The Blog Formerly Known as "Ramble on"

Its the greatest adventure...

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 12 Oct 2011 14:41:00 +0000

Some notebooks for the second wave of Paperback Adventure (formerly the Traveling Tablets) are ready to travel the world, places to go, people to meet.

I am hand-binding this current batch to save money, because I can make a large number of unique books with $20 worth of supplies, which would get me few store-bought notebooks. Last night, I made four of various quality in just a small amount of time. They ended up just as I wanted.

I cleaned up the instructions, but each one has a different wording, a new draft for every fresh notebook. I am pretty much using scrap paper and cardboard, with a simple, but durable, gorilla glue binding. I am now using my typewriter for all of the lettering and words in an effort to make these look as artsy and hip as possible.

A logo is the one thing missing. I am in the process of designing a small little mark that each adventuring notebook will feature. It will be small and simple but recognizable, i hope.

Visit the stand alone blog for the Paperback Adventures and check it out.

Anyone interested in donating anything to help this project of mine blossom, shoot me an email and let me know. Paper, glue, funds to enable me to make a book press would all be greatly appreciated.

Keep your socks dry readers.

The Prodigal Post

noreply@blogger.com (dan) — Tue, 13 Sep 2011 07:19:00 +0000

Oh it has been so long. The past few months gifted me much misfortune and stress. I often found myself opening up a new post to find my words just would not come. Much changed. Much did not.

I am a trooper though, and now here I return.

I am going to participate in the National Novel Writing Month. 31 days. 50,000 words. No worries. I am up for the challenge. Maybe that is the only push I need, an obligation or something. More soon to come.

Love and the driest socks,
Me

P. S.
It has been a while since I sent out the Traveling Tablets but still no sign of them here or anywhere. Hope they are having fun. Next batch is coming as soon as I can find cheap little blank notebooks. Help finding them would be appreciated.

A (belated) Mother's Day Poem

noreply@blogger.com (dan) — Thu, 12 May 2011 07:12:00 +0000

I dedicate this poem to my dear mother, who I forgot to call on mother's day. I love you Mom.

Mother of mine, you are so great.

I am sorry this poem has come so late.

I just want to make sure to let you know

that I miss you more than I like to show.

It's been long since we've searched for treasures with layers of dust,

another adventure like the last needs to happen, it must.

Make sure that you to visit in just a month and days time,

and we can end a day of fun with at a bar with corona and lime.

Now to the point of this poem, I just wanted to say

That I wish to you (belated) happy mother's day.

Side Project

noreply@blogger.com (dan) — Mon, 21 Mar 2011 18:15:00 +0000

I am starting a little side project/daily blog attempt called Paperback Adventure. I want to be able to make daily posts. With creative writing being the central theme of The Blog Formerly Known as "Ramble on," posting daily would just be to much to read. Because pictures are worth quite a few words, Paperback Adventure is going to have at least one new picture post a day, with a few words if necessary. I have yet to post on it, but by the end of the day there will be a few. So check it out!

The inspiring smells of a bus

noreply@blogger.com (dan) — Mon, 21 Mar 2011 15:34:00 +0000

I rode the bus to school today and happened to be inspired the its distinct "bus-y" smell. I am toying with an idea for a short story inspired by a bus smell. A young man traveling, via bus, train, and foot, through europe while taking a break from college. Starts out on a bus, and he writes in his travel journal and the first paragraph is an excerpt from the journal. Gonna start writing it today. I will post an update and a sample of it soon.

Art

noreply@blogger.com (dan) — Fri, 11 Mar 2011 01:52:00 +0000

I have been revisiting some creative outlets that I used to love. Painting with water color, drawing, other things like that. I used to paint all of the time in high school, and my freshman year at college. But I stopped. I felt embarrassed about painting, because I was in an environment were artists were art majors. Well anyway here is "Die Happy." A framed print I found a while ago dumped near my apartment became my canvas for this spur of the moment piece. Originally I had wanted to add something to the tacky image of a cottage on a lake. Maybe a giant octopus coming out of the water, or zombies. Something like that. It sat unused for three weeks until two nights ago. I was struck with a desire to make something fun, and this is the result. The title was inspired by the phrase "live hard and die young" and by switching one word it changes from a condescending remark into a goal. Isn't that what anyone would want? To be able to go out with a grin? Well, enjoy.

