self Sagax

A fictional situation that somewhat involves turtles

2018-09-04T07:15:00.001-04:00

Have you ever thought about what a turtle might look like without its shell? What I mean is, I know there are tons of cartoons that treat a turtle shell like clothing and when they pop out of it they’re just nondescript round-headed lizards. So, what if there were some real life version of this? I assume it wouldn’t be great for the turtle, since their shell is basically their spine. It would just be some gooey creature that still had arm bones and leg bones and neck and head bones but without anything to anchor them. Sure, it would survive just fine as long as it had some food within beak-range. It wouldn’t be able to walk or anything. Imagine maybe a thumb without a hand. Opposability evaporates without something to oppose. So a turtle without a shell is probably just five wayward thumbs I guess.
“I used to collect turtle shells.” I told her. Her face was blank in response. I knew it was a stupid thing to say but it has been years honestly since I cared about trying to be interesting. Years since I wanted attention. It’s an easy feeling to lose and a terrifying one to regain. She stared out into the distance, perhaps wondering if continuing to humor me was a better alternative than going back inside to the party that was winding down.
“I would find them,” I continued, “all around the woods by my grandma’s house. They were mostly snapping turtles, but sometimes there were painted turtles or box turtles. One time I even found an Eastern Spiny shell. I didn’t even really have to look for them, they always just stood out to me, like how some people always manage to spot four-leaf clovers.” I couldn’t tell you, even hours later now as I sit here nursing my lonely scotch, why I picked this lie. It wasn’t completely a lie mind you. Tommy always found the shells. He would take them home, and clean them, soaking them with salt and borax, scrubbing them with a toothbrush, using a paintbrush to coat them with polyurethane. I used to be fascinated with the morbidity of the process but remembering it now just turned my stomach. In for a penny, in for a pound I guess. “My uncle was a taxidermist, so he would preserve them for me.” My uncle is a manager at Staples and is a strict vegetarian.
A flicker in my brain finally tells me to do the right thing. Or maybe, as the case may be, the least wrong thing. I stop talking. I watched her thumb as it rolled the thin chain of her bracelet back, forth, back, forth, the precision of a long-practiced fidget. A thumb with a hand, opposable. Her face was still blank, her eyes looking over the balcony and following the path of a delivery person on a bicycle. Time was dilating in that way that you’re either excited or terrified. I thought it was the former but in retrospect it was certainly the latter. Regardless it felt like a day investigate the temporal measures further had passed and I might have the salvation of her inattention.
“Where are they now?” she asked quietly. It was a tone dripping with disinterest. Her eyes glanced down at her glass as she swirled the wispy remnants of ice cubes floating at the top of her untouched cocktail. I think of the unshelled turtle, this time on its back. It can bend its knees and snap its jaws but it’s otherwise useless, spineless and fragile. Tommy puts its colorful carapace gently in a shoebox marked “painted” and carefully returns the box to the shelf. One more unhomed soul with its most useful pieces carefully and lovingly preserved.
My tongue is dry, and I can feel hot tears trying to press themselves out of my eyes as my embarrassment grows. ‘I’m sorry’ I want to say. ‘You don’t deserve this’ floats across the on deck circle of words, but that’s even worse. My mind is racing with all the ways this went wrong. With all the ways I made this wrong. Anything worth saying evaporates. I decide to throw away my shovel and stop digging.
“I’ll leave you alone. Have a good night.” I somehow manage to get through all eight words without my throat catching. It’s not until I’ve almost slid the glass door entirely shut that I hear a half-hearted “g’night.” I wonder for the millionth time why apathy never works out for me. Why my brain turns to mush when I try to escape it. Better to hold it inside then to have it spill in someone else’s yard. Better to put the turtle in the shell so it’s not a sack of useless thumbs.

A very self Sagax New Year.

2016-01-01T03:24:00.000-05:00

I don’t have any kids of my own. Beyond a brief period in my twenties when I was sure I had found my other half, I don’t know that I’ve ever really wanted any. Perhaps I’ve fallen victim to the same syndrome that so many others of my generation have, that of this sort of perpetual youth, or some selfish belief that everything in life has to be all about me (I find this as cringe-worthy internally as much as the detractors of this behavior do, it must be noted. But I live with and by my choices.) However, this isn’t about that. Suffice it to say that I have yet to reach a point in my life where I felt self-sufficient enough to even consider bringing a life in that would be entirely dependent on me. But I digress.
About this time last year, I was feeling rather impulsive. I drove four hours (eight, round-trip) to see a podcast taping in Huntington, West Virginia. I made some plans to meet up with a few total strangers who were going to be there for the exact same reason, and I even went as far as meeting up at the location, a bar and grill, but I ended up sitting at the bar by myself. I saw them at a table across the room, but I couldn’t bring myself to join them. It seemed my uncharacteristic impulsiveness was still not enough to pierce my bubble of ridiculously stupid social anxiety. I texted some excuses to them, pretending I hadn’t been able to find the place. I went to the show, I laughed, I cried, I had a great time, and I left almost immediately afterwards, not even bothering to wait a few minutes to meet the hosts (of whom I’m a huge fan.)
While at this show, I purchased a tote bag, on which was emblazoned one of the shows catchphrases “PACK YOUR BAGS AND MOVE AWAY.” It was a jokey bit of repeated advice, used as a laugh from some very socially inept brothers as a catch-all for when one finds oneself in an awkward situation, usually involving an ex-girl/boyfriend. It was a matter of months before I did exactly what the bag said.
To shorten a long, long, set of stories [note- this still runs a bit long. Stick with it though, the author is building to a point which the next few paragraphs will help inform. – Ed.] I had stagnated. I loved my job, but to stay was to commit to something that, while I enjoyed and was good at, was inextricably tying me to a place that I was quickly growing complacent in. I loved (and still do) the family and friends I was surrounded by, but pieces of me were withering and atrophying as I watched them carry on with their lives, getting married, having children, starting careers, while my life remained unchanged. My love life was, quite simply put, non-extant. I was living my days as a crutch, physical or emotional, for damaged people. A great backboard for rebound feelings, because I was adept at running through the motions of empathy for a broken heart. I’d be lying if I said I was anything other than a magnet for lost souls, being a lost soul myself who still held some spark of hope that others mistook for warmth. My passion for writing, which in the previous years had seemed an unstoppable blaze, seemed to be dwindling to ashes after the death of my brother. The fire was still there, but it was becoming harder and harder to stoke with each passing day. I felt like a walking piece of unfinished business, a burden and a raincloud to everyone I passed by.
Now, a note here about depression: It isn’t ever really the same for any two people, nor do any two people deal with depression the same way. No, I was never clinically diagnosed with it. Paying out of picket without insurance to figure out the validity of my general shittiness and general malaise seems a little counter-intuitive. So absolutely I self-diagnosed what I believed to be my condition. The symptoms matched, to say the least. Over the course of months I probably spent four or five nights a week staying up until 5 in the morning drinking cheap shit rotgut whiskey googling signs of depression, all the while ignoring the irony. I spent even more time trying to find free counseling resources, which in what amounts to rural North Carolina, consist of religious counseling or crystal therapy. There was a business card in my wallet that I had gotten from my mother, from her work, after my brother died, that covered anyone in the family for a few free sessions in the case of just such a life event. By the time I threw it away, the corners were gone and the edges were frayed so much they felt like cotton. I never called them.
I’m a strong believer in therapy. I just don’t know if it would work very well for me. I love talking to strangers about my woes and vulnerabilities, unburdening myself onto people that have no idea who I am for as long as they’re willing to listen. The problem is that once I’ve unleaded my problems onto people, I lose any desire to associate with them after the fact. Once they’ve peeked into my underbelly I’d rather they not see my face ever again. It’s totally fair to say that I’m using people in this regard, and that I’ve been extremely unkind to a great number of people because of this. It’s true. And I’ve never even known how to say sorry, how to explain that it was never my intent to earn their sympathy and abandon them when they needed mine. I am sorry. It doesn’t make things right, but I am.
But I’ve beleaguered a few short points and need to regain my thread. I move. I escaped a place I thought would be my grave, both physically and mentally. I moved away, and while I gained nearly nothing in the way of self-sufficiency in the act, I did gain something that I never realized I’d been living without for most of my adult life: autonomy.
When I moved to New York City, I had the first real shock to my senses. Everyone I knew was happy for me. Where I secretly feared it was a massive failure in judgment, my brother Scott became the first of many to echo the sentiment (while in the back of an Uber, drunk and crying) that “it just makes sense.” The people in my life who I only knew a little seemed confused, and often appalled by the idea I would leave the quiet country life for what is quintessentially ‘the city.’ But those whose opinions really mattered to me, without exception, not only enthusiastically supported my choice, but held no doubt that it was the right one for me. It was a feeling unparalleled in my life, to have the unequivocal support of the people I cared about, especially for an idea I had considered to be insanely impulsive and spur of the moment.

I walked downstairs a while ago, headphones in my ears blasting Amanda Palmer’s “Smile (pictures or it didn’t happen)” and watched the New Year’s countdown tick over to 2016. A random guy up the block yelled at the top of his lungs “HAPPY NEW YEAR’S YOU PUSSIES” to nobody in particular. Up and down the street, open windows blared noisemakers and cheers. A lone firework went off about 10 blocks up, loud enough to be a gunshot. Halfway down the island, the event that millions of people every year tune their TV to was happening. I was sipping whiskey out of a mason jar and wearing flip-flops, alone in a city of millions. When I came back upstairs to my apartment, I ordered some cardboard cat scratch refills, a pair of gloves, and pajama pants on amazon, poured myself another drink, and kept writing.

So here we come to the part I’ve been meaning to get to. I haven’t changed at all since I moved here. I’m still the same person I was a year ago. I’m still struggling with my depression, with anxiety, both social and internal. I still have an unhealthy attachment to my cat. This city gives you a choice at any given time. You are welcome to be alone in a crowd, or live your life well out loud in front of everyone. Funny enough, it’s actually pretty easy to do both simultaneously, as most everyone wants to get about their day and want to have as little to do with you as possible unless you’re engaging them directly. It’s beautiful and it’s lonely and magical and a little bit sad but also hopeful. For every person who will tell you New York is a city that is rude and smelly and awful, I can tell you that for every drunk asshole or insane person on the subway, I’ve met dozens of people who are more than willing to greet you with a smile and a hello, not afraid to talk to you on the street (if you aren’t asking for money,) socialize, give you directions or recommendations, or just be friendly. It’s just like any small town I’ve lived in, it just happens to be a few thousand of them crammed all together. The traffic sucks though, if you drive.
I moved here to live with my cousin and help her out with her kids, and this is the crux of this whole thing. I’m living in the place I’ve dreamed of for years, experiencing a whole new world, and at the same time I’ve become a caretaker for children, which, on my list of priorities, has always kind of been dead last. I am not a parent, but in so many ways I’ve come to understand the job. I’ve seen the joys and sorrows, and the growing that children will foist upon you; the loss of solitude and of greed that comes along with having to ensure that others needs come before your own. It’s disturbing at first how much you influence children just by the very nature of being around them. Only at first though, because then you realize that it’s not only a duty, but a pleasure to curate the lives growing formatively around you. To make sure you’re exposing them to the best of culture, to find the things they enjoy and flesh those joys out, whether it be going to see a movie or just playing a videogame with them and showing them new things they hadn’t seen before. Or, most importantly, letting them take the lead and show you new things.
I haven’t changed at all since I’ve moved here, but oh my how I’ve grown. Even just as a byproduct of having a snapshot of the last year of these kids’ lives. Seeing how much they have grown and changed in so short a time, and every day with them has done nothing but reaffirmed my belief that this was the right choice for me, underlining what everyone was telling me from the moment I floated the idea of moving here to begin with. It’s absolutely nothing like what I thought it would be, and that’s been the most incredible part.
I don’t have any kids of my own. I don’t know that I’ll ever really want them. But I will live the rest of my life knowing that to these kids I’ve made an impact. I’ve become an inextricable part of their lives, and a strong influence. I have the benefit of being both a friend and an authority (barely, it’s hard at times to get them to grant the latter) rather than a parent. I wouldn’t call myself a role model, as at times I have to cite myself as the ‘bad example’ for life choices. Also sometimes I say a lot of swear words or tell dirty jokes and they’ll start parroting me, more to my embarrassment than their own. I can be as bad an influence as I am a good one. So whether or not I ever wanted kids, I kinda have several. And as insanely much as they have grown, I can’t help but feel like they’ve made me grow even more. I think this whole moving to New York idea was a good one after all, and I’m certain there’s going to be a lot more wonderful to come in the new year. So happy New Year’s to you all. You pussies.

ouch

2012-09-14T12:00:00.000-04:00

I know it's not the norm, but this week you get poetry. I like it, I don't care what you think!

____ in the Dark

There was running. I wasn't sure if it was towards

or away

but there was running.

The rain was soft, sweetly rolling

from her brow

down

to her eyes

twining through the mascara

and tears

down her nose

and onto her lips.

The lips, quivering with the hastened breath

and out

gasping a mixture of fear and relief

that she had found me

but in reality I had found her.

It wasn't supposed to end this way.

I knew I would love her,

but she was never supposed to love me back.

There was a knife. I wasn't sure

where it had come from

but I knew exactly where

it ended up.

The red of her dress

already darkened

by the

became a shade of crimson deeper than before.

The worst part

the part that

tore a h le in me.

Was the look in her eye

and she understood

and she loved me anyways.

There was running.

Away. Always, always away.

Habberdashery

2012-09-07T12:00:00.000-04:00

The story: I told her I would cook dinner. We hadn't had any more than a passing hello for months, and we haphazardly managed to get to the same bar on the same night to see the same guy play his guitar. It was nice to do that, but the fact that the rest of my night was littered with a half-dozen other random appearances by friends I hadn't seen in a while coupled with loud music and random meetings from the other patrons left us little room for any real conversation. So we, like the techno-savvy folks we are, made a note in our Google calendars for a nice private, more intimate reconciliation. I say intimate in that it would be the two of us, not in the way that carries a connotation of romantic involvement. For the record.
So the stage was set, and I brought my 'fixins' for roasting, sauteing, and ultimately consuming. Perhaps it was a bit naïve of me to think this would be simply a friendly dinner and chat session. In all honesty, I don't think I ever made that assumption, but it may have still been somewhere in the back of my head. To turn a long into a short, the Engineer is a woman who has always challenged me. Not in a confrontational manner, in fact, quite the opposite. I can't really explain why she and I have always had such an easy and open rapport, but that's the fact of the matter.
She warned me that after the prep and pleasantries were over with, she would become more direct, and potentially ask some pushy questions. Of course, I acquiesced. So while the oven performed its transformation of raw ingredients into cooked ones, we sat and had an impromptu interview (on the record, literally) about the blog, my writing, and why I have left it in the dust for the time being. In the end, my answer kept landing on one thing: laziness. It was honest.
If you want full disclosure, I've had a lot to write about lately, just not the drive to get it done. I don't know how much of it will end up here, and how much of it will stay in the ether, baking into a golden crust or (more likely) a burnt carbon of an idea, something which I have over-thought and decided to let decay.
And, in perhaps not the same words, she later asked me how hard could it be for me to spit out a few hundred words on a weekly basis and get them online. Her points being mainly that I myself have stated many times that this blog was more for stretching my writer muscles than it was for showcasing actual work, and that I never seemed to lack for ideas and opinions about things. Now whenever I get a person asking me the “how hard could it be” line of questioning, I usually have a knee-jerk reaction of asking them what exactly they are writing at the moment; in this case I knew that such a question would serve to make me look like an idiot. See, the Engineer writes and maintains SEVERAL blogs, a couple websites, a batch of Facebook pages and Twitter accounts that see regular updating, and she churns out a fairly sizable amount of content every week, if not every day. If I was looking for a way out, I could have potentially argued that for her content was her job, and her dream, and she didn't have a day-job to contend with her time, and blah blah blah excuse excuse. Which is complete horseshit. The fact that she has a child is more than enough to kill my argument of other obligations. Also the fact that my day-job doesn't really take up more than 20-30 hours a week of my time. And that I had already admitted to spending most of my time sitting in front of my computer with my fat cat napping in my lap looking at memes for hours at a time. Or watching entire series of shows on Netflix. Or just reading books.
So yeah, I was in a corner, but she tossed me a line. Rather, she gave me a homework assignment. I was to have it completed within two weeks. I mentioned my hat, in passing. One I had lost a few years back. She looked at me, and said, “There you go. Write about your hat. Write a post about your hat, and have it done by next Thursday.” I laughed it off, but later that night, after I was in bed and with a few drinks in me, I thought about it. All the next day, I kept thinking. Then I started writing.

The Hat Is Not A Metaphor

I found it at Target. My girlfriend at the time would frequently drag me out there and, as is the duty of all boyfriends, I obliged with some small amount of groaning and sighing. While she was in the dressing room, I liked to dig around the Men's department, or (if she was taking too long) find my way to the video games to see what was on sale. This day, I found myself at a shelf of hats, popping them on to see how silly each one made me look.
I've never been one for a hat. I could occasionally pull off a baseball cap, but like any accessory, I was always more prone to forget to even put it on in the first place. That along with the fact that baseball caps always seem to have a need to promote something, be it a team, or a soda, or a business, and there are very few things in my life I have had so fervent a liking for that I felt the need to advertise them on clothing.
My hand landed eventually on what would soon be my constant companion: a black, cloth, pin-striped fedora. One could say, with some accuracy, that it was more likely a trilby hat as it was shorter in brim and in crown than most fedora hats. I did a double, maybe even a triple-take when I tried this one on. Hats like that always look ridiculous on me, but for some reason this one stuck out. It fit. It was, in the immortal words of Goldilocks, just right. My girlfriend's face appeared in the mirror behind me.
“I like it.” I told her.
“Then buy it.” She replied with a smile. I was hoping she would tell me it looked silly so as to remove the consideration completely from my head. I should have known better, but maybe I hadn't quite figured out that when it came to shopping, she was completely an enabler. Still, I didn't immediately decide it was mine. Instead, I wore it around the store, on the constant back and forth trips from the dressing room to the Women's department. I think at one point, I even put it back. But, as I'm sure the more astute of you have surmised by now, it was on my head when I left the store. I paid for it, of course.
It wasn't, for me, Just A Hat. I wanted it to be part of what identified me physically. I made a conscious and concerted effort to make sure I was wearing it as often as I could. Part of this was because it was so unexpected, for me, to find a hat that actually fit me and complemented me, and the other part was just a little idea that I would like being The Guy With The Hat. It didn't take long for that identity to stick, as I began to notice on the rare occasions that I forgot to wear it, people would ask about it.
I loved that hat. It went everywhere with me. Nine states, two beaches, two graduations, a vow renewal, several family vacations. It stopped being an accessory, and just started being My Hat. It was rough and tumble, never lost its shape, and no matter how many times I misplaced it, I could always trust that it would find its way home. I was going to post pictures of the various things I was doing while wearing this hat, but I hesitate because I don't have very many of them, and the ones I do have are filled with other people whose permissions I don't have to put them on the internet.
Tragedy struck, as it always does and is wont to do. I left my hat on the chair next to me while I was out to dinner with my family. I didn't quite realize it until the next day, and when I went to retrieve it, it was nowhere to be found. I was distraught. It's fair to say that I kept it to myself, I tend to do that when I'm hurting.
But before long, shit went south in my life. I had a lot more to think about than the hat, and soon it was a memory. When the storm settled, I started buying more. Target no longer had the one I had bought, and I went around to every single one withing 50 miles to make sure. I began ordering them online. Too small, too big, too stiff. Goldilocks all over again, but without the just right. I think all told, I bought seven hats, landing on a straw hat that fit well enough, and even fixing a nice flower to it to class it up a bit.

