Tuesday, December 28, 2010

A Killing Daze

Our man opens his eyes to a blinding sun. He first feels thirst then his taught sunburned skin. Several human silhouettes take shape around him as the deep-drug haze begins to lift. A man with a familiar flattop haircut straps an orange life-jacket on our man as other men rummage through nearby cargo bags. One finds a hunting knife and drags it along each of our man's exposed forearms in two lateral cuts drawing blood. The man with the flattop leans in close and slaps our man.

“Wake up,” he says. “Now's no time for napping.” He splashes some sea water into his face and then hands over a bottle of drinking water. The thirsty man takes a large gulp and coughs. Then the bottle is taken away. Next, all the men grab a part of his body and together heave him off the boat.

All of a sudden salt water chokes his lungs and stings the fresh cuts. His blood disperses through the ocean water like high-altitude clouds on a clear day. He fruitlessly tries to contain the diffusing blood by splashing the water back towards his body.

“Don't worry. That's not going to help you for long,” Flattop shouts from the boat only a few meters away. Realizing the boat is so near, he tries to swim back but one laughing goon uses a pole to push him away from its safety.

Now he is fully alert. Determined he tries again towards the boat but notices a silver mass streak underwater and he stops. He dunks his head below the surface and opens his eyes to see a swarm of more than twenty scalloped hammerhead sharks in orbit around him. The school keeps inching closer as his blood continues to leak from the slices on his forearms.

One shark tries to make a sneak attack. He thrusts out a forceful punch into the surprisingly firm wing-shaped head, and the shark retreats as another darts in for his lower body. He kicks out but scrapes his calf against its razor teeth. Stratus clouds of blood appear in the tropical water and obscure his view of the silver devils.

He starts to strike out frantically. He connects his fist with one shark's head but still receives two quick bites on his back side from others. Without warning a shark bites down to the bone of his foot like an agitated pitbull. The momentum of the shark pulls his body through the water, and he skims the surface bouncing along on the orange life-jacket. Splotches of white from lightheadedness start to pollute his vision.

A large female scalloped hammerhead bites deep into his lower right abdomen. The unbearable pain of shark teeth grinding against his pelvis causes him to white out into unconsciousness. No sounds come from the boat as the men watch the orange life-jacket disappear into the red clouds.
Kill-It would seem to be the fate of the randomly selected to be in deaths schedule. Not based on merits nor codes but an unfair balance of forces far beyond our understanding. It kills us regardless of plea or fight. As we dance this dance, enjoy every step and do not be reluctant to try new moves.

Sunday, December 26, 2010


Since I guess there was some confusion, I'll just choose K and then also choose L. Sorry for the delay. K will be for Kill/Killing

Thursday, December 23, 2010

Jail Letters

Dear Valentina,
I don't know what to say. But I'm going to make a try. I know you're upset. I know you hate when I drink and I was stupid. I got out of control. I've tried to call you, but you didn't answer. I understand why you wouldn't want to talk to me, but I want you to forgive me and give me a chance. I can't lose you like this.
Chris P.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Dear Valentina,
I'm writing this from the concrete desk near my bed and I'm sitting on this round concrete stool that can't move. There isn't much else to do but sit here. The concrete is making me blister. The guy in the room with me doesn't talk much. Good I say. So I sit here and imagine your face. That's how I've been spending my days. I'm not going to forget you. Your calm-ocean eyes and lovely lips. I won't forget . . .
Chris P.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Dear Valentina,
Please come and see me – I miss you. I know I made a mistake and lost your trust. I was weak and shouldn't have taken that drink. I was weak and made a mistake that got out of hand. Don't give up on me like that. I'm a better man than that and you know it.
Chris P.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Dear Valentina,
I still sit a lot. In particular this one flash of memory keeps appearing in my head. Remember when we spent the day in Wrentham forest? I keep seeing you walking the path ahead of me. You're stepping over a fallen tree. When you're doing it, you turn back to me and smile. I remember that the sunlight behind you couldn't be brighter than your smile. You're wearing a long red shirt and your yellow hair's tied back.
Chris P.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Dear Valentina,
It's been a month since I saw you. We argued that night. It all happened fast. I started drinking early with some guys. When I got to your house, I had already had a few. You were upset and wanted me to stop. But I didn't listen then, you know, I should have listened to you. I didn't want to admit that I was wrong that night, so I got angry and left. Look where that got me. I ended up in a fight and really hurt the other guy. Now that my head's clear, I can see that you were right. I should have sat down on your couch as pissed as I was and tied myself down before I got into this mess. Anything but leaving red that night. Don't let that be the last time I see you. Please come visit. Visiting hours are Sunday from 3 to 5. You're at the top of my list. Come, because I love you.
Chris P.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Dear Valentina,
I still track the days with the letters I write you. Even though now it feels like I'm just talking to myself. But you keep me in my mind here. Give me some light. But you're fading, babe. I still see your deep-ocean eyes and red lips, but I don't remember how everything fits together too well. In the park, you still turn to look at me over your right shoulder, but I must be farther away because I can't make out much but your smile. I'm not sure if I see you like you really are anymore. It's been awhile. I want to see your face again. I want to see your smile again. Come visit me, you don't even have to talk. You don't even have to smile.
Chris P.
June 13, 2009