Post Script To Previous Post

noreply@blogger.com (dan) — Wed, 09 Mar 2011 19:03:00 +0000

Almost forgot. This is the briefcase. I sprayed the octo stencil on it to increase its inconspicuousness and enhance its inherent aesthetic wonder. Please excuse the angle and bad quality camera phone picture. I did not want to look like that guy, taking pictures of his gnarly stuff while he sits alone in the library.

Internal Dialogue

noreply@blogger.com (dan) — Wed, 09 Mar 2011 18:57:00 +0000

   I am talking to myself right now. Not out loud. I am not a crazy person. But inside my head. Ha. It is not really talking to myself in the way that you might think.
   "Hi how are you" said mister crazy
   "terrible... you" he replied
   "really good thanks" he said outloud.
   "well thats nice..." remarks mister crazy.

No. It is not like that at all. It is more among the lines of blogging. Just in my head and without a computer. I narrate the world around me. That woman in the purple shirt, immersed in her newspaper, has no idea that her reading face looks like an elephants does when it poops a boulder. She is not reading my newspaper (the one I write for, not "my" as in ownership).

I am feeling pretty fly like sky high apple pie today because I am carrying a briefcase instead of a backpack around campus. At first I felt like a pretentious turd, feeling the gaze of everyone near me. But after a few hours the paranoia is gone. I am walking proud. Ha. Now I need a suit.

I am sorry that I take such long breaks between my posts. It is an unfortunate habit that I am trying to break. Sometimes I wonder wether or not people actually read this blog. Sure I have followers. But I am feeling insecure. Show me you guys exist! That would be great. I would definitely post more. HA.

I am not really sure if I was kidding. But what the hell, I am deliriously tired. Have a wonderful day my readers. I appreciate you.

Love and Dry socks,
This guy.

I can not help it

noreply@blogger.com (dan) — Sat, 05 Mar 2011 12:29:00 +0000

That feeling. The one that everyone knows. Shaking with anger. Rage that you can not let out. and seeing the object of that unfettered hate walks up out of the shrouds of the night and I could not help it. I exploded like a bomb. Redundancy aside, there was nothing that could have stopped it. Regretting it for the consequences my fault has brought, I sit here and try to justify my actions. I messed up bad.

Routine Maintenance

noreply@blogger.com (dan) — Mon, 07 Feb 2011 02:00:00 +0000

   I need to start posting more, for the therapeutic effects of writing, and for the positive way this blog affects me (notice my hopefully correct use of effect and affect). In the summer of 2010, I made the outrageous claim that I would post every day, and to no surprise, I didn't.
   I got to sleep in today and yesterday. It felt great. My schedule this year is so rigid. I feel like a robot. In the past, I felt no need to adhere to the routine. I could skip out on classes and assignments because it didn't feel important. And now, heading into the third week of my most important semester so far, I have to be the routine. Live it, breathe it, eat it, drink it. If I allow my self to slack off even just a little bit, my apathy will grow exponentially, like a snow ball down a hill (in case it isn't clear, the hill in question is covered in snow).
   The problem is I do not feel like me. It is not because I am finally doing well, nor the fact that I am on medication for my attention disorder. It is hard to find the words for it. The closest thing I can think to compare it to would be changing from a type "B" personality (in terms of how one feels stress) to a type "A". My mind, my personality, the very essence of what makes me me, shuts down when life gets rigid and lets auto pilot take over. So I end up just zombieing through the weeks, unable to enjoy the few moments of true free time because of the dread that soon I will have to go back to the routine.
   I feel the same way I did in high school, and to say the least it freaking sucks. Old habits are returning that I had struggled long and hard to escape from. The one thing I do enjoy, however, is the return of my urge to play my guitar more often and get better. It is soothing to me to try to create the beautiful, whether with words, colors, or sounds. I have been playing much more in the past two weeks than I have in a few years (since high school), and I can feel myself becoming familiar with my instrument again. Running my fingertips over the warm, sensuous form of my guitar is almost like embracing a long absent lover, exploring every inch of familiar inviting skin. I feel connected the me that has been away for a long time.