Eventually, that hat faded by the wayside, to the point that I can't even honestly answer to where it is now. Even when I was wearing it, I knew it wasn't a permanent solution. I never became attached. It was fun, and filled the void that the previous hat had occupied, but in the end... it just didn't fit. So I laid it down, or forgot it, or left it, and put it out of my mind. I decided I was OK without a hat. So for about year or two, I decided that I didn't need a hat. I am who I am, with or without my coiffure.
Enter: this introspective. I don't know why my conversation with The Engineer brought up memories of the hat, but here we are. I do miss my hat. It was a part of me, for a while, but it isn't anymore. I couldn't have that hat again, no matter how much I dig for it. Maybe it's just time to move on. I've been trying so long to find a hat to replace the one I lost, maybe it's just time to find a new hat, a hat that just is hat it is. The hat, by the way, is (not) a metaphor.

Sprechen

2012-08-31T12:00:00.000-04:00

I didn't even realize that I was crying until I felt gravity pull the droplet from my cheek. Sure, there was an emotional tinge to the moment, but it was entirely impersonal. To be clear, I was only watching a movie. This is not to say that I don't cry at movies. I've done so for several dozen of them. To this day, I cry like a baby at the end of Milo and Otis, and I've seen it at least a hundred times. What made it different this time was that I simply had no clue it was happening. It was as if my body had betrayed me.

I have a strange relationship with my tears. There have been moments, heart-crushing, soul-rending moments in my life, moments where I knew I should let the floodgates open, and couldn't squeeze out a drop. It's not some macho manly never-cry-because-it-shows-weakness societal pressure, I couldn't give half of a shit about that idea. But movies, stories, or just thinking about something really touching, or sad, as long as it has nothing to do with me, and the waterworks will flow unhindered.

So why is it that I can't seem to express this when it comes to my own life? It seems the only time I can cry for myself is out of frustration, when I've run out of options completely.

I walked out of the theater in silence, got into my car, and began driving home. The night was unusually quiet for a Saturday, but not in a bad way. I contemplated doing the entire fifteen minute drive in silence, but finally caved and put on Pandora, which of course quickly filled itself with sappy-sad bitterly emotional songs that tend to be a majority of my favorite station. Even then, I can't help but think. This singular moment wherein I had no idea that I had tears running down my face had spooked me.

I began to over-analyze it, as per my usual habit. I wonder, for the first time, if I just don't know the language of my own emotions. There's another me inside, the one who feels things, and he just doesn't sprechen in a way that the me who is making decisions and having life happen to him can begreifen. Maybe that's the crux. Maybe the reason that it's so easy for external influences to bring me to tears, because they are able to just communicate to both individually, instead of trying to get a conversation started between the two of us.

I feel like some angst-ridden adolescent, trying to claim my discovery of what real sadness means. As if I'm the first person who can truly scream out “nobody understands me!” but instead of this being a fight with a friend or a parent, these two voices are in my head, casting aspersions at one another.

The timing of this whole debacle could be better. I recently have made the decision to get back on course with improving my life. Lose weight, drink less, try to actually and finally quit smoking. Maybe find a second job, something with decent insurance so I can get my eyes checked and start working on getting my teeth fixed. All of these sorts of self-bettering habits should generally inspire, or at least be inspired by, some semblance of a healthy relationship of and with the self. Now I'm beginning to see how terrible I've let that particular relationship backslide.

And I did it in the easiest way possible. I convinced myself I was just succumbing to an inherent introversion, or perhaps a self-righteous shyness brought on by hurt. I could sit next to a person, with a hundred feelings I needed to tell them about, but I couldn't, literally, could not put them into words. I don't know where or when I got so disconnected from this level of emotional communication.

It's not an excuse. I'm not saying it's a sickness. I'm not shifting the blame, because it's still my problem. The first step to fixing a problem is admitting you have one. Better yet, the first step to solving a problem is figuring out what the fuck exactly the problem is. I thought it was fear, that I was shy, or playing things close to the chest. Yes, that's a bit of it, but when I bring this up to people, people who really know me, bashful and diffident are usually the last words they would use to describe me. I do have a bit of anxiety when it comes to meeting new people, but it passes almost instantaneously. I'm not the most tactful in social situations with strangers, but I'm usually unscathed by being misunderstood.

I just don't know how to say what I feel, what I really mean. And that's it. I've become so disconnected from the part of me that feels that I just don't know what it's saying anymore. But now that the elephant has been introduced, the only thing I can do from here is find the peanut trail that will lead it out. Throw one more log on the pile of self-improvement, I guess.

Home

2012-05-25T18:03:00.001-04:00

So, admittedly, I put myself in a situation where I was counting several unhatched chickens, thereby immediately missing two weeks of deadlines. My bad. I have been working on a lot of projects though, and I promise you'll all see some of the fruits of those labors at future junctures.

One of my biggest setbacks has been this story, the one you are about to read. I have been trying for at least six months to re-write this story. It's something I've wanted to do for a long time, and I finally put myself to the task, not quite realizing how herculean it would become. It seems simple, rewriting a 2000 word story, and certainly something that could be done in a matter of days, if not hours. Again, I've been working on it for SIX MONTHS. And you know what? Every time I try, I make it worse.

When I re-read it for the first time in years, it seemed so juvenile, so out-of-touch, and just not quite right. And after spending way more hours re-writing it than I ever spent thinking about it in the first place, I came to this conclusion: It may not be quite right, but it's as close as I'm ever going to be able to get with this one.

So instead of letting you all drag on for months more waiting on a fruitless endeavor, I bring you the original, only slightly edited story.

Bring Me Home

Celeste stepped out of the shower, and dried herself off. Somberly, she wrapped her hair and lay down on her bed. Their bed, she thought. No- he was gone now. Why had it happened this way? She turned her head and looked at the clock. 8:30. She put on her bathrobe and blow-dried her hair.

She paused as she was pulling her dress out of the closet. She put it back. Scooping the phone out of the cradle, Celeste sighed, and dialed the number.

“Hello?” the voice answered.

“Hey Paul.”

“Celeste? Hey what’s up?”

“Listen Paul, I… um…” Did she? Yes. “I have to cancel for tonight.”

“What?! The dinner is in a half-hour, what am I going to tell everyone?”

“I don’t care. Tell them I got suddenly ill or something. I dunno. I don’t give a shit. ”

There was a pause. Then, “What the hell is up with you? Is this about Seth? Did he call? Listen, if I see him I’ll-”

“Shut up Paul. Just shut up.”

“I’ll go kick his ass right-”

“Paul, shut the fuck up!” she stopped, took a breath. “No, he didn’t call. And this is not about him. I just decided that if I have to sit through one more night of you and your prissy college friends babbling back and forth to one another about inane shit while I sit there on your arm looking pretty, I would have to put a bullet in my head.”

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“Fuck you Paul.” She hung up the phone and sighed. It rang. “Hello?”

“Celeste, I’m coming over.”

“Paul? No, don’t come over, I’m going to bed.” She lied.

“No, we have to talk. If I can get a cab fast I’ll be there in fifteen.” He was worried and angry. What an ass, Celeste thought.

“Paul, we don’t have anything to talk about. I’m fine.” Then, on second thought, “In fact, I think we’re done talking altogether. Don’t call me anymore.”

“Celeste, I’m coming over now.”

“Do it and I’ll call the cops on you. You’re self-absorbed, empty-headed, and I hope I’m the first to say it, but you’re bad in bed. Very bad. We’re through talking, now and forever. Bye.”

What was she doing? Paul wasn’t that bad of a guy. But he was no Seth. No- Seth had hurt her, and Paul would never do that. It would be bad for his reputation. That’s why she did it… all she was to Paul was a reflection of status. What an ass. The phone rang again.

“Goddamn it Paul-”

“Celeste?”

“Seth?!”

No, this couldn’t be right… she hadn’t even heard from him in… what? Two months? Three? After they broke up, they had still talked. She had been lonely one night, had invited him over, and they had… but nothing since then. Seth had understood that she still didn’t want him. He always understood those moods. She had been dating Paul for about a week at that point, and when she told Paul what happened… well, it hadn’t been pretty.

Since then, as far as Paul was concerned, Celeste could do no wrong. Any bad mood, and temper, anything Paul could find wrong was blamed on Seth. She had loved Seth, but he had hurt her, and it was over. Since that one night she hadn’t so much as said a word to him. Not because of Paul, but because she believed it was the only way she could have any sort of closure.

She started to shake a bit, and gawked at the receiver… some closure.

III

“Seth?!”

“Hey, sorry to call so late.” She looked at the clock. It was 9:10. Seth always got so nervous calling after 9:00. Just one of his thousands of idiosyncrasies. “But I…” His voice trailed off.

“Are you OK? Are you hurt?” her voice came out in real concern- something she hadn’t intended.

“No… I mean- no.” There was silence for a few moments. What could he seriously be calling for? He seemed troubled… but… “Can I stay with you tonight?”

“What?!”

“I mean, I don’t have anywhere else to go… I can stay on the couch like last time- erm, sorry, I just…” He was fumbling his words. He only stuttered like this when he was scared- or nervous. “I wouldn’t be asking you unless I had nowhere else to go… shit, I didn’t mean it like that, I just-”

“Seth, stop.”

“Sorry, I just-”

“Seth!”

“Yeah?”

“Come over.” She hung up the phone. She knew that the longer he stammered on, the more pitiful he would be. He was so adorable when he was pitiful, and she hated it. She slipped on some clothes- underwear, a tank-top and sweatpants, then grabbed a pillow and some blankets and went downstairs to the cramped living room. Fifteen minutes later, she heard the familiar ‘tat-tatta-tat-tat’ at the door.

Oh god, she thought to herself when she opened the door. He looked just as pitiful as he had sounded. His chin length hair was soaked through, his coat dark with moisture, as were his faded, ripped jeans. Even though he stood a head taller than her, he couldn’t have looked any smaller. Like a wet cat, she thought. “Come in, give me your jacket. Did you walk here or something?”

“Well you know me…” he muttered with a stupid, shy smile, “always gotta make things difficult.” He reached inside his jacket and proffered a bottle of wine. “It’s a goodwill gesture. It’s all I could grab from my apartment.”

She took the wine and hung up his coat. As she walked towards the kitchen, she said “So what’s up? What’s the emergency?”

“Well,” he paused, “about two months ago, I got fired, and I’ve been looking around for a job. In the meantime, a guy’s gotta eat, so I had to sell some things off for food. Then, of course, before long rent was due… and before I knew it, the apartment ended up being a mattress, a radio and the fridge. I came home today from a job interview to find a notice on the door, evicted as of tomorrow. So I grabbed the wine and split.”

Celeste came back in carrying two mugs the now-open bottle of wine. “My god… what are you going to do?” she set the cups down, already filled.

"I haven’t quite gotten that far yet. I mean things are just so fucked up right now. And…” he sighed, then gulped the wine, and added softly “And I’m lonely.” He looked into her eyes, but quickly looked away, and downed his glass of wine. “Sorry, I’m not being fair.”

Celeste sat in silence. She looked down into her own glass, realizing she had already emptied it. “You’re goddamn right you’re not.” She said weakly. They both finished a second, then third glass without speaking.

“So how’s work?” Seth asked. He filled up his glass again. He was always really bad at changing the subject.

“Same shit,” she mumbled unenthusiastically “different day.” She could feel the wine starting to hit her. So she finished off her fourth glass and said “look, I’ve had a pretty long day, and as I could imagine you have too. I’m going to go to bed. There’s a blanket and pillow for you.” She hugged him, and started up the stairs. Stopping halfway up, she turned. “If you’re up before I am, make some coffee.”

“Got it.”

“And Seth?”

“Yeah?”

“Sleep well.”

She went into her room, and stripped off her sweatpants and tank-top. She lay on top of the covers, feeling too warm to get underneath. She had been drinking too fast, she scolded herself, especially since they had been drinking out of big mugs.

Before long, she realized she was well and truly drunk. She stared at the ceiling, and thought.

Seth lay silently on the couch, for the moment unable to sleep. He shouldn’t have pushed her, he thought, he wanted to take it back. The wine hit his bladder, and he got up and went to the bathroom. He lingered a moment after washing his face and hands, picking up and smelling various lotions and perfumes. They were all so familiar. They smelled like home.

He walked back into the living room, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. As he got closer to the couch, he thought he saw… no. But there she was, standing at the top of the stairs. As his eyes grew accustomed to the moonlight, he picked out every detail. Her long blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders, covering her bare breasts and most of her torso. She was wearing a pair of light purple panties he seemed to recall buying for her. He caught the gleam against her pale green eyes.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, he tried to use some reason. “Celeste, we shouldn’t. You’ve been drinking. We’ve both been drinking, this won’t get us anywhere. That, and Paul will never-” She put her finger to his lips.

“There is no Paul anymore.” She brought her arms around his waist. “And believe me, I want this.” She leaned up and kissed him, drawing him in. They fell against the couch, absorbed in each other. Time lurched on, passions raging between the two- the passion of those who have loved and lost, the passion poets dream about, singers sing about, and every soul burns for. The heat of their bodies against one another, sweat singing the praises of the night. As time ticked on, they existed only for one another. They made love, and love made them whole.

Nothing stirred. She lay against his chest listening to his heartbeat. “Make a wish.” He whispered.

“What?”

“It’s 11:11. Make a wish.” He said. She giggled. “So what now?”

“Don’t tell me you want to do it again.”

This time he giggled. Then his voice took on a bit of seriousness. “No, I mean… Where do we go from here?”

She thought for a moment, and a frown crept across her face. “Nobody could ever hurt me the way you did.”

“I know, and I could never begin to tell you how I ache every day because of it. And how sor-”

“No, I didn’t mean it like that. I’ve never loved anybody more. When I say nobody could, I mean it literally. I’ve never loved anybody enough to let them become that close to me, to be capable of it.” With tears holding off in the corner of her eyes, she smiled a strange smile at him.

“A strong compliment.”

"And I mean it.” She stayed quiet after that.

“I’ve missed you. Every day. I still have your picture by my bed. I pawned off the frame, but I still have the picture.” She didn’t respond for a few minutes. He thought she had gone to sleep.

“Are you going to get a job?”

“They told me at the interview that I start Monday.” Sweat still hung in the air, the smell of sex still lingering on their bodies. Celeste put her hand on his cheek, and softly pulled his face down so he was looking in her eyes.

“Stay with me.” She said. “Forever.”

“You sure? There’s not a lot of room here.” He replied with a smirk.

"Who needs it?” she kissed him. “We only need a little bit of room to love.” They both laughed at how cheesy she sounded. They made love again, but this time, slow and gentle. And most of all, familiar.

VII

The next morning, the sun rose, and Seth made the coffee.

Pieces of Me

2012-05-10T12:00:00.000-04:00

I've been away a while. I had my reasons. The biggest one, well... the biggest one I used as an excuse, is that I wanted to devote a little more time to putting some writing on paper, spend a little more time with the quality, instead of worrying about keeping up the weekly post. It was exhausting me, and I was draining the well a bit too quickly. Well, I'm back. I have at least a good five or six weeks worth of posts to keep us ALL going. I just have to er... type them up.
This post is something that I started working on several weeks ago. That week I had the habit of getting in my car and unintentionally passing my destination, heading instead to some unknown place. I met a girl named Ashley, and I remember her name now only because her skin was so pale white it was almost ashen in color, and I was quick to jot 'Ashley=ashen' in my notebook. She and her fiance had just returned from a several-month-long stint in Italy with blah blah I stopped paying attention at that point. They were good people. Just not interesting. Not to me at least. I had other thoughts on my mind.

It's funny what a little accidental poking around will net you. I watched as some girl squinted and screwed up her face, and my heart skipped a beat. More on that another time. Maybe. I have too may pipe dreams. Below this point is the actual content of the post... I just thought I would add in a few random bits and pieces of trivia for the time being. Take them for what they are.

It was a strange moment, one that would not, perhaps even so recently as a few years ago, seemed remotely off. In the moment, I was ostensibly headed for a very specific destination. I watched as I drove towards it, and then watched still as it receded in my rear-view mirror. I had a brief moment where I felt bad... like I should have turned around, explained myself. I knew I would hardly be missed.

If I could count the number of times I’ve sat back to contemplate the little things, there's no telling how... but, I'm getting ahead of myself. Or behind. I'm not sure yet. The other day, I sat in the sunshine and read an entire book in the afternoon. Then again, I've done that with nearly every Kurt Vonnegut book I've ever read. It's one of many reasons I'm so hesitant to read his books. The mood and story are always so brilliant, and so easy to devour, that I fear if I left the desire unchecked, I would have run out of books to read a decade ago. Not the point, though. Then again, I'm not entirely sure what the point is yet.

It is, however, all about the little things. They matter, more than you might think, or know. They matter in strange ways, especially if you're inclined to a holistic viewpoint. Which, if I were to endorse any system of belief, it would be Holism. Especially considering the fact that I don't think anybody actually practices Holism in its truest, pure form. It has its own bit of irony in that way.

By way of explanation:

Holism is probably best explained as a bastard twin of Chaos Theory. The basic outline of Chaos Theory is best summed up as a small, singular quantum event that is able to reshape an entire system. Outside of a mathematical system, it is more frequently thought of as the “Butterfly Effect,” with the whole 'a butterfly flaps its wings in Africa, and causes a hurricane to hit North America' example. Writers frequently use it in science fiction, and more specifically time travel, to show how even the smallest event can force cataclysmic changes throughout a delicately balanced system.
Holism though, traces these quantum events back to other events of the same magnitude. A butterfly flaps its wings in China, and causes you to stub your toe on the stairs while getting ready to go out to dinner. It's an interconnectedness of any and everything. Explanation of any event can be found through every event. Your flight to Toledo was late because someone forgot to call their mother on her birthday last year. My left shoe came untied, and Sprint changed the way they bill long distance on landlines.

