from?"

The golem nodded, her genesis from the earth giving her a connection to anything that happened on the ground. "There is a small park to the east. It felt like it came from that direction."

Lira nodded.

"The newer park. Not very many people know about it yet. We will have to be careful."

Cara nodded. "Of course, madam."

And that was that, each drinking her coffee as study resumed in the last of the daylight hours.