Out of the Blue

noreply@blogger.com (dan) — Fri, 04 Feb 2011 00:28:00 +0000

And into the black. Once you're gone you can never come back.

   I was listening to Neil Young's "Hey Hey My My" today on my drive from school. Such a great song. Heart wrenching really. That line "once you're gone you can never come back, out of the blue and into the black," stuck. It is playing over and over in my head, and I can't help but think. It is true. Or at least how I see it.
   I had a conversation with a friend last week about the dark side of suburbia. He was telling how when asked about the "bad" things that happened at their high school or home town, the people who never did wrong, who only started experimenting with illicit substances in college would answer different than those who did the "bad" things. The good kids would say that there was no dark side to their towns because they were never part of it; they couldn't see it.
   Seeing that side, living and embracing it, changes the way a person sees the world. It only takes one dip in the dark side, and it will follow you everywhere. You see people differently, places, eyes opened to the darker shades of the spectrum. And you can never go back.
     The reason that every parent who lived their youth to the fullest can find that hidden stash, no matter the hiding spot. How they can spot any hint of intoxication without even looking. The way we avoid eye contact with some people, as we see right through them.
   It's definitely an idea worth thinking about. How the darker experiences of your life, big or small, can cause significant changes in how you see the world and live your life.

Critical thinking is the middle path.

noreply@blogger.com (dan) — Thu, 03 Feb 2011 04:44:00 +0000

   One of my favorite things about this blog is the simple fact that it is mine. Complete creative control. I can write about what I want to write about. It has been quite some time since I have been pissed to the point of blogging it, but I feel disrespected. I feel like I am being treated as if I am an idiot because my opinion differs than "popular" consensus.

[Before this post gets to heated I would like to let it be known that this post is my own personal opinion, on my own personal blog. This post relates to the purpose of my blog. And because I am not using names, I release myself from any consequences that might come from the subject stumbling across this post and assuming it is about them. Remember what happens when you assume. Can't make me into an ass without first assifying yourself. I also want to apologize for the confusing text. I am writing this in such a way that the identities of those I write about remain as vague as possible. Call it a hunch, but I have a feeling that this is a good idea.]

   I am an intelligent person. And if you disagree, pretend for me while you read this. I am a critical thinker. I try, to the very best of my ability, to look at arguments objectively. My stance on different issues, ideas, concepts, etc. changes with the circumstances. I do not think in terms of stark contrast, black and white, right and wrong, left and right. When I attempt let go, again to the best of my ability, of my emotional ties to an argument, I allow myself to get a wider view of the opposing opinions. Think about it. If you climb to the top of the fence and actually sit there for a second, you can get a full view of both yards and make a decision accordingly.
   And though it will never get me into a prestigious elected position, I am proud of my mental process and its effective employment of "critical thinking." I do not pretend to be all knowing, nor do I make claims to having vast experience in anything. What I can say is that my ego allows me to make decisions without worry. What I can say is that I do not have to completely disregard other options. I can say that I am not an extremist.
   Today I was discussing my thoughts on a textual work and my opinion of the implied meaning and goal of the journalistic piece with a colleague I respect and hold in high regard. This person, who holds a position of certain elevation above mine, treats those he is in charge of respectfully and with tact. He knows the appropriate time to be stern. Even when frustrated, he is still a respectful and understanding superior.
   Upon catching wind of my opinion (which turns out was in disagreement with most of the others involved in this operation), another one of my superiors began to argue the point with me, trying to point out why I was wrong. I enjoy a good natured argument. I like to state my premises and the logic that helped me reach my conclusion. What I do not enjoy is when I get attacked and disrespected for the opinion that I have.
   With a condescending tone, this woman challenged my intelligence, stating that I obviously didn't read the article all the way through, and if I did I definitely must not have payed any attention to what I was reading. She talked about her apparent vast knowledge on dealing with this profiling and fear mongering, because of her background as a self proclaimed "activist." My opinion, she explained, is not the majority opinion. Her reason for this belief? She had talked to "a lot of people" about the article. I wasn't even going to ask how many "a lot" is, but she told me anyway. "Upwards of thirteen."
   The article regards a scholastic community of approx. 15,000 people. In my own opinion, thirteen people who were chosen purposefully, not randomly, do not accurately portray the opinion of the entire community. As for her other arguments, experience can help discover hidden meanings in some cases, but in many situations, just the intent to find a hidden or underlying meaning can create one in the mind of the reader. Even more so if the alleged "experience" comes from the work of an "activist."
   She has very forceful mindset. In most situations, I have been finding that unless you are her, or have a higher position than her, you are wrong. If you are not wrong, than you couldn't possibly on the same page as her, and because in her eyes you are so behind, you might as well be wrong. She stands firmly and squarely rooted to the rigid guidelines of her beliefs. Politically, socially, economically. I would not be surprised if she has only ever voted for a single party.
   Her activism requires scouring for faults in her opponents, and knowing that they must fight dirty, she will too. Nothing is sacred for those who fight blindly on their beliefs. Anything that can discredit an opponent, regardless of relevance, is a weakness to be exploited. People like her are very narrow, looking at the world through a straw. The only reason for looking at the other side is to prepare for the attack, never to learn or understand. I do not speak of any single group, not any particular extremist viewpoint, political, social, or economic. I am speaking of all of the black and white thinkers. There is no understanding. (Also, this color is my way to tell you that the words I have written are an assumption, opinion, or logical leap)
   The most irritating thing was not the fallacies of logic and reasoning, nor was it the blatant dismissal of my opinion, but rather it was the tone she spoke to me in. I took meticulous care to keep my voice calm, controlled, and neutral. But she spoke to me as if I did not have the capacity to understand what she was saying. Looking down on me, speaking with that condescending tone, slowing her speech to repeat her key arguments as if my young infantile undeveloped mind could not comprehend complicated topics at fast speeds.
   I repeated her arguments to her, explaining them in a way to make clear that I understand, acknowledging her opinion, all the while a fire of crude angry words spread across the piss and vinegar oil slick inside of me. She did understand the words I spoke, but not the meaning behind them. She said "I can see why you might think that, but..." and it went on, and on. She did not see.
   I don't know if I can deal with her for the next four months. She talks like that to everyone, except the two higher ups. I already am having trouble biting my tongue and it has been less than two weeks.
   Please help me, whatever higher power is out there. I am in dire need. I don't want to screw up my chances of success over a petty dispute with a truly pitiable person.