It seems silly, even ridiculous, but the more I think about it, the more sense it tends to make.

During my hiatus, I've managed to have some singularly strange and admittedly dark moments, have made some terrible decisions, and made some not so terrible ones. I've had moments of completely impotent confidence, and equal moments where I was terrified of saying or doing what it was I wanted most, out of complete and abject terror. I can offer no real explanation for my behavior. This doesn't bother me as much as it used to, or even as much as it probably should. It's unfortunate, but that's as far as I let it in.
We look at people in many different ways, and ourselves in even more. There's so many adages about how to look at people. Judge a man not by his words, but by his actions. Judge a man not by what he has done, but by what he is doing. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. People can change. People never change. Once a cheat, always a cheat. He turned over a new leaf. He gave his life to God. He had an epiphany. Once he discovered (x), his life changed.

(to be fair to her, I went through the same thing... though not to the same degree...)

Many people hit a point in their lives where they feel like they need to define who they are. It's usually shortly after we're done with puberty, taking our first steps into adulthood, our knees wobbling and knocking like a newborn fawn. This phase for me included a lot of illicit behavior, a six month stint in another city, and (perhaps most sensibly) cutting a lot of ties and relationships. It was something that, looking back now, started a long time before I realized. I went to a lot of places, met, and subsequently pissed off a hell of a lot of people. At the end of it all, I felt no better or more informed about my identity, or what I was supposed to be or do.
I can't honestly speak to anyone's experience but my own in this regard, but I have had conversations with others who have gone through the same, or watched it unfold with my own eyes, and almost always the same conclusion is reached. To attempt to define yourself, or to discover who you are, is futile. I can't sit down and parse out the bits and pieces and make a picture, because the fact of the matter is this: who we are is always in flux. Sometimes we are more benevolent, if only because the sun was bright that morning. Our moods, our actions, are rooted only on how our situations impact our core.
We can change our reactions, we can change our behavior, and these things may have an impact on our core beliefs and instincts, but only slowly. Who we are is a matter of a time of day, it's the wind, it's what we ate for breakfast. It's our job, our kids, our lovers and friends, our enemies and adversaries. We're nothing better or worse than the little things we've seen and done. All the bits and pieces, every single one.

It's all about the little things, it always will be. Each piece is just as important as all the others. I seem, to a lot of people, to under-react in situations that should, for most, be overwhelming and emotional. There could be a case for truth in that, but I make a different case. I try to focus on each and every moment equally. A side of this tends to come off as removed on my part... and that's fair. I do tend to be a bit standoffish, opting usually to be the constant audience. This has cost me a lot, and though sometimes I know exactly how much, I'm often reminded by others of the consequences of which I wouldn't have ever known.
I've been falling again to that tempting space, falling in love with the idea of self-discovery, of disconnect with the outside to explore the inside a little better. But I know, I've learned, that this is futile, and so I sit in limbo. I internalize, disconnecting, but ever-watching. I watch, I notice all the little pieces. Not all of them, not really, but as many as I can fit into my view. I draw the lines, I make the connections.
I watch, and I wait.
I wait for the right person to stub their toe.
I wait for the wrong airplane to get delayed
I wait for the right piece to fall into place.

Mono Logue

2012-03-29T00:01:00.000-04:00

I'm really afraid of my internal monologue. Maybe afraid isn't the word. It's out of my control. At best I can suggest topics for it to stay away from... and hope that it listens. I got lost the other day, and it was beautiful outside. I felt great. The wind was whipping through my car, girls in sundresses littered the streets, the radio was playing exactly the right notes and words. The storm came, the monologue shifted, actors taking their place on the stage and setting the tragedy on its course. There was nothing I could do, except for let the torrent of Her memory wash over every street, remembering all the worst parts. Despite my efforts to focus, to lean on the good and the happy, it's always the tragedy that we remember. Nobody recalls the great deeds of Agamemnon, or Oedipus, only their downfalls. It's human nature. It was the night before that I had the dream again. It's one of those dreams you don't realize you've had before until right in the middle of it. In that dream, there was a girl, and she was amazing. The perfect mixture of coy, lascivious, humble, decent, ambitious; her hair was long and dark, her skin a gentle olive tone. We flew together. Not at first of course. Before we could fly there were prerequisites of meeting, embracing, discovering. Not a physical thing, at least not entirely, but a moment of overwhelming “I can't believe you feel the same way I do” from both parties. The dream went magical places, not just because of her. There were so many other things. I woke up, out of breath and exasperated. I felt the strongest desire to grab pen and paper and write everything down, it was so revelatory. In my fatigued state, I made the mistake of believing I would remember it in the morning, and alas, no remembrance came. Her name was Stephanie. Her smile was foolish, but I loved it all the more for its asymmetry. Then the night was gone, and the day bled me physically and mentally of its strangeness. The truth is, that kind of romance, the one I dream of, is the thing of which I'm most afraid. The page shifts, the moment shifts, and there is friendships old and new, and old and new all over. I wish I could draw the moments out. I thought that I would grow out, expand my life, but the only thing I have are more piles. More things unfinished, gardens untended, relations abandoned and bridges unburned and burdened. I'm only truly happy when I'm by myself and being alone makes me miserable, but in the end it's only one of a number of paradoxes, and everyone lives with worse in their life but they are either too oblivious to notice or strong enough to fight it. Meanwhile (paradox) I'm neither. I'm content to notice and discontent with my lack of action, and manage to handle both as mutually exclusive options. Lofty ideas and ideals will only build a loft, but you have to fill it, and that takes work, and lots of it. Goals need racers, scorers, not goalies, but I manage to tend them without scoring and finishing. I see a face, someone I haven't so much as acknowledged in years, and I dream up love stories. I do it with strangers, with friends, with people I'll never even say a word to in my life, with people I never want to talk to again. I've become so accustomed to falling in love in my imagination that I've lost touch with my abilities to do it in real life. Keep it flowing, keep it flowing. I see people, and sometimes they see me. But they only see what I show them, it's a secret game. Sometimes I wish it wasn't. Sometimes it isn't. Sometimes they see everything, and instead of embracing the moment I flee. I need my secrets and secrecy. It's so hard to separate what you know from what you've experienced. I know that it's no sin to open up, to trust, but it's my experience that it burns. No matter how hard you try, how much work you put in, the ones you confide in the most will leave you. It's not the truth, not the course, but the lesson. Finally, spiraling downwards... rest.

But the rest does not last forever, not yet. So then there are more storms... but these storms are real. I don't know why I tuned the radio to AM fuzz, but sometimes I do it without noticing. I watch the lightning peal across the sky, and hear the crackle of it on my speakers. Rain drops, drip, dripping, drops splash into my eyes and hair and I can't help but laugh. Then the moments come of small, strained, friendly nights. Somehow, though, even these maintain a shadow. Paranoia? Paranoia! Somehow I manage to always see the shadow looming, and I freeze. I say my hellos, my goodbyes, and I make off like a thief in the night. The fun of it is that my crimes are imagined, yes, in this instance they are. I can turn it off, with a great effort of will. I can turn it off and spout the negativity outwards, embrace the positive, for a while. The sun falls, the moon rises, and it's gone like so much ash in the wind. I see it, I know. It stays there until I choose to try again. I embrace the solitude, but the solitude does not always accept me. The truth is, I know exactly how shallow it is. I prove it to myself all the time, but the accusations from decades ago are truer than the accusers know: I know exactly how to convince myself otherwise. But... but I can find the magic in a moment. Any moment, examined thoroughly enough, can gleam like the sun, bright enough to burn, to scour and discover. I miss the moments that I had... too much. Hands clasped in friendship, discovering anew a land misted with a cold white topping, sliding and slipping, capturing images. A song, building sweaters, with a smile and a wink and a giggle. Late nights, second helpings of the food and third helpings of the wine, the misty walks through the quiet streets, an orchid drenching us in its pollen. A quiet drink at a corner bar, stories imagined, futures created and destroyed, lies whispered and truths withheld. There's so much magic, and so much sadness in each moment, in each memory, and they always wash back, they always wash back, they always swirl the drain, until it clogs and sends them spilling back out. I can't help but obsess about my obsession of putting these memories on a pedestal, and why they remain so happy in memory and so sad in the present. Late nights, loud music, and an interruption of veritas. It's not all bad though.

A statement, stuck like so many others, dislodges, and I look at the sky. It was gorgeous. Two blinking stars, but not stars, other worlds, glinting in the darkness. We got out the telescope, and I look at the moon, with its shadows and pocks and craters. A life, so new and fresh... and I could share a moment, a memory with him.

I hope he always remembers me as the uncle who showed him the surface of the moon. In our quest for immortality in our family, that's the legacy I always hope I can retain.

Fire of the Gods

2012-03-24T15:25:00.001-04:00

The blog is back in action. This week is a quick short story for Chuck Wendig's Friday Flash Fiction Challenge. You can go to his site to see what the challenge was for this, it was pretty open-ended this week. What sprang from my mind was... well it was kinda bad. As far as short stories go, this one will never win a Hugo. But I had fun writing it, and sometimes it's really a reward in itself to just let yourself write something terrible. So without further ado, here is “The Fire of the Gods”

Sully slammed the door to the crew cabin harder enough to make Eric look up from his work. “I swear this damned planet is getting colder. I thought that 'forming was only supposed to take ten years.”

Eric removed his glasses, and stared at his disgruntled companion. “Terraforming on most planets only takes about ten years. If you read up on the process, you would know that sometimes it can take as long as twenty years to be habitable. And if you looked at the monthly therm charts, you would see that we've raised the median temperature almost three degrees kelvin.”

“Helluva lotta good it does me. You get to sit in here all day and punch on your screens and make your calibrations and charts. It's my ass that has to go out there and keep this shit running. Do you know how much of a pain in the ass it is to change out a nitrogen coupler in this temperature? I'm gonna lose a finger from frostbite one of these days. Pardon me saying so, but three measly degrees in eight years hardly sounds like progress.” Sully kicked off his shoes and plopped down on his bunk. As soon as his eyes closed, there was a high-pitch whining, followed by the lights flickering. “Damn it to hell,” he sighed, “and of course the genny picks now to start kicking again. Wake me up in a half hour, it should keep up for at least that long.”

Eric returned to his screen, putting in his earplugs. “If that generator dies, we'll both be popsicles.” he muttered.

Sully flipped his eyes open, glancing at Eric. “I'll be the popsicle, doc. You're already the stick up my ass.” With that, he rolled over and went to sleep.

“Well, doc, what the hell is this?” By Eric's count, Sully had only been gone five minutes, and the generator had shortly hummed right back to life. In his outstretched hand, Sully held a datacube. Eric gingerly plucked it from his glove, turning it over, looking for damage. It was as cold as ice, and steamed the air lightly as it warmed in his hands.

“It's... well it's one of ours. I thought I had lost it back in the last cycle. Not a big enough deal to worry about, just a redundant backup.” Eric adjusted his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, and set the cube into his reader.

“Do you want to explain what in the icy fuck it was doing jammed into the rotor on the genny?” Sully sat back on his bunk, peeling off his coldsuit.

“My god...” Eric mumbled, “this... what is this?” He began tapping rapidly at the screen, working with a fury. Finally Sully was curious enough to stand over his shoulder. “Do you recognize these writings?” Eric asked, continuing to flip through slides, images covered in strange scribblings with many crude illustrations.

“Yeah, I saw some back on Nova 6 when we 'formed that one. It's been on a couple dozen planets if I recall. Belongs to them 'proto-whatsits.' What about it?”

Eric snorted derisively. “Proto-Siriuns. As far as any records have shown, they died out about 20,000 years ago.”

“Yeah, what of 'em?”

“This is on the damned datacube! They're here, and they're trying to talk to us!” The cabin suddenly shuddered, knocking some papers and random equipment on the floor. Sully cursed under his breath, but Eric wasn't phased. “There's lot's of information here, drawings of us, of the 'former, and... dammit, this translation isn't working fast enough!”

Sully had stopped paying attention, and was pulling his coldsuit back on. “Look's like the 'former's at it again. This is bad, it shouldn't shake like that.” It was Eric's outburst of expletives that stopped him at the door.

“Sully! The Fire, it's here!” If Eric had been working fast before, his pace was becoming outright violent.

“The hell are you on about now?” Sully stormed over, but was quickly knocked to his knees by another quake.

“The Fire! All the ruins, everything we've found on the other planets, it all said the Protos were preparing for The Fire, a demon, fighting so it wouldn't destroy them. We always thought it was just their religion, but... this data, these writings... they're here. It says this is where The Fire came from. This is where they stopped it. They're still here, and we're melting the ice...” Another quake rocked the cabin, this time sending both men to the ground. Eric ran over to Sully, shaking him by the shoulders. “Sully, this is why it's been taking so long to warm. They've been fighting us, trying to keep it frozen. But it's too late now. We've warmed it too much. We have to get out of here.”

Sully shoved him away, getting back on his feet. “The hell you say? I ain't cuttin' and runnin' just 'cause you got some pretty pictures and fairytales. Now I gotta go see what's goin' on with the-” This time, when the cabin shook, the walls and roof tore open. The sub-zero air began rushing in, sending snow and papers dancing around. As if by instinct, Eric and Sully backed into the corner together, huddling for warmth.

Within moments, the air began to warm quickly, and the wind subsided. The quaking was constant now, and getting stronger by the second. As if from nowhere, a gout of flame tore the cabin in half. It looked like a wall, Eric thought, flowing like lava... but flowing up. The heat was becoming unbearable when the fire simply stopped.

Eric sat stunned, staring at the gaping hole where the other end of the cabin had been moments before. “God... God forgive us. What have we done?”

Sully turned his gaze the same direction, and he finally understood. There, in the distance, a terrible, twisted creature, its numerous wings raining liquid flame down with every beat. “Well...” Sully pulled a twisted pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, lit one, and took a long, slow drag. “Shit.”

on Creative Writing

2012-02-25T06:04:00.000-05:00

So, yes, I've been teasing a couple of short stories for a month now. They're coming, I swear. This week, however, I decided to experiment. I wrote a random-ish post on both my facebook and google+ pages, and also linked to it on my twitter account (yes, these are all blatant attempts to get you to follow me on these services [ps, my twitter, moreso than either of my other social networking profiles, and way more than the blog, tends to err on the very NSFW side. You've been warned.]) that I decided merited a real-live out-loud reading. This week, both as an effort to make sure I got something here on the blog, and as a total delay tactic to give me more quality time on a story that I care about even though it will come out badly, I give you self Sagax's first "vlog."

I know the audio isn't that great (those of you with mobile devices, use headphones) and I will fix it the first chance I get. For now, though, here it is, self Sagax on Creative Writing:

Old Ghosts

2012-02-17T20:24:00.001-05:00

I had actually planned on skipping this week. I had a long night, and a terrible day in bed recovering. Somewhere in the back of my head, however, the voice of my friend Jenny was nagging at me for shirking what is something that I enjoy doing (no matter how difficult it can be at times) and that I have promised, at least to myself, that I would get done every week. I've been working on two stories lately, and they are both proving to be a little more difficult than intended. The first is a rewrite of a story I wrote almost eight years ago, and I didn't anticipate the... emotions... involved with the undertaking. In a way that story was oddly prophetic of the years to come in my life. It's cathartic, in a way. I know that a lot of the details won't shine through in the story, but I feel like my experiences are helping me paint a better picture. The whole ordeal just leaves me drained every time, so it's slow going to re-open old (and sometimes not-so-old) wounds. The other story is presenting a whole other host of challenges, in that it is presumably a sequel. I've never had the opportunity to do a sequel before, having (in the past) finished so few stories before. I think the biggest problem I'm having with it is making sure I don't step on the toes of the previous story. It's unique, but it definitely slows the progress considerably.
It's all a bit of an echo, but that seems to be par for the course lately.

“It seems like a lot of old ghosts have been cropping up lately” I told her, “I've found it easier to embrace them than to keep them at bay.”

Echo, echo, it always comes back. It's a lesson I've had to learn over and over again. The past year alone has itself been a giant leap, an echo of people and things past. I know I talk about 'the last year' and 'the last few years' quite a bit, but I think these are important things. I have tried to close entire chapters in my life, but the truth is, life is not a book. It certainly is a story. My mindset as an avid reader and writer works to separate it out into these cohesive chunks, but the truth is that the experiences and emotions of our past are sometimes changed by what happens in the here and now. The biggest reason I focus on the last year or two is because my life literally took a lot of turns I never expected, and from the way even just the past month has been, it's going to continue doing so.
I avoided a lot of people for a very long time. The funny thing is, the people I have tended to avoid are the people that have been closest to me in my life. Then again, I've also been on the flip-side of this recently, of trying to re-establish a relationship with someone who dodges me at every turn. I understand their reasons, but it hurts nonetheless. I've had to do a lot of walking in other's shoes lately, of confronting the reality of situations which I've been party to both sides of the issue. It's a difficult process.

I could imagine the look on her face as she replied. “You keep calling me an old ghost, I feel like it's a bad thing.” I could sense the bit of vulnerability in her words, of apprehension. It's been so long since I saw that side of her, and I missed it immediately.
“The jury is still out on whether it's good or bad” was all I could stand to say.

Echo, I thought, as I thought of those sweet, scant few days in the bitter winter, seven years ago, and here it is again with the sides reversed. I was the one alone, in a foreign place, and now I'm home. The winter was biting and cold, and now it seems its jaws are nearly withdrawn for the season.
I know I have a penchant for over-romanticizing my life, and my thoughts, but I wouldn't have it any other way. I like to believe that with every day of bitterness, every night where I force myself into solitude over a thing that isn't quite right, it will pay off. When I find (again) that place where I can connect, that place where I can let my guard down, that the rewards will be well worth it. We all have to earn our scars, and it's so self-righteous for me to believe i've been through enough, especially when I can think back to the days where I boasted about a high tolerance for pain.
I can see now how this tolerance has been broken down, how beaten and broken this wall is. But just like bones mend stronger, like scars heal thicker, so will this make me stronger.

“I had thought about asking before, but I thought you would just hesitate, and then I would feel stupid.” I couldn't help but love her for this.
The truth is, if either of us should feel stupid for our behavior, it's me.

Don't Read This Blog

2012-02-02T06:39:00.000-05:00

(Dated, pre-post tangent)

It seems like I've spent a good chunk of the new year talking about me. Well, this week will be no different. Don't worry, I have a few other things in the works, but the thing that nobody tells you is that this stuff is hard. I've given myself a forum and a deadline, and I'm still amazed that I have something to write every week.