Figured I'd change it up a little. I don't have much experience writing narrative/dialogue, so let's rock. I also completely forget how to punctuate dialogue

"I always find it funny how much trouble you have choosing what you want to eat when you're so damn sure of yourself when it matters" Lauren mused, closing her menu.

"That's because it doesn't matter what I eat, it's insignificant," Ledram replied, "When it matters, the choice is easy." He smiled, acutely aware of the presence at his thigh.

"Yet you had no trouble choosing the win." She paused to sip from her glass, aware of the significance that implied.

"It was a natural fit for the night." He thought to himself, "It's a vintage '88, the year you were born. I like to feel as if I'm drinking up the moment you came into being." He drank, and felt the warmth run down his throat to his core. He said, "It was the right thing for the meal."

"You say that and yet you don't know what you're eating," she teased, knowing the truth of his statement. She knew what was coming. He had that look on his face, a look of total exhaustion from keeping oneself until the proper time. She was nearing that point too. She struggled to keep the knowing smile from welling up, from betraying her. If she did, it would ruin everything. "He must not have any confirmation that I am about to burst 'Yes!'" That "Yes!" would be the best she could do, to shape a 'Yes!' out of the primal force churning within. But she kept herself composed. They were going to do it right, to go through all the motions, a complex dance of mortification and blasphemy against the heaven contained within their union. For you see, only false gods cannot endure blasphemy.

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

there's a place called heaven and a place called hell
there's a place called prison and a place called jail
and daddy's probably goin' to all these places except for one...
- Eminem

Jail is daddy's other home.

Jail is the place you can see from the freeway with the slit windows so that people can't get out or see out.

This is the view from the street.

Jail is a temporary thing. The problems about incarceration in the US are not centered around jail, they're centered around prisons and correctional facilities. Jail might be evaporating if the line between law abiding and criminal becomes more distinct. You're either in or you're out.


Confine your contribution to a jail setting.

Monday, December 20, 2010

Love or Money

Kevin and Sarah are in love with one another. Sarah's mother has suddenly become ill and she will be leaving Los Angeles to return to her mother's side in Minneapolis. For years Kevin has been building up his acting network and trying to find progressive jobs for his career path. Days before the news of her mother's sickness, Kevin received the opportunity to play a lead role in a Los Angeles feature film. Sarah has just told Kevin that she has firmly decided to leave the city of Los Angeles permanently to move back home to be with her mother and care for her family. They are both currently walking the sidewalk of their residential neighborhood block in northeast Los Angeles.
Sarah: So, what do you think?

Kevin: Sarah, I don't know. This job has been my dream for the past few years, but I could never have done it without you. You've been there for me each step of the way.

Sarah: I know. I feel horrible making you choose like this, it's something I never wanted to do. But, I need to be with her Kevin. She might die. I can't let that happen from here.

Kevin: I understand, I just don't know what I should do.

Sarah: Why don't you come fly with me and then you can come back after a few days.

Kevin: I need to be on set in a few days. You're not leaving until Friday. I'll need to be on set all day. Give me some time to think it through.
Two days later, Sarah is very tense and on edge. Her mother's health has declined and she is now in the hospital. Sarah will be flying to Minneapolis in a few hours. She is sitting at the kitchen table while Kevin is cooking their breakfast. She isn't hungry. Kevin scoops the food onto two mismatched plates and brings it over to Sarah at the table.
Sarah: Kevin, we need to talk about this now, we can't keep pushing it off.