If you made it this far, thanks for reading. I needed to vent and this is my favorite outlet.
Until next time faithful readers.

Creative neglect

noreply@blogger.com (dan) — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 18:38:00 +0000

   The past month or two I have been neglectful of my obligations to this blog. Once more I have fallen into a creative slump. I feel like the weight of my previous actions are finally weighing down on me, and though I won't get crushed beneath it, my words come out sluggishly and without passion.
     Last month I received my first email of rejection. From the literary journal Blood Lotus Fiction. I enjoy reading the stories they publish. Unfortunately my short, The Dock, was declined publication. It could be the length of it (or the lack of length), the content, lack of narrative, or that it is already posted on my blog. That is the reason I am currently deluding myself with.
   The new year has brought on quite some change. Doing very well in school, not worried about money, and the ample free time I have is spent constructively. But part of me misses the old Dan. The one who earned the name Danimal, living a life of continuous adventure and excitement, free from the needless worries of obligations and goals. The boy whose creed was "it's all good."
   I haven't been wild in a long time. I cut off my mane of golden curls. The mischievous boy with an eternal grin replaced by a young man without expression in a matter of weeks. I long for the little devil on my shoulder. I miss the sweet nothings he whispered in my ear. Not malevolent nor evil, just fearless curiosity.
   If any of you would like to read any of the stories I am working on, email me. I am no longer posting them on the blog, but I would still love feedback from anyone interested. Let me know.

Much love and dry socks,
Dan

Traveling Tablets

noreply@blogger.com (dan) — Sun, 19 Dec 2010 01:00:00 +0000

Here are some pictures of the notebooks I am making for the project. Until further notice they will be called the Traveling Tablets. I wanted something with alliteration. The name sounds a little lame, but I hope that the end project ends up great enough to over shadow the name.

I found these ring bound notebooks by myndology for pretty cheap during a sale at my school's bookstore. I got the bargain of eight notebooks for less than three dollars.

They are made with recycled paper, and the disks are made from a biodegradable material. I am glad that they are sustainable, but I would have bought them even if they weren't recycled.