By now, a lot of you know that Thursday has been my official New Post Day. Those who've been paying close attention may have grown wise to the fact that it usually ends up being so late on Thursday that it's technically Friday. Part of this is the process itself. Almost every single word that goes up here is handwritten first. It takes time to get everything down, then edit and type it all up. I'm not particularly fond of the time-frame this work entails, mainly because this is all on my own free time. Couple this with the fact that I am absolutely terrible at managing my free time, and you get me furiously writing for the majority of Wednesday night and Thursday in hopes that I'll finish on time. This is not to say I don't enjoy it, but it feels a lot better after the work is done. The steps I've created allow me to write and edit my content, and thereby (hopefully) deliver something of a little bit better quality. Also, my final posts tend to be 30-50% longer than the hand-written ones. Throw in the peppering of Life that manages to happen all around me, and you complete the mad dash that is my weekly post.

This is all beside the point, and not what I'm here to talk about this week.

(/tangent)

I'm not an especially delicate person when it comes to my emotions. I'm not offended or hurt easily. This probably, more than anything else, has to do with the fact that I’m very good at keeping my guard up. While I've had many friends throughout my life, there's a very small group of people that I have ever really completely connected with. The reasoning stands to follow that I've dealt with so many trust issues. I don't know why I'm so distrustful of people, or what their stem truly is, but I like to trace it back to a particular incident I had on the playground in the third grade.

I was talking to my friend Dustin, and told him (with the express caveat of “Don't tell anyone, but...”) about a girl in our class that I thought was cute. He then, without even a second of hesitation, immediately turned around, walked over to the aforementioned girl, and proceeded to tell her word for word everything I had just said. Ok, I know it sounds a little ridiculous, and... yeah, it is. There are many other things, before and after that situation that have attributed to my problems with trust. Eventually, if I ever manage to get a therapist, I'll discuss it with them. There are more than just skeletons in my closet, there are a few dark shadows to keep them company. Things that I am not yet comfortable divulging here, if ever.

At the very least, it does provide the first (of MANY) reasons I have a problem with people named Dustin. Seriously, any Dustin/Dusty I have ever met has not been that great of a person. True fact.

All of this to say: I'm very good at keeping people at arm's length. I do, on occasion, manage to let people in, but in the end I always manage to Isolate. I somehow could take the slightest offense, and turn it into a reason to completely cut ties with a person, no matter how close I was to them. It's not that the have actually offended me, or have somehow spurned me in some way that I could never forgive. I used to be able to justify my actions like this, but it's not the truth. In all reality, the root of the problem is that I have a hard tame with change. Especially change I'm unprepared for.

I feel as if I've hit a point of stagnation some time ago; A happy medium that I'm prepared to handle. I've made several attempts to affect change in my life, but through so many circumstances (be they extenuating, out of my control, self-sabotage, or simply self-fulfilling prophecy) they seem to backfire.

And I retreat.

It began on a specific level: one person, changing some small thing in such a specific way that I either disagreed with or didn't understand. In my head, this small affront to my defined status quo gave me reason to retreat. I would cut off all communication, and lapse the relationship into nothing. So then begins the pattern. One person, snipped from my life as if they had never been to begin with. After a time, this process became so much easier. Before I knew it, the Isolation became standard practice.

I began withdrawing all too often, for too many reasons, from too many people. When any sort of relation or situation fell outside of the parameters I had defined it in, I would retreat into silence. Then, I realized, I was no longer just handling the symptoms, but instead had adopted the cure as a permanent process. Those close to me have seen this happen, and know this pattern. My severance in contact no longer chooses direction, and instead I shut out nearly everyone until I'm prepared to deal with the world on my own terms. The Isolationist behavior had graduated from Second Nature to simply Nature. The worst part is that I know exactly how terrible this is for me. I choose to Isolate so tat I can catch my breath and catch up with what's happening, but stop, and the world does not stop with you. In the last year alone I can't even count the number of opportunities I've missed, or how many things have passed me by because of this behavior.

And that is as far as I got when writing this post.

I had posted on facebook three days before I even started this that I was having a hell of a week. I had no idea what things the next few days would throw at me, but throw they did, and they hit their mark dead-on. The reason there was no post last week, and that this has taken me an extra week to do is because I made the conscious decision to be completely candid for once. Ignore the vaguery and bullshit that I tend to clog up my writing with, and just be plain and straightforward.

Deep breath. Bear with me, please.

I had a three hour conversation with The Ex. She texts me every now and then, and sometimes I would respond, but I would try to keep it brief and unemotional. Whenever we would get into an actual conversation (always through text. Several months ago I had told her I just wasn't ready to talk on the phone with her again. [To hear her voice again, he thought.]) I would always end up feeling debased, and demoralized. Candid: I'm still every bit as in love with her as I ever was. I don't think that will ever change, to be completely honest. This is something I came to grips with a long time ago, and have been attempting to make the effort of will to box the whole thing away. No matter how hard I try, I don't think we'll ever get back together. Then again, I have no idea what direction my life is going to be taking me, so I'll try and refrain from any Nostradamus behavior from here on out.

We talked for three hours. Damn, it felt good. We made tentative plans to see each other in the near future (which fell through almost immediately. I'm getting there.) The next day... (CANDID) I felt a little empty. Not in a bad way. Just... in a way. I thought about it all day, that I should be feeling something, but it just wasn't there. I began to realize, bit by bit, that I wasn't feeling sad that day. I always try my hardest to refrain from self-pity unless its something I've earned. When it comes to 'The Ex Situation,' I feel like I have my badges for that. So I don't generally go around feeling sad.

I've recently expressed before my desire to seek therapy. In the past, I've always thought of myself as the kind of person who could handle their emotional shit and keep it together... but lately I've just felt like I could benefit from a completely neutral third party to dump my shit on, and maybe they could help. I don't feel depressed, but on some level I really do think I am. I feel like no matter what I do or how hard I work, I'm always going to be eating the short end of the shit-stick in life. If one of my close friends were to divulge that information to me, I would probably tell them very sincerely that they could probably benefit from seeking professional help. I'll be damned if it isn't hard to tell myself that in the mirror, though.

That empty that I felt, (it was temporary, and has since been refilled) I feel like it was a temporary reprieve from the crushing, crippling sad that somehow works its way into my daily brain. I may have felt empty, but on some level, empty was good.

Then there is The Girl. (Candid, yes. But I won't name names. The people who need to know, know. And I'd rather protect the anonymity of the people in my life, because, for real: would you want somebody telling people in a public forum about everything you did, and making sure they used your name? “Hey, I read on Jessie's Tumblr that you totally shit your pants on the bus! And you were totally sober! HAHAHAHA you're so busted Danny-Poopy-Pants! Hell yeah! New nickname everybody! DANNY-POOPY-PANTS!” but I digress.)

Where was I? Oh yeah... The Girl. Actually, since there's another girl later on in this story, we'll call her … The Good Girl. Which isn't necessarily true... but... well, it's the simplest way to put it. You'll see.

I met The Good Girl a little over a year ago. The night I met her, it was... well, in a way it was pretty damn magical. It snowed. We met, we chatted. I felt, at that moment in time, uncharacteristically confident and out-going. We went and walked in the fresh snow, in the quiet, deadly silent night. It wasn't a date, it was just a spontaneous meeting on a day that, for me, had held a lot of... well, not good stuff. If it had been a date, I think I would've said it went fairly well.

The Good Girl and I definitely became friends. There were a few... let's say 'uninhibited moments' (CANDID, RYAN!) OK, OK! There were a few times that I drunkenly texted or sent messages over facebook that I had intentions that were not strictly platonic. These were generally received... well, I don't know to be honest. We only talked maybe once a week (not counting the strange world of posting fun/hilarious/musical links on each others facebook wall) and didn't spend a whole lot of time together. So whenever one of these outbursts happened, it was usually completely set aside, or dealt with a short, safely worded response, generally along the lines of “you do not need to apologize for what you said. I understand.” Which, hey, it's not a no, right? It did become clear before too long though, that these feelings were reciprocated. So, hands on your buzzers, what did I do?

It's ok, I'll give you some time to come up with the answer.

Got it in?

If you answered “absolutely nothing” well, then my friends, you win the prize.

That's right, folks. Ryan was put into a situation (more than once) where he got to spend good, quality time alone with a girl he was very clearly attracted to, who reciprocated those feelings, and did not a damn thing about it.

Of course there were a thousand justification that I used for it. Little big things, that truthfully all sucked in the final analysis. A big part of my life philosophy had been to grasp the little moments that present themselves every day. I very much used to be that person. I almost never said no to an experience. I had a lot of fun.

Somewhere along the line, that apparently changed. I'm working on it.

As the year went on, I saw less and less of her. This may have been on my end, of me working at a job that afforded me very little extra money to do anything besides sit at home and gripe on a blog every night. Conversely, it could have been her thinking “how many opportunities am I going to give this guy to make a freakin move already?” Regardless of what the reasons are, or if there really was an actual reason, we did (and do) stay in touch. As I stated earlier, when I was writing a post about something that isn't this, I don't let people in very easily, and she had managed to eke her way into the circle of people I do hold fairly dear to me.

Back to my Week, it was... say maybe two days after the conversation with The Ex that I find that she is dating somebody.

If you spend as much time on the internet as I so (doubtful) then you'll probably understand this a little bit better, but this was my reaction:

Now, in all fairness, several months ago I made the decision to not date, nor have sex with anyone until I get my shit straight. In my head at least. Since I made the decision, I have hit on (with little to no success) exactly one girl, once. For me it wasn't really about trying to date someone, but more about practice. I needed to make sure that somewhere within me I still had the ability to approach a member of the opposite sex, say words to them, and convince them to like me.

But I was definitely very open and public about this fact of my removal from the dating pool, so if, for some insanely unbeknownst to me reason that The Good Girl had any bit of holdout for me, I'm sure that was enough of a stake to slay that vampire (he metaphor'd... badly.)

The whole thing definitely threw me for a bit of a loop. But I was happy for her. (did I not tell you to be candid?!) Seriously. I was happy for her. I did have that pit of 'damnit' that every guy gets when a girl they're crushing on starts dating someone else, but she's also a good friend, so I will never begrudge her her bit of happiness. Unless, of course her happiness comes from... I dunno... murdering nuns or doing sex stuff to kids. Then I would totally begrudge the hell out of that. And that goes for all of you. I've got my eyes on you....

So far we have: Long conversation with The Ex, of whom I'm really emotionally conflicted about, and girl I've had a major thing for starts dating somebody. Those things alone would spell out a not so good week for anyone, but I'm not done yet.

That Friday, I lost my job. I don't have a whole lot to expound upon here, but I really liked my job. I was good at it. I got the satisfaction of getting to figure out the solutions to problems, and I didn't have to talk to very many people. It was kind of a win-win. It wasn't anybody's fault, they just couldn't afford to pay us anymore. Losing your only stream of revenue hurts though. I have mentioned it on my facebook page before, but I even with the ads I don't really make any money off of the blog. It averages out to about a dollar and some change a post, and this is my fifteenth post. (have I mentioned that you can totally
if you want to? Wink)

Then in waltzes The Bad Girl (Good juxtaposition of names, Ryan!)(Thanks!)

I have to start off by saying that, just like The Good Girl doesn't mean she's a little goody-two-shoes, (although, admittedly, she is an all around fantastic person) The Bad Girl is not really at all a bad person. She's actually one of the more decent people I know. But, in this situation she really doesn't come off smelling like roses, so it's semi appropriate.

I've known The Bad Girl for years. We've always been acquaintances, and friendly, but there hasn't been much beyond that. I do like her as a person, mostly, but she's not the kind of gal that I make dinner plans with. She's a little crazy. Just not the kind of crazy that I like.

Several months ago, The Bad Girl and I, along with a number of other people, were attending a party. I went to use the restroom, and was interrupted... well, 'mid-stream' by The Bad Girl's entrance into said bathroom. About an hour before that, she had proposed (it's important that you know that she was very inebriated, and I, at the time, was not drinking at all, so... stone sober) that I meet her in the bathroom and do terribly adult and improper things to her.

Though she did at that moment get up and go to the bathroom to await my arrival, the many factors against her proposition (1: No. 2: I'm not really in any way attracted to you, not that I'm trying to say you're unattractive. 3: He's Just Not That Into You. 4: Your boyfriend will be arriving at this party within 10 minutes, and sex, if you're doing it right, takes longer. 5: Ummm... no again.) left her waiting in vain. But apparently my attempt to urinate was taken as an acceptance of that offer. I managed to firmly and tactfully decline the incredibly awkward solicitation.

Flash back (forward?) to now: This same girl has begun texting me at fairly regular intervals, attempting to arrange a hangout. Really the only reason, and it's fairly plain to me, is that she wants a second attempt at the original plan. Again, I tactfully and politely decline the offers. But my week, my months, my 2011 are catching up to me, I admit. The temporary celibacy I've imposed on myself just... well it sucks. It is necessary, but it sucks.

So finally, a few nights ago, I go to hang out with her.

Candid: I went over to her apartment to have meaningless sex with a girl I don't really even care for all that much. In all honesty, I don't think that any conversation we had lasted more than five minutes.

I get over there, and bring (cheap gas station) wine, and we talk. I talk to and play with her daughter, who is also crazy, but in a kid crazy way that I find endearing in children. Before too long, another of her friends (male, that's important) comes over unannounced. She tells me he is only over for a few minutes, but in a way, a big way, I'm thankful for the delay. I'm still not sure this is a thing I want to go through with, but at this point I'm drunk enough to do it anyways and let my doubts be dealt with in the morning.

It's not long before we run out of (cheap, gas station) wine, and everyone wants to continue drinking. So, immediately, The Bad Girl and her Other Male Friend (I see what you did there) leave to go get some beer.

I'm left there, to make sure the (now sleeping) child is not left unattended, I guess on the off chance that a car-bomb goes off outside the building, or she wakes up and decides to join the circus at that exact moment. I again, for the 100th time contemplate my decision to come to her apartment to have what will probably be terrible, guilt-ridden meaningless sex with this girl. I belatedly chide myself for leaving my condom in the car, and don't want to leave a child alone in the apartment for even the 45 seconds it would take to retrieve. I try to come up with valid reasons I might have to go to my car after she returns.

I, not just now, but even in that moment, actively hate myself for all the thoughts I'm having in this situation. Please, if nothing else, understand that. I was drunk, horny, and really, really, lonely. It's not an excuse, but it was my reasoning.

That's when The Good Girl starts texting me. It was a welcome distraction while I waited for them to return.

They shortly arrived, and we drank a few beers, put a movie on, meanwhile I'm continuing my conversation through text with The Good Girl. Not long into their return, her Other Male Friend decides he needs to use the restroom, and she shortly follows him. I'm left sitting there with this movie and my phone. Within a fairly short time-span, the noises from the restroom are those that are clearly coital, and I fell a drop of disappointment, immediately followed by a wave of complete and utter relief.

Not too much later, they come back out, ignoring that what had just happened was not at all unclear to me. I'm in a mixed bag here, because I'm also (through my text conversation with The Good Girl) attempting to drunkenly deliver some sort of meaning, or advice (I don't know why people ever think I can deliver good advice. I mean, look at my life. Then again, she wasn't asking for advice, merely just having an honest conversation), because she is having some misgivings about her choice to enter into a relationship with The Guy. I can completely commiserate with the situation, having something nearly identical happen to me in the not-too-past. After another half hour passes, The Bad Girl and the Other Male Friend traipse off for another romp in the bathroom. (Seriously, I don't know why this girl is so on for bathroom sex. She was at her own apartment this time. There's a perfectly suitable bedroom available.)

It's at that point that Me, wherever the hell I had gotten lost in my own head, finally popped into my consciousness, and was like “What the hell are you doing sitting on a couch in a place you don't want to be watching a movie you don't care about while a girl you didn't really wanna but were drunk enough to wanna is in the bathroom having noisy sex with someone else?”

So I left.

I'm an atheist. I've never been able to come to grips with a God, or even things like fate, or Karma. On occasion though, I do believe in providence (with a small p.) I believe that sometimes, when a person is just not doing the thing they should be, there are pieces of the universe that will manifest to give them the opportunity to extricate themselves from the given situation. They may not always be good, or right, but they're there. And I believe that night that providence played a pretty ham-handed effort at making sure I didn't carry out my plans.

So, sorry this post is a week late. I've been busy, legitimately. I'm not sure how things will proceed once I find employment, as the job I had did afford me plenty of time to get this done every week. I guess I'll just have to teach myself better time management.

But I did hit the spot of things getting so bad, they really can't get much worse. And weirdly, I'm OK. I actually feel like I'm a little better off because of it.

Because in the end, It's a prime example of the fact that you can't isolate yourself from the world, no matter how hard you try. The world doesn't give to hefty rotten shits about your plans, it's going to keep on fucking turning.

Two quotes:

“And the book says, 'We may be through with the past, but the past ain't through with us.'”

~Magnolia

“How nice-to feel nothing, and still get full credit for being alive. “

~Kurt Vonnegut, Jr

First/Mine

2012-01-20T05:41:00.000-05:00

First

Firsts are terribly important. In our culture, we have been driven for thousands of generations on stories. Firsts are a means that we use in our own lives to define beginnings in our tales, since the stream of consciousness viewpoint to which we are ultimately subjected does not lend itself well to any solid form of beginning or end. As we live our lives, the contiguous plot points tend to melt away, leaving a blur of days or weeks, with only the major peaks left to lend ourselves definition. Context, characters, scenario, they all must have some anchor point, some level by which they are all related, so inherently they tie themselves back to those moments, those firsts, to which they are inevitably linked, however tenuous.
It's a first kiss. A first job. A first contract. A first car. A first trip. A first note, first fuck, the first time you hear your favorite song. The first night you spent alone, the first night you spent with someone else. As we move forward, there are so few opportunities for more firsts. Wherein lay the trap.
The birth of nostalgia is almost always an attempt to recreate that First. Having an anniversary dinner at the same place you had your first date. Going back to the places where you first learned to ride a bike.
The dirty secret, the awful truth? Nostalgia should be locked away. It's great to relive something in your mind, but it's also a thing that, almost without exception, will always fall short of expectation if you attempt to re-enact it.

(I know I misjudged you. And myself. What We could have been. I'm almost certain there will never be another shot, but I'm not giving up hope. I can't help but find you incredible, and I want so much to know more.)

Don't blame yourself for this fault though. Unless you're one of the infinitesimal amount of people with an eidetic memory, your brain is lying to you. It does that. Your brain will cast a certain rosy glow on events you may have considered at the time as monuments, and turn them into idols. The reason you can never truly satisfy nostalgia, is because you (probably) never actually actual felt as good about [the thing] as you do in hindsight.
Personally, I can recall one of the moments in my life that I felt the most incredible I have ever felt before or since. However, it is not a night I am particularly willing to attempt to relive. It has more to do with a drug induced serotonin dump than any actual good thing happening. I recognize this fact, and understand that the happiness and amazing level of empowerment that I felt are things I would sooner find on my own than attempt to pill my way towards again.
But that's the crux, really. We attempt so often to find moments that match the memory, but the memory is flawed.
Instead, we should strive always to find new things to try, new firsts, new moments to define the starts of our stories. Because there is no good reason in existence for our stories to stop beginning, because eventually, inevitably, no matter how hard we try, our stories will end.