Kevin: Come on, let's eat first. We'll talk better afterwards.

Sarah: No Kevin, I need to know what you're going to do.

Kevin: I still don't know.

Sarah: What do you mean? How can't you know? I'll make it easier for you. Either you come with me or we're through.

Kevin: You can't do that to me. You know I want to be there for you but this job is very important to. I'm going to be a lead in a feature. Who knows where this will lead. I can come to you after the filming is done. It will only be a few months.

Sarah: No Kevin. I don't want to wait for you like that if you can't commit to me now. I won't be able to trust you then, if I can't trust you now. I won't wait around while you go around and achieve all your dreams.

Kevin: What do you mean? Don't put it on me like that. It's not my fault I got this job at the same time your mom got sick.

Sarah: That doesn't matter because that is how it has happened. So you heard what I said. Now, what's it going to be?

Heresy - short story draft

It is Sunday and Tabitha is at the Church teaching her weekly yoga class for the preschool-aged kids. She circles around the blue carpeted room as the kids stretch their legs out in front of them and reach for their toes. Every week, Tabitha assembles the mats together so the kids can share the space together. Her six students all have older siblings studying in Sunday school upstairs. If an observer walked by the room and put his ear against the door, he would hear lots of high-pitched laughter and childish silliness. But if he listened even more closely, he would notice a woman's voice forever calm and encouraging with the kids yoga practice.

Inside the room, the children clumsily follow Tabitha's directions. They play together as they are bouncing in their yoga postures. The most confident girl in the room, may be missing front teeth but she shows no hesitatioon to light up the room with her smile. The whites of her eyes contrast her dark skin. Her hair is taught in corn rows tight to her scalp and her loud laughter projects through everyone elses'. The boys are quieter than the girls, and make secretive conversation with each other. Sometimes they will even push each other and roughen up the yoga room's relaxed atmosphere. Whatever happens, whether one boy is pushed over and falls onto the mat or the others start laughing at another's mistake, Tabitha remains calm and unassuming. She believes that through yoga the kids can learn to connect with God.

Priest Samuel Jobson paces his room lost in anxious thoughts. He has just gotten off of the phone with the bishop, his long time supporter and patron. After Jobson's parents' car accident, the bishop who was then priest of this Catholic church, took the 10-year-old orphan under his wing and raised him. The night before his first communion, the bishop held the young Jobson mouth shut as he silently took the young boy's virtue. Since that day, Samuel has continued to submit to all the man's wishes and out of fear, committed his life to the path of the church joining the rank of his devout patron continually succumbing to his influence. When the former priest was promoted to bishop, Jobson became the priest of the local church.

The bishop strongly disapproves of the yoga practice for the young children. He believes that the pagan practice goes against God's wishes for the church and wants to see it gone because the pagan and foreign culture of yoga is bad for the children and is exposing them to something that will further plunge them into a life of sin.

Over the phone the bishop easily convinced Jobson that the yoga class should be removed from the church's premises. The Hindu practice conflicts with God's wish for his true followers emphasized the bishop. After years of subservience, the priest now easily silences his inner-conscience and has come to believe that the bishop knows the will of God best. In addition to the cancellation of the class, the priest must also remove the woman from the church for the unforgivable act of introducing the poisonous practice to the innocent children. The priest hangs up the phone filled with sickening ambivalence.

He proceeds to call up the parents who take their children to the Sunday yoga class and relay the change in schedule to them. He also exaggerates the offense of Tabitha whose only fault was to see God's hand in all including yoga. The parents were told that the teacher was abusing her power by instilling blasphemous belief in their fertile minds.

The following Sunday, Tabitha had noticed that during the mass, she received some pointed glances from the usually friendly church-goers. Several children in her class as well as their parents did not say hello to her even after she had greeted them in passing. The community room on the lower level of the church, were the yoga class is held, was cold this Sunday. It seemed to Tabitha that the custodial staff must have forgotten to put on the heat. Usually they were more than attentive for the children. Although no students are seen excitedly pulling their parents down the stairs, she lays out the multicolored mats with their edges touching in the center of the blue carpet and sends up a to prayer to God.