The design on the front cover is interesting, with cut out arrows pointing in all different directions. The covers seem to also double as a pocket, though I don't think they would hold something safely.

On the inside cover, I have printed the instructions for the booklets:

"Congratulations! You were gifted this book. The purpose of this book is to become filled with life, the experiences of as many people as possible.

So take as much time as you need, and fill up a page or two in this book. It can be anything, words, art, a photo, anything. Once you’re done, give it to someone else.

Once the book is filled up, and if you are the one to fill it, please mail it to the address on the inside of the back cover."

And on the back cover I have both the address to send them to, as well as the url of this blog for the finders of the tablets can post comments and things.

The first of the tablets is out, soon to be followed by the rest. The first generation of them is only five (I decided to hold onto a few of the notebooks). I hope that at the very least I get two back, even one. I imagine that many will be lost, kept, destroyed. But if even one survives, or even just a few pages of one, then I will have succeeded in my project.

I smell a change.

noreply@blogger.com (dan) — Wed, 15 Dec 2010 01:29:00 +0000

It seems to me that it is finally time to change the title of my blog. Ramble on was chosen very, very hastily, and I really feel it lacks the whole creative image that I am trying to go for. But just to make it easy on the few readers that I do have, I am going to keep it as "The Blog Formerly Known as 'Ramble on'" for at least a day before I make a drastic change. The winter break is already here, and because I do not want to fall back into the pattern of inactivity and boredom that plagued my summer, it looks like it is time for a lifestyle change as well. Not to radical. But I am going to maybe think about working out a bit. I am not going to let the lazy me steal the break that I have waited so long for, so activities here we come. I plan on changing the blog up a little bit, more than just the name. I feel like I have finally hit my stride with it and it's time to do work. Make sure to keep checking back in the next few days to see the difference and give me your input.

Tomorrow I am starting a new project.

noreply@blogger.com (dan) — Tue, 14 Dec 2010 11:20:00 +0000

I have been wanting to do this for a long time. And I have finally found both the time and the materials to do it. My plan is to leave little notebooks around the town. In coffee shops, libraries, parks, anywhere a large number of people frequent. Inside the front cover is a note asking the finder to fill a page or two with anything they want and when finished, to pass it on to a new person. They can write, draw, paint, or something that I have yet to think of. On the back cover there is an address to send the book to when it is completely full.

I don't really expect to ever see the books again. I imagine most will get lost, destroyed, or kept. But I think that if I release enough of them at least one will reach me at the end of it's journey, full of the experiences people have filled it with. I confess the idea was inspired by a similar project, Postsecret. But I want something more tangible, more varied. I hope it is a success.

The Sad Life Of William V. Bradley

noreply@blogger.com (dan) — Mon, 13 Dec 2010 03:05:00 +0000

This is the story I have been writing using the plot generator. This is what I have so far. Every plot change is noted with colored letters in parenthesis. So without further ado...

The Sad Life Of William V. Bradley

(character gets evicted)

William V. Bradley stood outside of his humble single story house in Wayne, New Jersey. He had only been living there for a short time. A year ago he had moved to the States from England, intent on becoming a reporter for a newspaper. He had no degree, and worked as a janitor for the office the local paper used while he took classes at a community college to get his degree in journalism.

He sat down on the concrete steps leading to his porch and read the notice in his hand. He had a roommate who had ran off the week prior, taking with him four months worth of William’s hard earned rent money and left the paper Will held on the counter with a note.

“Sorry bro,” the note had said. Underneath it laid the somber notice of eviction. Will sat and stared at the paper for hours, not quite reading it, playing with the cuffs of his thrift store flannel shirt. The majority of the money he had made went towards rent and bills, all of which were in his name. The meager sum left paid for a few groceries and his tuition. He had to quit smoking in order to manage his budget. Careful sacrifices made in order to fulfill a dream that he might now never reach.

The note said he had to come up with thirty two hundred dollars in the next week. As of the following friday, he would be without a place to live. There was no way he could come up with the funds to pay that in a week, but he would have to try.

The crickets had already begun their sad twilight chorus when Will got up off of the step and returned inside. He had work to do. There had to be some sort of lifeline he could exploit, some untapped reservoir of money he could borrow. He didn’t have enough credit to take out a loan. With his family and friends hundreds of miles across the ocean he had no one to cosign. He stood near the phone wondering who he could call. With a sigh he turned away and got ready for bed.