Mine

Art is not yours. If you are somebody who has ever attempted to create any sort of art, or really any form of creative work, that is the one thing you will have to get over. If what you make means something to you, or has a particular set of circumstance that requires it to have relatability to you, then you need to come to terms with one simple rule:

Once you set it free, once you let one single other person in on it, it's not yours anymore. Whatever you intended it to mean, or infer, or impose, you lose all right to that.

This is not to say that you can't maintain your own view, your own import on the subject, merely to explain that it no longer belongs to you. If you write a song, your lyrics that you so carefully crafted about your heartbreak may, to the next person who hears it, send a message of loneliness, or hope, or strife, but whatever it is, they own that. The way they felt about the song they heard is something that they own.
A lot of artists don't understand this, or do, but find it revolting. They don't want any of their precious context or personal struggle to be taken for anything other than what they intended. I'm here to tell everyone, but especially those people: Stop it.
If you can create anything, a song, a poem, a sculpture, a painting, a story, a joke, that can relate to even one person, you have done something beautiful. Whether or not they received your 'intended' message, you have delivered a message that means something to someone. And that's incredible.
I've always been particularly averse to people telling me what songs are 'about,' and it's where I run into this problem most often. To tread on a dangerously personal level, I'll use the example of 'Brick' by Ben Folds Five. When the song came out, I was all of thirteen, and I loved it. It's a great song. I had put it on mix-tapes (yes, I made many) and mix CDs on and off for years. Then I went maybe six, seven years without hearing it. Somehow, it popped up into my periphery, with somebody telling me it's all about abortion. I was dumbfounded. I hadn't heard the song in a long time, but somehow that explanation seemed not only wrong, but completely against anything that I had ever believed about it.
To give complete context, at this point I had had a fairly recent, complicated, and emotional experience with abortion. Then I listened to it again, for the first time in years. The summation I had heard was completely right, and regardless of the explanation I had been given, it's a conclusion I would've come to completely on my own. It's a rare instance of the song's “original meaning” hitting home so directly in a way I hadn't experienced before.
Even then, it wasn't until I started writing this that I decided to fact-check [the random person] who had given me the “what it really means” speech. In reference to that song, Ben Folds had this to say:

"People ask me what this song's about... I was asked about it a lot, and I didn't really wanna make a big hairy deal out of it, because I just wanted the song to speak for itself. But the song is about when I was in high school, me and my girlfriend had to get an abortion, and it was a very sad thing. And, I didn't really want to write this song from any kind of political standpoint, or make a statement. I just wanted to reflect what it feels like. So, anyone who's gone through that before, then you'll know what the song's about." (Emphasis is mine)

That's pretty much my point. I had already related to the song on some level long before I had any explanation of what it was 'supposed' to be about, and then was later able to relate to it on an entirely different level because of my life experience. Again, “...I just wanted the song to speak for itself.” That is all that anybody who does any sort of creative work can ever ask, is that their work speaks for itself.
If it is supposed to convey a specific message, it will do so on its own merit. If it's something more personal, expect people to relate it to their own lives, their own sufferings and triumphs. Most importantly, and I cannot stress this enough, if what you have made has given something to somebody, no matter how far it may stray from what you meant to impart, don't you dare try and take it away from them. Because no matter what you've made, if it means anything to anyone, that is just as important, if not more so, than whatever it meant to you.

Ramblings of a madman

2012-01-12T10:37:00.000-05:00

You and me?

Let's disappear

disengage, escape, no fear

loosened, unentangled, free to

start a mixed philosophy.

We are unhinged, this much is true, so there is naught else to do. Wipe the page and find History lurking in the

Deep Shadow of That Which is

Unknown

It's a scary, amazing, fruitful, joyous SHOUT. It lay hidden betwixt mirth and awe, something secret in the light of day, uncovered only in darkness. Between reason and love, we hide behind what should be, forgetting what could.

I know secrets

things that could unravel even the lightest hearts

yet somehow

in my infinite capacity for foolishness

I yield

The truth, my friends, is this:

There are merits to those who wear their hearts and minds and souls on their sleeves, their heads, their chests.

Merits more to those who, through tact and pain keep these things aside, hidden.

The difference between a treasure lost and a treasure found. One whose depths must be plundered, only through turmoil, work, and courage found.

If I've learned one thing, my love, it's this:

Without strife, and hardship, no boat can truly say that it has Sailed.

A treasure earned is bounds beyond a treasure given. When you endure, you learn the worth of what is. You understand the lower, baser truth of what you have found. Mystical or practical, that is the truth.

We are but moments.

Though she had no idea, and every bit of a clue:

So it goes.

and here lies the echo

but the echo lies

Give it chance, and the choicest words become fruits. We eat, we are sated, for now. But the echo is only that what we choose to hear,

Not what is.

Somewhere between life and Death

I would like to believe.

2012-01-06T12:13:00.000-05:00

'Stylistic Differentiation,' 'Overt Influx,' 'Detached Syllogism.' It's little two word phrases like this that float through my brain, start me on a topic when I write. By the time I'm done with a thought, I'll be damned if I can remember what exactly sparked it in the first place. I imagine a glimmering ether nestled in the back of my brain, processing all the inconsequential and peripheral white noise of my day-to-day, compressing the data and spitting out file names into my conscious thoughts.
Sometimes they end up coming out as simple thematic fiction, others are rants, some only come out as thinly veiled allegories. I envy those who can churn out quality content on a daily basis. Lately, I've been having a lot of trouble and struggling just to meet my self-imposed weekly goal. A big part of both my struggle, and my success (haha) in a way, has been avoiding the constant self-derision and self-analysis that has overtly plagued my writing for years. There's a good reason all authors say to write what you know, to do anything else simply feels wrong. Even a good liar needs some material.
Which is why I’ve been so bent on writing about my inner turmoil for so long: It has been so nearly all-encompassing these last few years That it has been almost impossible to see through at times. I've been on the fence about classifying myself as depressed, mostly because it seems like such a four letter word. That, and... well, you'll see.
I've exhibited most of the signs of depression for a while. Loss of appetite and overeating, insomnia, constant fatigue, oversleeping, withdrawal from social situations, social anxiety. Periods where I was so dependent on alcohol that it's the only way I could sleep. I'm dissociative, I have trouble communicating. It's not, for me at least, about feeling sad all the time. I just have an impossibly hard time ever feeling happy. I'll indulge myself in false comforts, faux band-aids and blankets that temporarily stem the tide and allow me to pretend, but they do nothing to heal. In fact, when they're gone, it only feels so much worse.
I've reached a crossroad at least. If I'm being completely honest I've actually been here for a while, and I’ve been stuck. I've made so many conclusive decisions, but when the time comes to act, I stop. I don't take risks, because I’m afraid of being hurt. I spend so much time trying to figure out what's missing from my life, but any time something comes along I can't even deign to give it a chance. I've become so good at talking myself out of doing the things I so very badly want to do.
So I step back, and wonder aloud: “Who the hell are you? When did I let you take over?”
I can see the inconsistencies of my thoughts against my actions so glaringly that it's almost blinding. It comes to light especially in a few recent situations. This last year, I've had two occasions to give some people I care for some very specific advice.
I can remember both situations so clearly mainly because I'm not generally one to give unsolicited advice, and also because the situations they were dealing with were almost exactly the same ones in which I found myself.
Both of these people, to my chagrin, actually took my advice, and it worked. With a few simple words, they took to heart and are happier for it. Happier than they have been in a long time. I say this not to glorify any wisdom I possess, but instead to point out that in both of these situations, I did the exact opposite of what I advised. All I really did was give them a gentle push towards the decisions I knew I should make in the same position. And when it comes down to it, all I really told them was to look at the choices they had, and pick the one that would make them happy. That's exactly what they did.
And exactly what I did not do. It's become a definite trend in my behavior, wherein I choose to remain miserable. Broken down to a case-by-case basis, almost every single personal choice I've made has been the wrong one, in some even choosing inaction, because to do anything would make everything better. And in almost every case, I knew ahead of time the consequences of my actions.
So it's difficult for me to really say I'm depressed. I just am very good at putting roadblocks between myself and my own happiness. I'm an expert at self-sabotage.
There's something to be said about misery if you're a writer. Ask anyone you know who writes on any serious level, and they'll tell you: some of their best work came from when they were sad, or angry, or upset, or heartbroken. I'd like to believe that my own addiction to misery is not for the sake of my art (haha.) I'd like to believe that my self-imposed solitude and separation from happiness is a catalyst to some major catharsis. I'd like to believe a lot of things, but most importantly, I'd like to believe that I can learn to choose happiness.

Mars and Other Drugs

2011-12-29T22:02:00.003-05:00

It keeps coming back, ya know? No matter how hard I try, it's like fighting the tide. I try my best not to write about her anymore. I feel like she's been living rent-free in my head for too long, given too much space. There's not much of her left in there, but it's still enough to rattle me from time to time. There's this song: it's David Bowie's 'Life on Mars?' but it's a rough Portuguese translation by a man named Seu Jorge. Look it up, it's on youtube. Go ahead, I'll wait for you to start it up.
I love Bowie, but in this case, I think I actually like Jorge's version better. It rings with so much emotion, with only his voice to carry the full portent of the lyrics. There's so much sadness, but hope, something beautiful to crush the melancholy.
The last movie we ever watched together was The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. As usual, I fell asleep. It's where I found that version of the song, and she began to play the Bowie version all the time, especially while doing the dishes. It was not long after we began to see less and less of each other. I can't even remember the last time I saw her face, or heard her voice. Most days I'm okay with this, but today, it makes me sad. Sometimes it makes me heartbroken.

I've wished a hundred times, a thousand times, to go back. I think, in the end, the thing that hurts the most is the knowledge that even were we given another chance to set things right, I don't think I could ever forget. Forgive, yes, but I could never forget.

Then, like the high keening whine of steel on steel, the sound rips through the air, leaving them all stunned.

That's all I have for you this week. Short, but sincere. Also, I never brought myself to finish that movie.

Heart Tree

2011-12-22T23:42:00.000-05:00

Twenty-five thousand, eight hundred and seventy steps. They had been counted before. The men who had carved them into the rock face certainly knew the number very well, and many more had climbed them in the uncountable years since. Several even returned. They were broad and high, wide enough for a score of men to walk abreast without their shoulders touching, and each stair was nearly a march-step above its predecessor. It was almost like seeing the ocean. They stretched out of sight into the clouds, winding ever so slightly on their course but inevitably climbing to the Rim.
It was said the Rim gave you an answer, the answer to whatever you sought. Some said that the answer was to whatever lay deepest in your heart, regardless of what you thought you were seeking. Many never returned from the top, supposedly after receiving their knowledge they threw themselves from the top. There were less bodies than there were those who had gone missing. The first step of any pilgrimage to the Rim was the Temple of the Fallen. Those who guarded the gates thought it necessary to warn climbers that the answers may destroy them.
I tightened my pack, and started up. Every step was one step closer, after all.

It was only a few hours in that I met a man coming down. He was actually laying down, asleep next to small pile of coals. I assumed that the fire had been for cooking, the weather being very temperate. Of course my body was warm from the exercise, so I couldn't really speak for the climate. I decided to take my own rest to drink some water. The water was cool and refreshing, and stopping, I could finally feel the small stilted breeze coming down the mountain.
“How much further?” The man on the step stirred and sat up, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He was quite old, I noticed. It seemed that most of his wispy gray hair had migrated from the top of his head to the bottom, in a long and thinning beard.
“Excuse me?”
“To the bottom, you fool. How much longer till I reach the bottom?” He leaned over to grab some fists-full of dirt and scattered them over the smoldering coals.
“Not far grandfather. Less than a thousand by my count.”
“Thanks be to it. The sooner I get back home the better. These forsaken steps and the forsaken Rim, to the midden-heap with all of it. A waste of what time I have.” I watched him for a few minutes longer as he began getting his belongings together. “You should turn back, young man. Fanciful tales will get you nowhere. I'd sooner have spent a month working a stable than with this trek.”
“What were you looking for?”
“That's my own sodding business.” He snapped at me. After a moment, his face softened. “Don't waste your time son. It's a tree. An old tree. Whatever the answer is supposed to be, it's always a tree. If you plan on hiking up these steps, the only question you should ask is what a tree that has lived too long looks like. That's the only answer you'll get.” He gather his cloak around him, shouldered his knapsack, and started away.
A tree? Perhaps he just didn't understand what he was looking at. The rest of that day was an uneventful climb. I made over six thousand steps on that first day, quitting only when I began to lose feeling in my feet. I laid out my bedroll, tucked my pack under my head, and was out before I had counted three stars.

When morning came, I was definitely feeling the chill. At some point I had thrashed about and rolled down two of the stairs. The fall should have woken me, but I guess my exhaustion was more than I thought. After a light breakfast of dried jerky and water, I began again. It was cold. Bitter, biting cold.
The climb was harder that second day. Worse even the third. When I woke up on the morning of the fourth day, I tallied in my head how far I had come. It turns out that what I had climbed in that first day was more than half of my trip so far. I needed to pace myself a bit better if I had any hope of climbing all the way to the Rim. I stood, and stretched my muscles, feeling the already familiar ache. This time, however, it was less sharp. Like a sickness passing, the stiff muscles and angry joints were dulled, finally accepting their role in this trip. When I sat for my noon-break, they sighed in relief, but were wary of the upcoming resumption of their effort.
Since seeing the man on my first day, the stairs had been otherwise clear and silent. It's understandable, then, that I nearly choked on my water when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
I jumped up, and reeled backwards. I could feel the back of my heel beginning to step into thin air, I began to picture my death as I rolled down thousands of steps, crushing my skull, my neck, smashing against the stone-when a hand caught my wrist. It was a firm, steeled grip, pulling me in a manner that was anything but gingerly back towards the way up instead of the way down. I collapsed on the ground, sucking in thin air through clenched teeth. When I finally managed to open my eyes, my breath caught in my throat. Who should be standing there, but the old man. His features seemed a little fuller, the wisps that had once covered his bald pate seemed thicker and darker, his beard shot through with small streaks of black.
“That's impossible,” I stammered, “you... I met you going-”
“Save the double-talk, child.” He sat next to me, shedding his cloak despite the deep chill. I could see that he had been sweating profusely. His skin was sun-darkened, almost leathery. Where I had first seen frail arms, there were instead thin but toned biceps, the muscles of a man who gained his strength through work instead of vanity. “You really want to see a tree this badly?”
I didn't know what to say. “Is that really what's there?”
“Did you think I was lying? Of course it's a tree. A gnarled, old warped knotted tree. It doesn't grow any fruit, or leaves, nor does it keel over and die. The only thing that's impressive about it is that it doesn't die. At least not yet.” He unwrapped a water-skin from his belt and took a long pull. He turned and looked at me for a long moment. “You look disappointed.”
I didn't respond. I couldn't really.
“So lad, what are you looking for on the Rim? Some young lady broke your heart? 'Haps you're trying to find your 'true calling'?” He passed me his skin, and I took a sip. I immediately felt fire in my mouth, my chest, and began coughing. The old man belted out a deep, belly laugh, slapping his knee. “Don't worry boy, you'll grow to the taste. So what's your angle, eh?”
I had only a sip, but it took quickly. My muscles relaxed a little more, my mind hazed and cleared at the same time. “I don't know.” The old man continued to watch me. “Honestly, I don't. I'm not particularly interested in any answers. I don't really have any questions. At least, none so profound I couldn't find the answer myself.” I took one more draw from the skin and passed it back to him. He sat, unmoving, while I stood, stored my own skin and shouldered my pack.
“That's good.” he said, finally. I was already ten steps above him. “Still doesn't change the fact that all you're going to find is a sodding tree.” I continued on my way.

At the end of the seventh day, I was nearing the top. I had counted eighteen thousand steps by nightfall, and had a little strength left in me to keep going until about mid-night. It had started grating on me: why was I climbing? Throughout the years many men and women had come back with profound answers, written many of the greatest texts of generations. Love, God, Gods, Terror, Destruction, Distraction, Happiness, Humility... these were all gifts bestowed to those who had sought the threshold of the Rim.
But they had come armed. They knew what they sought, and they had the strength. Who was I to attempt this climb? What experiences had I had to precipitate this journey? I had told him the truth, I had no question. I enjoyed learning, but had no aim in my knowledge. I simply learned what there was to learn in a place, and continued on my way. The simplest answer I could give myself was that this was just simply on the way. I had been making my way north for years, and passing by the Temple of the Fallen, it seemed a natural extension of the journey.
Could he be telling the truth? How could so many have come down from the Rim with insights from a tree? What could men see in its branches that would cause them to throw themselves from the top? Clearly the old man was part of this. There's no way he could have climbed back up after me without me knowing. Some magic of the steps. Or, worse, my own imagination. Funny, I told him I had no questions needing answered, and here he was providing me with several.
By the time I laid my roll out that night, I had forgotten all about them. My body had reached such a point of exhaustion that the entire ordeal of sleeping was more routine than will.

The morning of the eighth day was warm. The sun was higher than I had hoped, but it didn't stop me from just laying under my cloak, basking in the morning air.
“I know what you're thinking.” The voice should have surprised me, but to be honest, I had been expecting it. The face was mildly surprising though. A sharp widow's peak with a thinning top. A short, trimmed beard that was more pepper than salt. He had spectacles, but they seemed more of a decoration than a utility. “You're thinking about the tree.” He pulled an apple from his robes, and began to snack on it. “It really does have answers. But it's just a tree.”
“So there really is a tree?” I sat up, blinking the sleep out of my eyes.
“Yeah, but it's nothing amazing. It's just a tree. A really astoundingly old one, but it's just a tree. With answers.” His attention was more on the apple than the conversation, I could tell.
“You mean it speaks? How?”
He wiped the juices dribbling from his chin with a too-large sleeve. “No. Trees don't talk. You'll see though. What are you asking it?” His eyes were bright, expectant.
“I don't know. Nothing. I'm just traveling.”
He started to grin. “Good choice. Pretty stupid if you ask me. It's a long climb. Then again you know that by now.” Chomp. “Ish preyey poinlesh if you're going up err for noffing” Swallow. “Anyways, I have to be on my way. It's a long way down.” With that, he stood, and began bounding down the stairs.
I started to feel afraid. I made camp early, planning to tackle the last thousand steps on the morning. Whatever waited up there I wanted a good deal of daylight with me when I found it.