Thirty minutes pass without any arrivals, so she decides to go speak with the priest. She knocks on his door and he tells her to come in. She finds him studying at his desk. She asks him if he knows why no students showed up today, and he informs her that the class has been permanently canceled with the Bishop's blessing. Although she is shocked, she knows that God will make sure it all works out for the best. The priest takes a deep breath and his face looks pained. Then he tells her that the class goes against the doctrine of the church and that her teaching of the Oriental practice is unsupported by the Catholic church. Because of this, he informs her that she has been requested by the bishop never to return to this church again. For a moment she doesn't understand what has been said, but it sinks in. She lifts up her arm to hide the tears that sprout from her eyes and silently vows to seek revenge on these hypocrites as she exits.

She leaves the church and returns to her home to mourn the loss of her beloved class and community. She tries to keep her trust in God that this all is happening for a reason, but despite her trust, she cries. She weeps until her passion is dried up from her body. She falls to her knees but continues to pray for guidance on how to proceed.

After several minutes of prayer with her eyes tightly closed, a vision illuminates her mind's eye: She witnesses herself joyfully baking brownies. She is even singing. Suddenly a gap in the ceiling opens, and the Angel Gabriel gloriously descends into her kitchen. He is wearing only a loose fitting linen robe. His bronzed skin highlights the subtleties between his idyllic muscles. His curly golden hair is contained within a circular crown atop his head. Without words, he gives her a bottle of poison that gratefully accepts and then pours it liberally into the brownie mix. The angel smiles after she does this and touches the top of her head with his gleaming hand then ascends from where he came. She then witnesses herself bringing these baked goods to the priest and bishop who are both at the church. They heartily enjoy her deadly offer of repentance and quickly perish minutes later.

She awakes from her vision feeling dazed. She thanks God for his answer to her prayers and does not hesitate to begin what she has seen. She starts baking the brownies and finds a bottle of rat poison below her sink. She combines the ingredients and bakes them in her oven. Then she dresses up into her Sunday best and heads back to the Church with the brownies sealed in a green Tupperware container.

She parks her car in the lot, and walks towards the priest's front porch. As she approaches she hears a rhythmic thudding coming from inside. She raises her closed fist to knock but waits because the sound continues. She timidly knocks several times but gets no response. She knocks again but the thumping seems only to progress and the priest doesn't come to the door. Motivated to complete her vision and follow through with God's command, she turns the knob to find it unlocked.

As she enters she discovers the priest with his robe tossed hastily over his head. Everything from his hips downwards is exposed. The bishop has his trousers dropped to his ankles and is moving back and forth engaged in vigorous sodomy with the young priest. The bishop holds a strained look on his face.

Tabitha, taken by surprise at the vulgar act, drops the Tupperware which loudly bounces a few yards away along the wooden floor. The priest's body jolts at the noise but the Bishop continues to hold him down, but then turns and sees the former yoga teacher standing speechless in the doorway. He withdraws and attempts to cover his erection with his papal robes. He mutters unintelligibly and glides behind the shocked woman, shuts the door quietly, and grasping her by her elbow and escorts her into the center of the room. By this time the priest has righted himself and has also found cover for his naked bottom. His appearance seems unmolested except for the end of his white collar which sticks out to one side.

The bishop escorts Tabitha into a chair and instructs the priest to fetch ties. Before she has regained her composure, she is strapped tightly into the chair, gagged and unable to move. She is frightened.

Now the bishop easily convinces the priest that there are limited courses of action to keep their reputation spotless. Since she has been publically declared a pagan, the bishop declares her punishment has been made clear by God and shall be death. The priest finds no words to protest and musters up his little courage to bludgeon the poor woman until she no longer breaths as the bishop watches over his student's work with pride for his Lord.

But their work is only half over. They retrieve a saw and knives and proceed to cut her body into disposable pieces. Fortunately for their purpose in best serving God's will, the body can easily be disposed of at the nearby pig farm. There, the animals will devour her flesh in less than an hour and leave no trace of the brash act.

The two collect the pieces of Tabitha's body into bags and are ready for the disposal except they must wait until the blanket of night descends. In the meantime, while the priest cleans the blood off of the floor, he finds the Tupperware with the poisoned goods. The bishops laughs and marvels at God's gift. They enjoy her meager offer of repentance with relish.

Tabitha opens her eyes. Darkness consumes her environment and she forgets where she is and how she came there. Before long she remembers the chair and her violent murder. Was it a dream? She screams into the black vacuum of her surroundings but receives no worldly echo or response. After a while, two flashes of turbulent red appear ten feet in the air and drop two men with a thud. She screams for their help. For minutes, they are silent. Then simultaneously they regain consciousness, and she realizes that the men are the priest and the bishop, and she withholds her exclamations as she listens to their confused pleas for mercy.