A plot generator. What a great tool!

noreply@blogger.com (dan) — Thu, 09 Dec 2010 00:27:00 +0000

So recently I have been trying to develop my skills as a creative writer. And I believe that I have found the perfect way to practice. I found this interesting website. It is a random plot point generator. It is great for testing the versatility of a writer. What I have been trying to do is write half a page to a page for each new plot twist. Every time that I run out of things to write on one plot twist, I hit the button and write a new one.
I will show the results in a few days. It is to fun to stop writing at this moment. So far my character has been evicted, attacked by aliens, and followed advice that turned out to be bad. Ha. I will have the story up soon for everyone to enjoy. Thanks for reading.

On a side note.

noreply@blogger.com (dan) — Tue, 07 Dec 2010 01:03:00 +0000

Life, being full of difficult decisions, has thrown an awful choice my way. I am currently in the library, on the bottom floor, with all of my school ingredients splayed out on the table I sit at. I have my laptop out, obviously, with its power cord plugged into a power outlet. These outlet spaces are prime locations and I am sure that if I got up it will not be here when I return. Unfortunately I have to piss. Fucking badly. And I can hold it, which I can do for not to long, or pack up go and lose my spot. Fuck you bladder. You win this round.

Dead week.

noreply@blogger.com (dan) — Tue, 07 Dec 2010 00:54:00 +0000

   Dead week. The week before finals. Crunch time. This week for me used to mean so many different things. The thoughts bouncing in my head would be Shit I am fucked or Fuck I am going to fail. How can I tell my parents. What the fuck am I going to do?
   I would delude myself with my timeless mantra It's all good, It's all good, It's all good. Nothing was alright. Nothing got done. Each day meant a deeper hole that I couldn't admit I was in. Each day was closer to a deadline that I couldn't face. I was not working, how could I? How could I face the surmounting summit of guilt and embarrassment. It was so easy to just turn away.
   I find myself starting to worry now, but for no reason other than habit. This year I am actually doing well. I have done my work. I have completed most of what I set out to do. It is hard to imagine what it is like to not be in a hole until you are out of it, and god it is great. I am going to follow the example I have set for myself and continue to follow through with my plans.
   The only thing left to do now is next semester. Finish the classes I enrolled in with good grades and get the fuck back into to Chico State. I can't wait to put this place behind me. Granted it has been a good experience and will continue to be for the remainder of my tenure here. But I just want out. I long for the shady greens and soft landscapes of Chico campus. I crave the old used smell of the hallways and classrooms. I miss the fact that my house is only a few blocks away. Chico is comfort.
   That could be the reason why I am doing better at XXX. The comfort is not available for me here. I have yet to find it. I spend my time here almost on edge, counting the seconds until I can get back in my car and drive the fifteen miles back home.
   The one comfort I do find reaching me here, in this remote, out-of-the-way location, is the fact that unlike previous years, I am actually doing well. It is a great thing not to worry about school. Now if only I didn't have to worry about money.

C*******y College.

noreply@blogger.com (dan) — Tue, 30 Nov 2010 01:24:00 +0000

   If I could, I would go back in time and change many, many, many things. I know that the past events of my life have shaped the man I am today. But come on. When you have screwed up as much as I have, the what if game is an addiction even though it sucks to think about.
      If I could do anything to change my circumstances I would, because community college sucks huge piece of tree bark. Every day here is another splinter in my tongue. And because I strive to get back into Chico State I must endure the waste of gas, time, and money that is XXXX College. Granted my classes are not to bad. I have actually enjoyed a few of them. But not being able to see friends at school, the time it would take to go home between class. These two semesters are just one big fat inconvenience.
    I wish I had requested to get treated for ADHD sooner. That one little decision could have drastically changed my predicament. There is always the chance that it would not have done anything, but I would like to see where I would be now. Probably still at Chico.
   Well it is easy to fantasize of greatness when your life is still climbing out of the toilet. Funny side note, though any reader wouldn't recognize it, I am misspelling a word in every sentence. Thank you spell check. Although I would probably attract more readers and comments without it.
   Soon Chico State University, soon I will be back to you. Hopefully only six more months of affordable education and I will be back in your arms.