The last one hundred steps were light, almost airy. The stone gave way to a loose, sedimentary mix shored up by wooden beams. Then it worked itself to dirt, hemmed in by roots. Finally, the Rim.
It stretched both ways across the horizon, the bowl edge of the world. I had expected it to be a sharp ridge, but instead I was faced with the edge of a plateau. The sky was bright and clear, a stiff breeze against my face, but it was fog-less, cloudless. You could see miles all around in every direction except down.
There in front of me, in a shallow valley, was the tree. It was simultaneously enormous yet small. It's age was easily apparent, but it didn't look anywhere near ancient. It was amazingly stout, and right above the ground, its bark grew outwards, creating a hole that exposed its inner core, the ivory white of its heartwood-the part that should always be encased-having been worn to a tough gray. As it rose upwards, the shell closed back, and began stretching its leafless branches out not towards the sky, but more towards the sunset. Below the crest of branchings there was a growth, almost tumorous. Had it been red and pulsing, it would have appeared to be a heart.
I walked to it, and made rest in the little shade it provided. A warm breeze waved its way across my face, and I began to sweat again for the first time in days. I had heard that the Rim was the frozen cusp of the world, but here it was, far from frozen, and flat in every direction. Behind me I could trace the line where the world dipped out of sight, looking so much like an ocean of clouds in a giant's teacup. In the silence, I began to study the tree a little more.
It was unusual, but not so unusual that it was astounding. It looked ill, to be honest. The section of its heartwood I saw with closer inspection had almost grown a bark of its own. I stood and walked over to touch it. It was soft, but rigid. I felt that with any small effort on my part I could tear a chunk out of its meat. I tested pressing my finger firmly against it, but it didn't give.
“I wouldn't do that. That's a god you're poking.” Through the hole made by the bark, there was a small child standing on the other side. She had disheveled strawberry blond curls framing her face. As she stared at me, the freckles on her nose began to darken. Finally I drew my hand back. “You're not supposed to poke gods.” She stepped around the tree, and grabbed my hand. “Come over here and sit with me.”
“Who are you? I was expecting the old man to be here.” It was all I could think to say as she walked me back to my pack. She pulled out my bedroll, sat down and crossed her legs. She looked up at me expectantly, so I sat next to her.
“Grandfather talks too much. He says it's just a tree. But my mommy told me that this is the heart-tree, and it's older than anyone. She said when she was a baby, Grandfather would bring her here and it looked just as old as it does now.”
“I didn't know there was any land up here. The Rim is supposed to be... well, a rim I guess.”
The girl gave me a look that only children can give: the exasperation of having to explain something to an adult. “Of course there's land here. Lots of it. It goes on forever mommy says. Grandfather says it goes so far it wraps all the way around and comes back to the other side. He thinks it's too big.”
Neither of us spoke for a while. If I hadn't had questions when I started, I certainly had them now. I was never any good speaking with children, and this had been made doubly hard by the fact that I had no idea what to think of any of this, while this girl seemed to be entirely comfortable out here. “Are you going to jump off the cliff?” Her question was simple curiosity. If she understood the morbidity of such an action, it didn't show.
“I hadn't planned on it.”
“A lot of people jump off the cliff. Grandfather says it's because they were expecting to find god, and it was just a tree. That's why he leaves, so he can tell people it's just a tree. Mommy thinks it's 'cause they're scared.” She leaned over and rummaged in my pack, pulled out a small piece of jerky, frowned at, and took a small nibble from the corner. “I think they're both wrong. I think that the people who jump are like my bunny.” She fell silent again, and finished the piece of jerky. When she was done, she dug around again until she found my water-skin, and drank deeply.
“How are they like your bunny?” I grabbed my own piece of jerky to eat while she screwed up her face and thought.
“Grandfather gave me a bunny. He told me to keep it in its cage or it would run away. I didn't like to keep her in a cage though. So when he would leave to go down the steps, I would let her out and play with her. Last spring I forgot to make sure the front door was shut and she ran away. When Grandfather got back, he was mad. We went to look for her, and found her out in the trees by my yard. She had starved to death. She had been in a cage for so long that when she got out, she was so scared she forgot to eat and stay alive. That's what the people who jump off the cliff are like. They just got out of their cage, and don't want to go back, but they forget how to stay alive.”
“What's your name?”
“I can't tell you my name.” She said abruptly. She got up and smoothed out her dress, and began walking away.
“Wait!” I called out to her. When she turned around, I realized I had nothing to say, no reason she shouldn't leave me alone.
“You're a stranger. And you're from below the clouds. I'm not supposed to tell my name to strangers. Mommy said so.” She took another few steps away, and stopped. When she turned around again, her cheeks were flushed. “I ate your food. Come to my house and my mommy will give you food. Then you won't be a stranger and I can tell you my name.”
She was almost out of sight by the time I could get my pack together, but I managed to keep her in eyesight until I caught up. I looked back one last time, to see the bare, leafless branches of the tree swaying in the wind.

Olly Olly Oxen Free

2011-12-15T13:00:00.000-05:00

This is a re-post from my old blog. To the people in my family who found it difficult to read, I'm sorry to put this up again. I know it can be a bit of a sensitive issue. Of all the things I've written, this is one of the things that I am uniquely proud of, and incredibly close to my heart. This was in November of 2010, and I was in New York for about 72 hours to go to the surprise 90th birthday party of George Fesko, a man who has always held the role of Grandfather to me, despite the fact that we are in no way related. I was in a unique mood the whole trip, and it was really a strange, almost out of body weekend. I don't know if I'll ever be able to do her justice, but here it is: the first time I ever met my sister.

_-~-_

I got to play hide and seek with my sister today. The sun was lazily making its way towards the horizon, and dissapeared behind the trees as we pulled into the cemetary. My father got out of the jeep, and I followed suit a few seconds later. I thought we were looking for his father as we started combing the rows for the name Alexander.

"She's around here somewheres..." I heard my dad mutter. Less than 48 hours in Cortland and he'd already picked up the accent again. I joined him in pacing and scouring the rows when, unexpectedly, a smile came to my lips. I was playing hide and seek with my sister.

She was born in 1981, just 3 years older than me. For the first time in my life, she became real to me, and we werent playing hide and seek anymore. I pictured her now. Tall, lean, standing a few inches above my mom.

She'd probably still live in Chapel hill, she loved the city when she went to UNC. With 30 coming in just a few months, she told me she was a little worried. She had a great job, and had a decent boyfriend who was finally able to put up with her crazy side. He got along great with Scott and my dad. Mom has her heels cooled on him, but she's warming up. I think the guy's ok, I tell her, and that she needs to stop worrying. Just because shes older and dumber than me, it's no reason for her to be worried.

She laughs, and smacks me on the arm. Really, I tell her, you're doing great. 30 is going to be just as great as 25 was, she'd see. Scott was already planning the surprise party.

She looks more like dad than any of us, but she still has mom's nose. I've always hated that she had that nice, wavy chestnut brown hair, while I got dad's curls. She looks great for 30. Shes starting to get crows feet on her eyes, but she laughs a lot, so I'd expect nothing less. I give her a big hug and a kiss on the cheek, but she grabs my arm on my way to leave.

You know Ryan, she looks at me seriously, I'm your big sis. You can talk to me about any of this stuff you're going through. Everyone is a little worried about you. We just want to make sure you're happy. I give her a smile, and a bigger hug.

Thanks Laura, I'll think about it. I'll see you on Thanksgiving, you nosy old hag.

I love you too Ryan, she says sardonically.

I took a picture of her headstone. It seemed trivial, but I wanted some proof I had been there. Dad came back from the jeep with a towel to wipe some of the dirt off.

I may not have grown up with a sister, but family is family, and we all love her more than any of us even realize. I'm glad I finally got to meet her.

Who the hell?

2011-12-08T21:24:00.001-05:00

So, you might be wondering who the hell I am. Probably not, but there's a chance. I say probably not, since a majority of my readers are people I know personally. I know there are others who don't, and as time goes on, I hope that a majority of my audience are people whom I have never met personally. Not that I wouldn't like to meet you. You're probably very nice. So nice that when you meet me you'll give me a present. Here's a hint: I like sesame chicken, gift cards to stores where I can buy nice pants, and things that have a very untenable (if any) reason for ever being made into a product. For instance, a hollow glass head. I had one of those, but my ex-girlfriend broke it. On 'accident.'

Where was I? Oh yes, my favorite subject: (he says, dripping with irony) myself. I guess I've already introduced you to the first thing. I fucking love tangents. Many years ago, on a weekly basis, a few of my friends and I would hit up Waffle House in the middle of the night, drunk or sober. Our conversation would take so many tangents and off-shoots, we started making a game of first A) figuring out how we arrived at the current topic, and then B) somehow create a final tangent that would link our conversation back to the starting point, thereby causing our conversation to look something like this.

Trust me, when you're eighteen, it's fun.

Again, I got off on a tangent. The reason I'm writing this is because I want to give all of you, including the ones who know me, some sense of who I am. I'm a fairly quiet person, and not prone to speaking at length about anything, let alone myself. I'm not into the whole gripe and piss and moan about me and my situation and bitch about my shitty life type of blogging, so I will not be doing that here. I already did that here. Long story short, a majority of my last blog was born out of a bitter break-up, but I’ve moved on. New blog, new writing, new style, new stuff. This blog here, you know, the one you are currently reading? This is for me to occasionally put up things about myself, or my life, that I deem interesting. Sometimes I'll put up fictional stories, like this one. Sometimes, I'll put up things that didn't really happen, like this. Other times things will be a little conceptual or straight up brain-poop. Long story short, I want to write. I love to write.

I hate it when people tell me that they're weird. That's not for them to decide, but for me. Quite honestly, the people who tell you they're weird, they are so benignly boring it's painful. “I'm weird because I like to take showers sitting down, and I change the part in my hair like, every week. Also, one time, in marching band, I totally peed in an alley. Look at me, I'm strange.” All this being said, I'm weird. I know this about myself, and I don't generally broadcast the fact; it is usually readily apparent. I only deign to mention it here because this whole thing is ostensibly a descriptor of me, and I thought you would like to know.

This post itself is an example. I have chosen to write this post specifically in bars, because it's where I feel comfortable being alone. I like being alone at the bar. It's my quiet place. Even when they're blasting ridiculous music or football games with throngs of screaming, drunken, belligerent people.

I hate talking. I loathe talking. It's still my dream to have one full day, from getting out of bed to crawling back in it, without having to utter a single word. I know that has been overly used as a male stereotype, but for me it goes a little bit deeper than that. I'm not good at it. I can be good at it, when need be. Hell, for a majority of the jobs that I’ve held in the course of my life, it was the main function of my job; this includes my years in call centers and waiting tables, and even commission based sales. This being said, I love silence. One of my favorite nights in my entire life was me and two of my friends sitting in sleeping bags in the middle of the night in a wide open field on what is the clearest night I’ve ever witness, high up on hill, staring at the stars. It was so quiet you could nearly hear the pulse of the universe. In a way, I guess my love of silence is just a way to recreate that moment.

The other part of it is just that I'm bad at it. I have a genuinely difficult time having a serious conversation. My default is a mixture of humor and asshole. Needless to say, this doesn't just lead to me putting my foot in my mouth, but a surplus of foots. I don't mean it. I never do. Somehow, even with people I genuinely care for, I somehow manage to take every subject into the realm of slightly derogatory humor. I don't mean it. I never do. Really.

The best I can figure, and it's something I’ve said (written) a dozen times before, is that I just don't speak very well. My brain is wired for writing. I can be sincere, and emotional, and say what I mean,if just given that little extra time to write what I'm thinking as opposed to forcing it to process immediately to my mouth.

I'm a nerd. Not a particularly good or specialized nerd, but a nerd nonetheless. I love scifi, fantasy, D&D, Magic (both in stories and The Gathering,) Stars both Wars and Trek, math and chemistry jokes, video games, comic books, regular books, Doctor Who, Red Dwarf, comic and gaming conventions... really, you name something you think is nerdy, and I probably know something about it. At the very least, I’ve heard of it. In that same vein though, I’ve never gone too far overboard with any of it. None of my nerderies have ever been an obsession, at least not for terribly long. In a way, I guess it makes me a nerd-of-all-trades.

Along that same vein, I like to think of myself as a jack-of-all-trades, and certainly a master of none. There's not many things out there to which I don't have at least a passing interest. To pare it down to it's core, I want to know something about everything. I would like to know everything about everything, but that's a little far-fetched and unrealistic. The problem comes when I actually begin learning about things. It's astounding how quickly I’m dissuaded on a subject the more I know about it. It's the magician's paradox, everyone wants to know how the trick is done, but something is lost in the discovery. I tend to become disillusioned with the actual workings of the world, preferring instead to just bask in the magic.

Another thing about me: I'm really bad at endings.

I would like to use this space for a moment of promotion. A good, dear friend of mine is pursuing her goal of both being a professional writer, and bringing a little love to the world. As a part of this effort, she is collecting love-letters, pictures, videos, whatever you have, to promote the idea and joy of love, in any form. You can find her website at http://jabsloveletters.com/, and she's also on facebook and twitter.

Her first book, Love Letters, Volume 1: Moving On, Growing Up recently became available in e-book format, and it's only 99 cents. If I have the ability to command you to buy anything, then I am utilizing that now. (Remember, even if you don't have a kindle, you can get kindle apps free for the PC, android, and iOS platforms, and really anything smarter than an iToaster.) It will be in print very soon.

I also urge you all to submit your love letters, pictures, videos, whatever you're comfortable with, to the site. Don't worry, you don't have to be a published author to be able to write something good. As long as it's from the heart, it will be exactly what she wants. At the very least, give the website a look. While you're there, consider making a donation. She has given up a lot to be able follow her dream, and I want nothing more than for her to succeed and become super famous.

Really, if for nothing else, buy her book because it has my name in there. Right in the dedication. So... fuck yeah.

Sorry for the wait/Where the birds go

2011-12-01T18:53:00.001-05:00

A soft and distant click accompanies the soft yellow light that shines in the soft outline of a door. Within moments, footsteps can be heard hesitantly approaching. There's a snap as the latch loosens from its mooring, and hinges begin creak inwards. The yellow outline of a door begins to fill itself in as the light pours into the room like melting butter. A figure can be seen in silhouette, looking inwards but not entering, not yet.
Motes of dust swirl in the light, twirling around, the air currents from the hallway and the now open door giving them life they haven't felt in months. The silhouette watched their dance, their rise and fall, little tornadoes in the breeze. Slowly, he moved into the room, sat at the desk that was now barely illuminated, and tugged on the chain for the lamp that sat on its top. He began to speak:
“I'm sorry. I haven't been here in a while. There were a lot of things that had me occupied in the interim, but they're really nothing but excuses. I always had one reason or another not to come in here and do one of the few things that give me uninterrupted joy, and I let them overwhelm me and had all but given up. I know I've disappointed a few with the lack of my presence, but in the end I'm only letting myself down.
“You see, this kind of writing allows me some level of honesty, of freedom, and I take it for granted more often than not. It's not often outside of having children that people get to create something that they love utterly and completely, and it's an incredibly scary thing. Something that becomes bigger than an idea. Once it's there, once it has come to fruition, it's scary. You don't want to change it for fear of making it somehow worse, or less than it was.
“I had managed somehow to put out a few things here that, at least to me, were inspired, and impressed even myself- a feat that comes nowhere near often enough. I was scared that I would be held to this standard, that to produce anything less than what I had laid out previously would be detrimental to me in the eyes of my audience. What I needed to remember however, is that I don't write for my audience. I rarely have. Yes, I like people to read what I write, but that hasn't quite always been the goal. The goal was just to write. If I could figure out a way to do it as a living that would be wonderful, but I know that at this juncture of my life my writing is far from fully formed. It ebbs and flows, and is almost impossible to force.
“The last few things I have written I thoroughly enjoyed throughout the whole process, and I know that some of that shines through to the reader. I also know that I can't keep up a pace of weekly posting and consistently produce the same level of quality. So I will make you a promise, and all you have to do is agree. If you don't agree, well, just... click somewhere else. I won't be offended, but I may be a little upset.
“What I promise you is this: I will maintain a weekly posting. Starting now. Guarantee, rain or shine, vacation or work, as long as I have fingers to type you'll get something from me. Just agree that you won't be upset if it isn't always grade A prime material. I'm sure the more often I do it, the better the overall frequency of quality material will be, so stick around. This place is so new, I didn't mean to let this much dust get in. Don't worry, all of this was temporary. I'll get it cleaned up and running in just a few hours.”
With a deep breath, he blew a gust of air towards the desk, filling the room with dust as far as the eye could see.

Where The Birds Fly South

I haven't done a single bit of actual research for this, so if it seems wrong to you at all, blame my memory, it's the only one at fault.

I don't know if I’m the only person this happens to, but every now and then I'll see one small, seemingly insignificant thing, and it sets my mind whirling as to why I’ve never seen or noticed it before. Sometimes seeing a droplet of water hit a basin, or splash through the surface of a still puddle, forming a second droplet with its equal but opposite Newtonian force, my brain reels with the thoughts of chaos theory and fluid dynamics and particle physics. Not subjects I’m particularly well-versed in mind you, but I at least know what they are and that they effect the world we reside in. It was on my way into work today that I had such a moment.
There I was, the first day of December, driving through my small town in North Carolina, when a hawk swooped down next to me, traveling the same speed I was, scooped up some small critter and flew away without slowing or skipping a beat. It caught my eye, and the train of thought was unleashed. First, I had a number of thoughts along the lines of the unstoppable force of nature, and how the world will keep going on as long as it can pretending that we aren't here. A lot of that sort of 'Mother Earth will kick our ass hard someday' notion. It was only a little later that the real thought behind that one came to the surface.
This is where the birds go in the winter.
I was born and raised in a small town in upstate New York, smaller than the one I live in now. A lot of people don't believe me when I tell them that bit, but a quick check of the 2010 Census numbers says that the county I live in now has over three times the population than the one I came from, and everyone who lives here knows how small this place is. Couple that with the fact that, for whatever reason you like, people living in this part of the country are much less likely to fill out their Census reports, and under-reporting is fairly common, and that number is more likely to be four times as high instead of three. This is all a bit beside the point though.
Our winters got cold. I often trick-or-treated in 6 inches of snow. The birds? They all left town by the end of September. Throughout the late summer and early fall, right around the time of the first frost, you would see them in their Vs, or sometimes in just a giant cloud, all getting the hell out of Dodge. It would last for six or so weeks, all day, all in the same direction. Sometimes you'd have some stragglers in December still trying to make their way south, and even on occasion one or two that said fuck it and decided to stick it out.
When you woke up on a frigid January morning, nearly three feet of snow on the ground, and stepped outside, the world wasn't just silent, it was Silent. It defined the absence of sound. Everything was muffled so well that even the humming of the transformer across the street didn't make its way very far. When the first melts came in late February, that's when you'd hear it. Birdsong. Only one or two at first, but more and more as the days went on. The same mad rush from months before, but now heading in the opposite direction, with a large portion of them staying where I was when they arrived. Through the next half of the year, the birdsong would be as easily taken for granted as the absence of it had been just a few months prior.
And here I was, the first day of December, watching a bird flying around for food, not for migration. Birds and their songs are always around. Sometimes they sing a little later in the morning here, as most birds still keep going a little further than North Carolina, and the ones that are here wait for the sun to warm them up a bit before they begin their warbling. But they never really go away.
It's such a small thing to notice, but I've lived more than half of my life in North Carolina now, and while the culture shock was very noticeable in the first weeks after I had relocated, it soon faded into the background after I became accustomed to the new surroundings. Seeing that hawk made me realize that as a kid, all I knew is that the birds flew south for the winter. I guess I used to imagine them stretching themselves out in beach chairs by the ocean somewhere in Florida, sipping fancy drinks in coconuts with umbrellas, but I never even questioned the details of it. All I needed to know is that when it got cold, they skipped town, and when it warmed up, they came back and rebuilt their ruined nests.
Only now, fourteen years later, did it occur to me: I'm living in a place where the birds fly south to be. What a world.