Long time

noreply@blogger.com (dan) — Thu, 11 Nov 2010 21:00:00 +0000

Well it seems like I have time for a post. The last couple of months I haven't really had time to write, and I guess I haven't had anything to write about. I have been in a little bit of a slump. Creatively drained and exhausted. The good news is that is all over now. I don't know why but I feel refreshed, almost like a have finally woken up. Things are looking good in most aspects. More to come in the near future dear readers, I know you are few but I feel like I have neglected you all. Ha. Alright.

Dedicated to an idiot friend of a friend of mine.

noreply@blogger.com (dan) — Mon, 09 Aug 2010 11:55:00 +0000

Hey you fat fuck! yes i mean you. Your voice is like a piece of metal sliding across broken glass. Every carefully chosen word drips off of your lips pre coated in egotistic day after shit. You understand that is my favorite band you are talking about. The singer who can not sing, or write music, or play guitar, he fucking wrote the anthems that I live by. I nod and smile because I respect our mutual friend. The one whose house we both happen to be drinking at. Fly off to your foreign country and learn its customs because I say you are not welcome here. The music you praise I consider to be pulp. Squeezed and juiced and strained till the originality is gone, forced down my throat like the grove stand that birthed it. Your heros are clippings, rubbed with white stuff and stuck into strained earth. I don’t care about the “screamer” who left your favorite band. To be good you don’t need a screamer. You don’t need some scrawny fuck who know one liked in high school, the one so immature he hated every charismatic character and strove to mimic the sounds of swine in the name of music. I weep for your sorry excuse for a genre, but I don’t belittle your hero so don’t you fucking dare belittle mine. Just because he didn’t wear jeans so tight his balls rotted off, or die his hair every shade of the dark side of the moon. He was dark and angry in his own way. He was a fuckin martyr. So take your bullshit fuckin ideas out of here. My hero started a movement and yours followed the crowd. Fuck your couch you pale skinned fat nigger. Every word makes me want to scrape a stone nice against the skin of your scalp and claim it for my own. You play an instrument, but that does not make you an expert. Every fucking johnny come lately and his mother can strum tunes of a guitar these days. You are not special and neither am I. So fuck off with your attitude. You are a bigot and a fatty. No one will ever think of you as a gentleman and a scholar. Leave my heaven alone. I do not punch holes in your nirvana, so leave mine the fuck alone, it has a fucking capital letter. They were visionaries. They paved the way for your bullshit. How dare you. How fucking dare you. If you speak one more mal-word against my inspiration so help me. I never asked for your fucking holier than thou opinion. Your fat fucking face makes me want to cut my lifeline to this generation. I really hope the rest of my peers do not think the same way as you. Nevermind. I will just drench my memories in bleach. You reek of fat kid angst when I know I smell of teen spirit. I want to wash your stink out of my pores fatty, as you rape my heroes harder that the record companies ever could. You represent the death of music. The step out of the wilderness to follow the beaten path. I hope that I die before I become like you. Fuck off. I hope I never see you again.

Peace, love, angst, respect, and most of all, dry socks,

Itchy little frights.

noreply@blogger.com (dan) — Fri, 06 Aug 2010 11:21:00 +0000

   Have you ever seen a very large bug or spider? Or killed one after it crawls across your skin, and then every little itch and scratch becomes a spider, scampering across your legs, arms, forehead. God help me. I just found the biggest spider I have ever seen. Now I am not the squeamish type. I am man, watch me kill (bugs). I have never been scared of spiders or any creepy crawly. But no less than ten minutes ago I decided to smoke a late late night cigarette, and stumbled across the largest spider of my life.
   I would like to inform you that I live in California. So spiders do not really grow much bigger than a thumb nail. Occasionally we will get a rather large black widow, but that rarely happens. This spider was the size of a playing card. So being the smart individual that I am, I turned on the porch light before I stepped outside and avoided the embarrassing moment where I would walk into the web and scream bloody murder because there is a spider on my face.
   So I turn on the light, and boom. There it is. I am quite sure it is a queen among its peers. A regular Madame Octa. Of course I decide to do what any person would do and search my fridge for an old jar of jelly to wash out and catch it with. Low and behold, I now have a spider on ice in my freezer. I think I will make a specimen jar with this gigantic beauty. Do not worry folks. There will be a picture up shortly. Much love and dry socks.

-Me

Well there is an old man and the sea.

noreply@blogger.com (dan) — Sat, 12 Jun 2010 09:06:00 +0000

The Dock

The waves pound the hardened wood of the dock, playing a frantic beat, like the heart of a boxer fresh from the ring. The splintered old beams hold, calm and unmoving. The old man walks alone on this dark dismal day. The clouds overhead churn and spit, pregnant with rain. His footsteps keep time with the waves. The old man pauses and sighs, takes the last drag of the cigarette in his right hand and exhales smoke into the heavy damp air. An old letter hangs from his left hand, yellowed and creased from years of wear.

The old man turns toward the ocean and leans over the edge of the dock, leaning against the splintery hand rail, the thin plank separating him from the restless waves. As he peers over the rising swells, memories of this place, of love and pain, of anger and laughter, flash just behind his stone hard face. His cold eyes glisten with tears, and his wrinkled forehead furrows with the years burden he carries. He rubs his eyes, turns back, and walks farther down the dock.

The faded yellow rubber of his rain jacket crinkles as he sits down on a familiar wooden bench at the end of the dock, like an old friend supporting his weight. The dead body of a seagull, covered in grime and flies, lays rotting on the planks before him, staining the aged wood with bile and gore. He wrinkles his nose at the sight of it and pulls out a fresh cigarette. The waves continue to pound the dock, taunting and threatening the old man with cold sprays of salty water. He lights his cigarette, and the tiny ember at the tip glows defiantly in spite of the suffocating damp that surrounds it. It hangs between his lips, quivering softly, like a beaten dog still faithful to his master.

The old man unfolds his letter, like he has done countless times before and begins to read it. He knows all of those delicate inked words by heart, each elegantly penned letter carved on the surface of his soul. It was the last letter he had received from his wife, years ago. She had died while he had been away, working at sea.

As his eyes scan the letter, he can still hear her soft angelic voice whispering her words in his ear, he can still feel her warm breath on his rough cheek. She had wanted him home, wanted him to be there to witness the changing of their lives together, to see the birth of his child.. He still cannot, will not forgive himself for missing her last moments, for not being the one to hold her hand when she finally gave up her fight, slipped away and gave her life to the blood soaked leach in the doctor’s gloved hands. The child had died less than a year later, wasting the life its mother had given it.

The old man drags deeply from his cigarette and exhales, craving the relief that just will not come. He struggles to keep his composure, and his weathered face soon contorts, tears escape and roll down his cheeks. He cries. Painful agonizing sobs escape his throat, audible over the thundering drums.

A behemoth of a wave hits the dock, breaking and sending seawater up and over the wooden edge. The old mans cries drown as water assaults him. And as he defiantly raises his hands above his head, the wind and water work together to steal the letter from his hands. The soggy paper, the old man’s most valued treasure, skirts by the body of the seagull and right over the other side of the dock. With rivulets of seawater running down his yellow jacket the man hurries to the other side of the dock, as fast as his stiff cold limbs will take him. He reaches the hand rail just in time to see the letter being carried away, and dragged down..

His wrinkled face is stuck in a new emotion, something between anger and amazement. He sits down again on the splintered wood of the bench, arms folded for warmth over his wet chest. The cigarette between his lips is out, wet and hanging limply. Without thinking he tries to take a drag, and spits with disgust at the stale smokey water he sucks into his mouth. The clouds overhead crack, and soon shower the old man with clean crisp rain. The drops are warmer than the seawater.

He flicks the butt over the rail into the water into the water and stares blankly ahead, at the dead body of the seagull. The wave has cleaned off the flies and dirt, its fluids leaking fresh into the puddle it lays in. The old man sighs and looks down at his feet, his own puddle forming from the soggy drips of his clothes. His expression softens and a tear slides invisibly from his eye, following an already sopping trail down his face.

The man stands up and gives his old yellow coat a good shake, dislodging showers of salty drips. His dry eyes glance one more time at the endless sea before he turns and begins to walk back to shore. The thudding sounds of his boots against the dock ring in his ears, but other than that the world is quiet. He doesn’t hear the waves.