Just a story.

2011-10-17T18:05:00.002-04:00

If you've never smelled jasmine before, you won't mistake it. It defines itself. When the scent hits your nose, it fills your lungs with its spice, and its name becomes readily apparent: Jasmine. It's the only name that makes sense.

I learned this the first time I saw the twins.

To be fair, though I had never met them before, let alone seen them, I knew exactly who they were. What they were. I collect stories, legends, tales, and theirs was uniquely infamous. I was determined, when they came to town that I would see them. I wouldn't be, couldn't be, another addition to their tale, merely an observer. Someone who could write the next chapter.

When you go to meet Medusa, you know to keep your eyes on the floor, to avert your gaze, and to pack a mirror.

If you're crossing the Styx, you bring your coins for the ferryman's toll.

If you are to be traveling, you brush up on your riddles in case you have to cross strange bridges.

So I steeled my will, and rallied my sorrows to better set them aside. They feed on desire, and no man desires more than he with a heavy heart.

They're never hard to find. Appearances are rare, it's true, but they never fail to draw an audience by word of mouth alone. Indeed, when I arrived the little inn was packed almost to full. Men and women, young and old, all of them lost in the music, the sounds, and the smell. The smell of jasmine on the fire, soaking the air. It was strong, acrid, a shock to the senses, and set my mind instantly reeling. It carried the music more adeptly through the air, and I could feel the rapid tempo rush into my body, tempting my hips, climbing my spine, quickening my pulse.

That's when I saw them. Calling them beautiful would almost be insulting, like calling the ocean a puddle, or saying the sun itself was dim. Beauty was something that could only aspire to bask in their glow. The way they swayed and gyrated through the music was less like dancing to the rhythm, more instead like instruments shaping the music. Every beat was the slightest gesture of the arm, every measure ending with a twist of the hip. With the crowd so thick around them, the musicians weren't even visible, completing the illusion that they created the song as they moved.

My eyes were drawn to their taut bodies, scantily covered, the skin slick with oil and sweat. So inviting, so alluring, feeling that ache to embrace-

Stop.

They had power, and a lot of it. If that wasn't clear before, I knew it now. If I hadn't come prepared, I would have been lost already, under their spell. My loss hadn't been recent, but apparently that small straw was enough for them to grasp, and tug. I pushed my way through the crowd, and found a table near the back. I spread out my tools on the table, the implements of my trade: some parchment, a rough pencil, a small dull knife, and finally (after some fishing around) the coin.

It was gold, but probably a fake. It was supposed to serve as a ward, but its price and convenience told me it most likely held no real magic of its own. Most people don't understand that items can almost never wield magic by themselves- to do so takes will, and heart, and blood. Magic needs life. Symbols, however, can have a power of their own. Snake oil is just snake oil, but it can be used as a very effective panacea. Like all symbols, it's simply a vessel for belief, for prayers, and if these ingredients are strong enough, for magic. In the right hands, anything can be a tool, or a weapon, or a shield. My coin though, had another purpose as well: on its back, carved indelicately, was my name. It was rough, but it did the job. When dealing with demons, remembering your name is important. Some may even argue it's the most important weapon you can hold.

I palmed the coin, keeping the carved side pressed firmly against my skin, and turned back to the twins. Their elegance was breathtaking. It was like watching smoke wavering through the currents of air, given form, and bending and twisting in ways that seemed both impossible and all too human.

The stories I had heard (as is the nature of my work) seemed to be misguided. Twins they may have been, and definitely sisters, but their differences were readily apparent. One was a bit taller, for example, and with lighter hair, though that could be chalked up to habits or custom, sunshine or chemicals. If you paid attention, the disparities ran much deeper.

Kala and Ella, as they were known (their real names lost to the sands,) were bastard twins. The village they were born in was less than a day's walk from the capitol. Close enough that it thrived in trade, yet far enough to maintain its own identity. It was a small town, as they always are in tales. Their mother, Deil, was the preist's neice, an orphan of the Uniting Wars. She was raised to be an attendant in the temple. Her upbringing was fairly unremarkable, and she was a compliant and obedient servant of the faith.

So it was a slight shock when she became pregnant. The populace was split on the issue. It was no secret that she and Kai'el, the priest's son, had been close their whole lives, the thickest of confidantes. He chaperoned her exclusively when she had need to leave the temple and conduct business around town. Deil, though, maintained her innocence so vehemently and so convincingly that many began to believe that her child was divinely conceived.

In due course, Kala was born. Many people thought that Deil would not survive the ordeal, as she remained in pain for three days after the birth. Finally, Ella followed, an unexpected addition to an already inexplicable family. As the girls began to grow, so did the questions of their paternity. They didn't appear to look like Deil or Kai'el, and in fact they bore little resemblance to anyone except each other. Beautiful and kind children they were, though, and normal. Their mother never claimed their divine parenthood, she only denied any illicit behavior on her own part. So the little town did what little towns do best: they forgot.

They danced for what seemed like hours. Flirting with the crowd by motion alone. A surreptitious glance over the shoulder, an outstretched hand mimicking an invitation. I almost lost myself again when Ella caught my eye, biting her lower lip with only her canines. The only thing that saved me from falling into her stare was the feeling of my blood cooling as it ran down my arm. When I looked, I saw that I had been holding the coin far too firm: the rough edges where my name was hewn had sliced open my palm. While I was cradling my hand, the music died off, and the twins left the stage. Before I could get up, someone laid a violet band of cloth on the table. The man looked towards me, but his eyes seemed to stare out into nothing. “She said it was for your hand.” he said, and vanished back into the fold.

I set the coin down on the table, and inspected the cloth. It was like silk, but smoother, softer. It felt like warm honey against my skin. It was the tie that Ella had been using to hold her hair back, I realized. This didn't bode well for me, I had been trying my best to remain inconspicuous. I shouldn't be part of the story. Clearly, despite my intentions, I had been noticed.

It was far too fine to use as a bandage, but I thought better of it. I would be ill-served if my pages became covered in blood rather than ink. I wrapped it firmly around my hand, watching the rich purple turn black as it drank the life pouring from my skin. After tightening the end, I tucked the coin underneath the dressing. I couldn't afford to take any chances.

Kaya and Ella were like opposite sides of a coin, if, for instance you had a coin that had heads and tails on both of its faces, and a penchant for landing on it's edge from time to time. Kaya defined perfect form. When she danced, every step, every move was timed immaculately. It was a technical skill that had been crafted to a master level. Her dance was like an expertly smithied sword, a wine of unmatchable vintage. She floated and teased the audience, drawing their eyes to her body, appealing to their lust. She would circle the floor, grazing her arms, legs, her hips ever so slightly against the onlookers in a way that was anything but accidental. Occasionally she would pull some of the women from the crowd, letting them become part of the show, becoming the objects of desire rather than just subject to it. (I had heard that if a married woman was drawn on stage, she would be with child by the end of the week, and the single women were married within a month; such was the power of simply being in her presence.)

Ella however, stayed away from the crowd. If it weren't for her furtive glances, always directly in the eyes of her admirers, she would seem to be simply existing in her own world. When she performed, she carried her own rhythm. Sometimes precisely in step with her sister, sometimes syncopated ever so slightly. If Kaya was a master crafter, Ella was an artistic prodigy. Her style flowed naturally, pulling off difficult bends and twists with grace and ease. She didn't need to grab the audience to get their attention, it came towards her in an almost organic way. While her sister exuded a certain libidinous sexuality, she seemed instead to embody a carnal innocence. Purity without naivety.

I finally noticed how dim the light was getting in the room. It was becoming too dark to write. I looked around, but could find no sign of the fire-keeper. In fact, after asking the inn-keep, it seemed he had been missing since the twins had left the stage. I paid him for a drink and returned to my table. If I couldn't continue writing, at the very least I wanted some fire in my veins to help steady my nerves.

Suddenly, the room went dark. The fire, and the sparse few oil lamps around the walls were doused almost simultaneously. Everyone became instantly silent, afraid. Moments later, four serving girls came out with lanterns on six-foot poles, arranging them in a square on the floor. The crowd began to part, and the sisters stepped out into the clearing. Slowly, somberly, they began their second act.

When the twins were in their fourteenth summer, they vanished. They hadn't shown up for morning prayer, and when Deil went to their room to rouse them, they were gone. The beds were empty, but nothing was missing. Every piece of clothing, every toy, every book, comb, and doll was in its proper place. The only thing missing were the girls and their bed-clothes.

It's here that the stories begin to differ.

One story said that Kai'el had gone missing as well, a father reclaiming his children and taking them away to give them a new life. Kai'el, in this version, was never seen again.

Three more included his disappearance, with a much darker end.

The first said he was found days later, nude, with his throat cut, drawing implications of ill intentions towards the girls (young and beautiful as they were.)

The second had him clutching a journal in which (again) his paternity was admitted, and his death caused seemingly while protecting the girls from wild animals.

The third also included the journal, with the last few entries stating that he had only seen the girls leaving, and was attempting to track them to return them to the village. In this version, his death was caused by an unexplained knife-wound to the heart, presumably from either a thief or the girls themselves.

There were even more tales that involved demons; some said that one came to collect them as payment of some dark compact either their mother or they themselves had made.

Others still simply said they ran away in youthful rebellion to join the handsome young men in the trading caravans.

Deil, practical and caring as she always was, begged her leave from the priest to travel and seek out her daughters. The priest agreed, going so far as to conscript a young soldier to be her escort and protection on her journey. Many asked her how long she planned to search for her progeny. “Until I find them.” was her only answer. It was seven years before she returned.

Alone.

She refused to speak on the matter, beyond a few sparse details.

“Did you find them?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“They are safe. They are women now.”

“And the soldier?”

“Reston is alive and well. It was his choice not to return.”

If she knew any more, she never told it. Deil was patient and kind and loved by all, so instead of pressing the issue and dwelling on it further, again they forgot.

Even when the twins showed up there to dance, nobody said a word. They were treated as just another troupe, another act. Nobody mentioned to them that their mother had passed within months of returning. Nobody asked questions, they simply came and watched the dance. If there were any memories left of those girls playing and laughing in the street, everyone kept them buried.

When they came out for their second act, they were dressed much more conservatively. Gone were the tops that had tightly shaped and hugged their breasts, showing just as much as they covered. Gone too were the skirts that rode so low they almost whispered secrets. Instead, they were clad in loose, long dresses. Their arms were left bare, but were dressed with fingerless gloves that stretched almost to the elbow. Veils covered their hair, and hung just below their chins, barely showing their faces.

If their first performance was about lust and temptation, this one was almost the exact opposite. It was slower, more tender, like a mother's embrace. It was accentuated by many broad sweeps and spins, causing their skirts to radiate out in a flourish, yet never exposing more than a bare calf or an unshod foot.

Kala's eyes still held a voracious hunger, but sated, like a tiger with a full belly. Ella's still shone with innocence, but also a deep sadness, like innocence broken. They danced the afterglow; one given freely, the other taken by force.

They shared each other's strengths and sadness. Kala gave her sister buoyancy to help uplift her, while Ella kept her twin rooted without flying away. Many in the crowd wept openly, men and women alike. If my eyesight hadn't started blurring, I wouldn't have realized I was doing it too. I used the back of my bandaged hand to wipe my tears.

Thankfully, the dance was short. Before much time had passed, the lamps were removed, and the fire was re-lit. The fire-keeper had returned, without incident. I watched him as he stacked fresh logs into the fire, his robes swaying as his arms tossed in the fuel. The glint of a hilt at his waist caught my eye. It wasn't unusual for the keepers to go armed, especially the ones who served in taverns, but I could almost swear he was wearing armor as well. His robes seemed a bit too bulky for his build.

Eventually, it became clear that the twins would not be returning for a third act. The crowd started thinning out, quietly, people leaving alone and in pairs. Many that had shown up alone left hand in hand with a new companion. Married couples seemed to hold each other tightly as they wandered out into the night, speaking in hushed tones. Before long, I was the only one left. I ordered another drink and continued to work on my notes. I was having a very hard time concentrating. I wasn't sure exactly what I had seen. These girls were supposed to be predators, but it seemed everyone had left in safety. Actually, they seemed a little better off when they left. Happier, more confident. Even the fire-keeper, who had been presumed missing for a while, was safe and sound.

Actually, was that him, with Kala in the corner there? I watched them as he spoke to her so casually. If she had power over him, it didn't show. She hung her hands in his robes, almost proprietorially. I watched as he kissed her forehead, and she smiled, gazing at him lovingly. I didn't feel well. Perhaps the drinks had not been such a good idea.

“You know, for someone so concerned with magic, you've done a very sloppy job of protecting yourself.” I felt the lips warmly against the back of my ear. Ella's hand came up to my shoulder as she stepped around me to sit at the table. I couldn't even begin to respond. She reached over, picked up my hand, and began unwrapping her hair tie from it. “I mean, right here, I have your blood and tears, neatly wrapped up.” Her smile was gentle, knowing. The coin clattered to the table. She picked it up and held it to the light. “Now this I haven't seen in a while. I suppose they told you it was Kai'els?”

“Y-yes. Not that it matters, really.” I could feel my tongue drying out.

“If it makes any difference to you to know, it is. At least, I think it is.” She laid it back in my palm. It wasn't bleeding anymore. In fact, it looked to be at least 3 days along in healing. “Do you want to know the problem with stories?” she said, sliding my papers out from in front of me, glancing through them.

“Enlighten me.” I don't know why I was feigning boldness, but it came out sounding weak.

“The problem with stories,” she said, looking into my eyes, “is that everybody always tells them without ever thinking to go to the source. Maybe someday, someone will think to ask us.” She stood up, kissed me on the cheek, and began to walk away.

I gathered up my papers, looked back at Kala and the fire-keeper, and followed her out. I guess, eventually, we all have to become part of the tale.

15 Sticky Notes

2011-09-27T00:57:00.001-04:00

Sometimes, your medium

will, by its very nature

apply a limitation to your

art. But you can't help

yourself, you love the

challenge. By having your

hands tied, you have to

think on your feet. Which

brings me to my weak

spot: Sticky Notes

My earliest fascination with

pads of sticky notes was

that they made perfect

flip-books. Between me

and my brothers, we ruined

every pad that came into

the house with stick

figures, spiders, rockets,

guns, and gruesome, violent

death scenes.

The woman in the

car behind me on my

way home had big,

honest smile. She was

alone in there, but the

look on her face was

the honest, happy smile of

someone who has just

been kissed for the first

time.

So the real challenge, you

see, is to write a complete,

concise thought. Ideally,

I would have pages. I do.

I have a lot of sticky notes.

But it's the spirit of

brevity that counts. Being

able to say something on

a square that's less than

2"x2". I like the challenge.

Our song came on Pandora

today, and this time I

let it play. It's a sweet

song. Beautiful. Why do

the girls I fall in love with

pick such good music?

I think it's why I avoid

music in a relationship.

I don't want to lose something

beautiful to heartbreak.

Are you scared? It seems

like every time I'm ready to let

my guard down, I can't find you.

I guess you've already told

me the opposite is true, too.

It's a heart-rending game

of cat and mouse, with so

much constant role reversal.

I want to break through,

cross that line. It's OK

if you're scared. You know what?

I'm scared too.

She ran away to Germany

before I even got a chance.

We made such amazing

castles in the sky. I've

never met someone so easy

to talk to. Technically

speaking, I still haven't

I don't know who broke the

connection, but she burned

the bridge. We talked as if she

would stay for me. But we

both knew better.

I'm not sure why I

sent her an e-mail. It

was cordial enough. I was

expecting something terse

in response. It was nice

to think I could fall

right back in. I felt

comforted. For a minute.

Then I remember. You said

you would understand if I

didn't write back. I won't

I can't believe you

remembered me. You smiled,

glad to see me. I couldn't

have said more than

two words the first time

we met. I was hung over

and needed coffee. I

probably wouldn't have said

anything, but a smile

like that does wonders for

the soul.

I remember I reconnected

with Becky from Scipio.

She asked me how my

life had been. I told

her all about my failed

relationships. Weeks

later, she replied

"That's not what I

meant."

Secretly, we all

have a story we want

to tell. We're all

stupid magicians,

and we all have

the itch. Eventually,

we'll all fall in love

with it.

Of all the nights we spent

out, it seems we should've

stayed in. The cold is

so much easier to weather

with a warmth of spirit,

of body, of soul, of

comfort. two lights

to fight the oncoming

darkness.

13*

The consequence

of sound

The consonants

and vowels

"Are we forgetting something?"

the butler muttered.

"I don't want to take it!

All the kids give me weird

looks when I have it."

Layla pouted.

"You remember what your mother

said?"

"Fine," she huffed, tucking

the battleaxe behind

her backpack, and slammed the door.

Sometimes I wake up,

and it's completely silent.

Not even the hum of a fan.

It's as beautiful as it

is unsettling. Like a

rainstorm when the sun

is out. Like the hair

in my brush, that's too

long to be mine.

* Regina Spektor's "Consequence of Sound"

Love, concept.

2011-09-23T00:28:00.002-04:00

I had started out, originally, to write some grandiose treatise on love with a capital L. Almost instantaneously I managed to turn it into some high-minded pseudo-intellectual-masquerading-as-humility nonsense. I'm sure if I had kept down that vein, nobody would've called me out. Why should they, if I've been nothing but sincere from the start?

In a way, that question itself relates to my experience with love, but I'll get to that later. Maybe.

I had a good deal written. Thoughts about concept, definition, a distant yet poignantly clinical breakdown. I had even cited some sources and interesting quotes. But it wasn't working. It was, in a way, but it didn't feel right. Forced.

Again, another descriptor, but I'm jumping the gun.

Finally, I got to a point where I ran out of words. I walked away, let it be, chalking it up to a need to rearrange my thoughts. I came back to it, with full intent to finish in one more sitting, and tried again. I had written myself a very clear path to continue on, but couldn't for the life of me figure out what to do with it. So I forced it. I started just writing whatever was in my head. I began:

"Sometimes a thing fits..."

I had thought to have more to that sentence, an ending, but I cannot even begin to remember what it was. That, though, was the moment I finally had to call bullshit on myself. In those four words I had said something more meaningful than I had in the preceding numerous paragraphs. That was it, really. I had set out to define love, real human love, and when I got what should've been the meat of it, the culmination of my own poetics, all I could say is sometimes a thing fits.

It's silly when a person with so many things to say has a hard time saying the simplest things. I'm getting to the point, I promise.

Sometimes, a thing fits. You really can't be more or less precise that that. So there you are. In the course of 13 paragraphs, 900 words, all of it for that one statement. So I deleted them. I never thought I could be so arrogant as to try and define love, but for a moment, that is exactly what I was attempting.

The only thing I can define is my own experience.

I didn't start this to define love, or my experience, which is why I got so lost in the first place. I started this by way of explanation, so that's where I'll go.

A good friend and colleague of mine has been writing extensively on her own experience with love, of love, for a long time. She is collecting some of these 'love letters' for publication, and asked me for my help in collecting, editing, and sorting them. She gave them to me, collected and printed, and as soon as I arrived home with the bright red folder in my hand, I dived into it head-first. Quickly I realized that I was going to have to pace myself on the content, as it was incredibly raw, full, dripping with heart.

The introduction she had placed in front hit me the hardest. I know exactly what her reasoning and intentions were for the undertaking, but to read her words ("hastily thrown together," she claimed) struck a chord. It had managed to speak directly to some of my own internal dilemmas.

I quote:

How many times have we been urged to "seize the moment" and let somebody know

you love them? We all encourage each other to do it. ...What about all the songs and

and sitcoms that deal with expressing love and appreciation; or even missing the opp-

ortunity to express it and the resounding gong of empty space in your hearts, because

we know that we've missed an important opportunity to connect with someone else.

...It's like waking up suddenly from a dream where you're falling.

...Really, tell that person that you love them, however it is that you choose to do it... I

don't want to hear your complaints...that you ignored the opportunity. Don't be a

chicken-shit. Just get it done. (Jennifer Busfield)

In essence, it helped be coagulate the problem stewing in my head. Why do people (in general) and myself (specifically) have such a hard time expressing their feeling of love to others? It's such a positive emotion, regardless of what it entails. It conveys attraction, adoration, trust, admiration, companionship (be it platonic, romantic, or familial.)

Is it the weight of the word itself? That it implies so much, that there is a point at which such an emotion has to reach before it can be deemed love? I'm astonished how quickly we can proclaim our love for an animal, or a product, or an inanimate object, but cannot do it so swiftly when it comes to people. Even when they are able to completely take us off guard, stun us, exceed our expectations and take us utterly by surprise.

For me, I guess (I can't readily speak for anyone else) I have a pretty deep seated fear of rejection. I generally tend to be a risk-averse person. I've been hurt in the past- badly-, so that doesn't really help the matter. Somewhere it's become lodged in my psyche that it's the only was that story can end.

Conversely, it could be the delicacy of the emotion. There can be a very fine line between love and hate, joy and hurt, and it's incredibly easy to cross that line. As if to jump off of one cliff would land you handily on the precipice of the other. I guess here is where I have another problem. I have a notion that "love" and "trust" are interchangeable concepts. Truly, one cannot exist in the fullest without the other, but that doesn't preclude them from being mutually exclusive. I've known people I loved dearly that I wouldn't trust a single bit, and people who I couldn't stand, even intensely disliked, who I would be more than willing to trust with my life.

In a general sense, these are things that need to grow. Trust has to be earned, love must be explored.

I'm not sure that any of this does anything to explain my misgivings. Love is a big word, but it doesn't have to be. I have no qualms telling my friends and family that I love them. The best I can understand, there's no way of telling what another person will think of the word, without context. Giving context requires endless qualifications, to a point that takes away the shine. It entails a hold-off, until you can be sure the other party understands the context without explanation.

I don't want to go further down this part of my thought process. Not here. It's a dangerous digression I'd rather not pursue in a public forum. Yet.

Don't get caught up in a word. I guess that's my point. It's just a construct we fit our thoughts inside. Sometimes a thing fits, that is true. Sometimes we can't be sure. But you'll never know unless you try.

Sometimes you have to let the relationships in your life define themselves, and stop worrying so damn much. Don't be afraid to tell someone what you think. This world can be a hell of a lonely place, and sometimes we all need a little reminder that someone else cares that we're here.

"Still and all, why bother? Here's my answer. Many people need desperately to receive this message: I feel and think much as you do, care about many of the things you care about, although most people do not care about them. You are not alone. " -Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

I love you. All of you.

In other news...

2011-09-15T19:55:00.000-04:00

Sorry, this isn't a real post, but it relates to some real posts!

I have a lot on my plate at the moment, so bear with me while I grind out the last 2 weeks of September. At this very moment, I'm working on two things. I'm going to be doing a guest post in the next week or so for a blog a good friend of mine runs. It's going to be different than my normal style, to be sure, and if you'd like to get a taste of what I'm getting myself into, you can find her blog HERE.

I'm also doing some editing for a dear friend of mine who is attempting to publish some of her writing. She has a few blogs, if you'd like to see her content, you can check out FROM WITHIN or my OK place. She has a couple of other blogs as well, all of which are linked into each other so if you see one you'll be able to navigate them all.

The project I'm editing for her has me stuck on a notion, and it will hopefully be something that will cook long enough for me to post it here by Monday, so be on the lookout for that.

One last plug: A good friend of mine has been on the online dating scene for a bit, and she's started a blog about it, and it looks like it's going to be some fun stuff. I would really appreciate it if you all checked it out, leave her a comment, etc. The more people who read it, the more often she's bound to update it, and I can't wait for more! you can find her here: Blonde Single and Awkward

As November approaches, I'll be gearing up for National Novel Writing Month. It's something I heard about last year, and this will be my first time participating. It's fairly straightforward: write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days, and if you finish, you win! To get some sense of scale out of that, look at my last post. that one was about 2500 words, and took me (between the original handwriting and then subsequent typing/editing) about... 6 hours total of pure writing time, so I would only need to write 20 of those in a month. Yeah.

In the end though, it's all about writing, not quality. You flex the muscles, the muscles get stronger.

Picture a show like Top Chef: Challengers are told to... I don't know, make a 3 course dinner using only squid, milk, some eggs, and a loaf of pumpernickel. Oh yeah, then you only have 45 minutes to do it. Sure, the dishes that come out in the end won't be as amazing as they would be if the contestants had more time and more ingredients, but that's not the point. The point is to make do with what we give you. Make something. Did you finish? Good. Is it tasty? Even better!

Except there's no elimination with this, just finish or not. There's no prize, no publishers, just the joy of the task. I believe you can set up a sponsorship to donate, but I'm not sure how to deal with that quite yet, I just signed up tonight. When the writing starts, you'll be able to follow my progress here, but don't worry about saving the link. As long as I actually face myself up to the task, I'll be linking the shit outta that.

Finally, I would like to thank all the people who have been reading and offering support. I never realized how essential writing was to me until the last year or so, and it has opened so many windows in my heart and mind. To have people read what I write, and then in turn get others to read it, I can't even describe what that feels like. You are all incredible, and I hope you continue to read what I write, and I hope you continue to enjoy it.

So do me a big favor, check out all the links I put on here for ya, read some fun and creative content by some of my incredibly talented friends, and stay tuned here for more of my shenanigans.

~Persagax

In dreams.

2011-09-12T23:56:00.000-04:00

*Disclaimer: This was difficult for me to write. The honestly involved here was more than I'm used to. It does get very mildly sexually graphic towards the end, but not explicit I believe. Her name has been changed to protect her anonymity, as I haven't so much as spoken to her in years.

My thoughts and ideas always, somehow, end up coming out half-cooked. Even with pen and paper at the ready, when I deign to put their form to words they implode like an ill-baked souffle. Half-done, like dreams half-remembered, and if I do start, I have to fill in the finer points with trite and flimsy constructs that are unfortunately given the task of being load-bearing.

"Look I'm standing naked before you
don't you want more than my sex?
I can scream as loud as your last one
but I can't claim innocence."

Yes, I admit, she has been on my mind lately. At least, a ghost of her clinging to the back of my head. I couldn't really understand it. Maybe it was all the talk of Atlanta this weekend, or the wedding in Conyers the week before, or the conversation about the moon. Hell, you could even chalk it up to that constant mental black-book searching a guy is prone to do on the road to recovery. I knew it wouldn't be long before I was going to be there myself. If you ask me how I knew, or why I would be there, or what I was thinking, well, I would be very hard pressed to give you an answer. It definitely wasn't for her, that I know. She was married for sure, and maybe with children. Probably with children. I had a fondness for her, sure, but that moment in my life is too far gone to even raise a shred of regret. It's the past, a happy memory, a remnant of a by-gone era. I still have her pictures, even a letter or two, tucked away in a box, packed in the corner of my closet. Scrawled in Sharpie in my hasty scrawl on its top, "The past is passed." And I mean it.

"Oh, god, could it be the weather?
Oh, god, why am I here?"

On the opposite end of the spectrum, occasionally, I'll let thoughts cook until I feel like they're ready to serve. What arrives, however, is nothing less than burnt coals. Shapes serve to show that they once enjoyed a life before being carbonized, every ounce of moisture desiccated from them. Everything that once made them lively has been burned, completely, unable to be recovered.

"If love isn't forever,
and it's not the weather,
hand me my leather."

So I found myself there at last, on some one-way street on the outskirts of downtown Atlanta, in some generic nondescript bar, on a Sunday night, sipping away at a dusty domestic. It was a quiet night, but at the table next to me sat a group of people dressed like gypsies-scarves, bangles, bandannas, tunics, rusted rouge make-up. I thought, in their midst, I caught a glimpse of those close-cut bangs, the mole just at the brow-line... but I ignored it. Fervently.
It was the laugh that echoed through the room-through my head, my memories, all those years. That's when I saw it. I used to call it her 'coffee-stain,' a birthmark nestled on her forearm right below the crook of her elbow. I started to stare at her, and even seeing a full profile view, I still had my doubts.
"Celeste?" She seemed to pause, then finished laughing at whatever silly joke had just been made. She turned to look at me, with no sense of recognition on her face. I started doubting myself, doubting my eyesight. It had been... what, six years? Seven? Suddenly, a dam broke somewhere in her mind, and I watched the color flow back into her irides. The look on her face was solid: it told nothing, showed nothing. There was mild surprise, but no anger, no happiness, no shock, no uncertainty.
"Ryan?" she finally answered. Swiftly she stood, and hugged me, briefly, deliberately, and sat back down at her table without a word. Right next to her husband, I quickly realized. I recognized him from the pictures. A few moments later, she whispered something in his ear, stood up, grabbed him firmly and calmly by the elbow, and left. There was no more laughter or happiness on her face.

"I could just pretend that you love me
the night would lose all sense of fear.
But why do I need you to love me,
when you can't hold, what I hold dear?"

One thought had caught. I hadn't realized it had wedged itself in my cortex stumbled across it. By way of explanation: You wake from a dream. It was an important, or profound, or funny, or really happy dream. You linger in bed a few moments longer, letting the emotion wash over you, before you realize just how swiftly the unreality of your dream is escaping, along with every detail it entailed. Everything unraveling itself into that tapestry of lost memory where dreams go to be forgotten. You know, somehow, you understand, that if you can just grab one piece- a phrase, an action, one concrete fact- if you can find one thread, you can pull. Pull, and bring everything back. Every so often, if you try, you can grab it. More often than not, however, the last line trickles away down the drain. For me, this time, hours after waking, the phrase popped in my head. I said it out loud, and as soon as my own words hit my ears, like a tsunami, the whole picture crashed into my head.

"Oh, god, could it be the weather?
Oh, god, why am I here?"

I felt awful. After popping back into her life for 5 seconds, I had ruined her night. I sipped my beer, in silence, ignoring the noise and laughter. When I finally finished, I stood up to leave. When I got to the door, Celeste walked in, alone. Before I could say a word, she silenced me with a terrible piercing look, into my eyes, through my soul.
"You. You are coming back to my table, you will sit with my friends and I, have a couple of drinks, and you won't talk. At all."
"I don't... I don't really have much money." I weakly replied.
"You'll pay me back." She reached up, grabbed me by the back of my neck, pulled me in, and kissed me, hard. As soon as it began, it was over. She took my elbow, the same way she had done with her husband. "No talking. This is not up for discussion." With that, she led us back to her friends, and sat me in the very same seat her husband had been in, moments before.
We stayed there for a couple of hours, drinking, while she and the others laughed, joked, talked. None of them so much as looked at me. Even if she hadn't told me not to talk, I don't think I would've had anything to say. I couldn't focus on their conversation, I didn't understand what was happening, I couldn't begin to wrap my mind around it. At one point, she took off her green kerchief she had tied over her hair, tucked it into my pocket, and left her hand to rest on my knee.
After a while, one by one, everyone at the table made their yawns and farewells, and headed out into the balmy late summer night, until finally it was just the two of us. She lit a clove cigarette, exhaling slowly, staring into nothing.
"When did you start smoking?" I asked.
"No talking." I watched her as she smoked, but she never returned the look. I had never seen her set in such stony resilience in all the years we had been together. Several long minutes later, she tamped her cigarette out. "You can go now."

"If love isn't forever,
and it's not the weather,
hand me my leather."

     It's strange to have a false memory unfold instantaneously in your head. There were gaps- huge gaps. With dreams, you never need a reason why, you just know. When we wake up, we never question why we were in Belgium to buy furniture, only why we chose the couch with the faucet attached to it. In the last year, though, my dreams have tended to err on the side of incredibly plausible, making them that much harder to distinguish from fact. I've spent entire days believing that I had completed certain tasks, or had very specific and important conversations, only to discover they had only happened in the world where I'm asleep.

"I almost ran over an angel
he had a nice big fat cigar.
'In a sense' he said 'You're alone here
so if you jump, you best jump far."

     As soon as I stepped away from the table, she grabbed my hand. I turned back, to see her staring at me. I could see so much in her face: loss, anger, pain, as fresh as it was when we said our parting words that last time. "I'm sorry Celeste. I really am. What I did, the way it ended, it wasn't your fault. I see it now, the way I must have made you feel, and there is no excuse, no valid reason for any of it. I'm sorry."
     I saw a teardrop form in the corner of her eye, but she blinked it back. "I said no talking Ryan. Just go."
     "I'll pay you back." I said, and left.
     I walked into the night, my mind reeling. My hotel was just across the street, and I was thankful it was late enough that I didn't have to worry about any traffic.
     I shut the curtains as soon as the door closed, sealing out all the incandescent light from the street lamps. I've been so photosensitive lately when I sleep. Sitting on the corner of the bed, I stripped off my socks and shoes, and lay back on the bed. I knew Atlanta was a mistake. It was an hour later when I heard the soft, solitary knock at the door, followed by a very hesitant pair of raps.
     It would be a lie if said I was anywhere near sleep. When I opened the door, there she stood, her purplish-blue tunic flapping gently in the wind. Again, her face was calm, all the composure in the world looking back at me. "Hi, er, what..." was all I could manage.
     "You said you would pay me back. You promised me. You promise-promised." Like a floodgate had opened, tears began streaming down her face. Her voice though, and her countenance, when she spoke again, remained placid. "I gave up so much for you Ryan, and you told me you would pay me back."
     "I'm sorry Celeste," my own tears started to form, "I didn't know then. I didn't understand-"
     "God dammit Ryan, I said NO TALKING! You don't understand. You still don't understand. Every time you open your mouth, every word you say makes it that much harder. I hated you for so long. I forgave you so many times. I made up your apology in my head, the way you would say it. I let you go so I could put this whole thing behind me, put it on the shelf and go on with my life. You don't understand that when you talk, your voice, your words, I can feel like it never happened. I can forget everything, be that girl I was, fall back into your arms. I can forget all that pain, all that anger. But I can't let it happen. I can't let you make me forget. I need that part of my heart to stay the way it is. Nobody could ever hurt me the way you did."
     "I'm sor-"
     "I know you're sorry. I know what you've been through. But I mean it. I'm not angry at you anymore, I'm not being hard-hearted, all I'm doing is stating the facts. Nobody could ever hurt me the way you hurt me. You're going to pay me back." She shoved past me into the room, slamming the door shut and locking it.
     She pushed me onto the bed, climbed on top of me. She leaned in, kissed me, slowly and steadily, drawing out my lower lip gently with her teeth, letting her tongue flit exploringly into my mouth. My immediate reaction was pure biology, continuation of the species, hardening to her advance. My wits though, were still about me.
     "We can't. You can't. Your married, happy, you've moved on. I can't let you do this."
     "Shut up. Listen." She sat up, leaning her hips back ever so slightly so I could feel her warmth, uncovered, pressed into mine. "You said you would pay me back, and you never even said goodbye. So now, you're doing both." As she spoke, her hips ground slowly against mine, back, forth, back, and forth, forcing me to understand her drive, to feel her sex, yearning. "Take me tonight. One last time. Take me tonight, and pay me with tales of love affairs. Pay me with star-crossed truths, and long lost souls. Pay me, take me." She pulled off her tunic, fell back down to me, her breasts pushing my breath as she wrapped her arms underneath, under my shirt, up to my shoulders for leverage. My first reaction had been biological... but this time- this time, it was animal.

"Oh, god, could it be the weather?
Oh, god, it's all very clear:"

Opportunity cost is defined as such: "The cost of an alternative that must be forgone in order to pursue a certain action." Put another way, "The benefits you could have received by taking an alternative action." A tertiary, "The loss of potential gain from alternatives when one alternative is chosen." By staying up all night, you cost yourself sleep. By working, you cost yourself time you could spend with art, or family. Opportunity cost expands the measure of price into a metaphor of money and product. Naturally, this mentality extends into meaning. What does each thing in our life mean to us. What is its value, its cost? It's why people can extend this meaning into dreams. What does this symbolize, why did this happen, what is my subconscious trying to communicate, all these questions. I don't believe in any universal symbology for dreams. I believe dreams are metaphors that can only be deciphered by the dreamer. Allegories, written by and for one person, completely against their own will, with no concept of self and strict objectivity. A prescription pill with only one dose in existence, and only one patient to be cured.

"If love isn't forever,
and it's not the weather,
hand me my leather."

And then I woke up.

__

Credits to: Tori Amos' "Leather"