An abrupt eruption from the east lights up the dark. In the flash, Tabitha sees crags and burnt desert stretching off into eternal horizons. Another fire grows upward like a fir tree out of the explosion gradually exposing a frightful, red figure. His graphite horns are sharpened into hawk-talons atop his broad forehead and strong chinned face. He holds a diabolical stained-tooth grin. His body is extremely muscled and his feet are hooved and knees hairy. Then his booming voice vanquishes attention given to any thoughts.

“Hahahaha,” he laughs. “Do you understand why you are here? Your ignorance is delightful. I, Lucifer, have spent much time contemplating on how to appropriately acquire you three. Tabitha your continued devotion to God has made me wretch and I could bare it no longer. Jobson and the bishop, your recognition despite your sexual relations has kept me laughing for many of your years but I could bare witness to it no longer. With my hand guiding fate, I have brought you here all together. Tabitha, it was I who came to you disguised as Gabriel in your vision. God abandoned your side when your desire to avenge your worldly humiliation and murder these men blinded you from his love and peaceful ways. Jobson, I was instrumental in your subservient relations with this bishops since your parents' death and have slowly eroded all of your self-worth as you repeatedly bared this sinner's lustful advances. Welcome to Hell. You shall enjoy my company now. Forget about God and aim your prays for mercy to me. You have forfeited all your devotion to Him. Now prepare for your eternal judgment.”

Sunday, December 19, 2010

Indecisive, opposing and conflicting options. Love n death, life and hate. Hate for life to end with death, or love life for it ends with death? Love death for it frees the soul, hate death for it ends the dream? Live for what we love without death in mind and miss opportunties for the thought that we are immortal and will not run out of time? Or keep our untimely death in mind as we live for what we love? Will the thought of death depress and inhibit ultimate joy? Or can it's certainty be the key to it's understanding? If not live for love and the joys associated then why? hate is as easy as death, it's a certainty in all humans. But love is to think and at times to struggle to achieve. But is it worth it? What lays beyond this life is not certain, death, life, love and hate are. What we choose to fight a premature death is what we love. We are only inhibited by our minds imagination, love doesn't end at heartbreak or financial limitations but in the application of a mindset

New topic

Will says the new topic is Indecisiveness

Saturday, December 18, 2010

"is the price I pay for the blood I've shed in the name of this church, death? Well Id pray for anathema for this said heresy I am accused of, but I think the Lord has not heard me for some time now"

When I was a little boy hyenas were the most terrifying. Mama would try to make me stop crying when they made their shrieks at our village at night, and she could only hit me to make me stop. I was thinking of them eating my flesh from my bones like they did to the dead animals and smaller animals and sometimes children.

The hyenas were the white men, thats what Olu would always say. Just like a hyena, the white men would come in the night, and like a hyena they would take your flesh away. But the white men have many more tricks to take your flesh than the hyena. He will take your land, he will take your women, your religion and your livelihood.

I was supposed to know the name of the first big hyena man who came from UK a hundred years ago, I was supposed to learn his name in school. He said that to be a British is to win first prize in the lottery of life. I also remember he said that if he could annex the stars he would. He wanted to make a trade route all the way from Zimbabwe to Cairo. He was one of the first who made agreements with the tribal kings and then broke the agreements, he said he would take the land from under their very feet. And he did.

We lived in reservations for generations. We nursed the white man's babies while he raped our women. When we wanted things like medicines he hung us upside down by our balls from a tree. This went from the day they came until the independence won in 1980.

Olu told me about how terrible it was to resist the British in power. You became used to going to jail, and when you were in jail you became used to being beaten. Your family would come to try and give you food in jail, but then the guards would beat them if they caught them. Prison is a place where people die of diarrhea. He saw several men die that way in the same cell, lying in pools of blood and shit. The white guard came and pissed on a corpse of an independence leader who died that way. When you die of diarrhea you begin to shit out your own guts. Your stomach fills with blood and your intestines come out of your ass. This is the hyenas coming from inside you. This is how the white man is a hyena from inside you, said Olu. Even the hyenas have some decency by eating you from without.

I always see the white man and know he wants me to die this way. Especially now in the ZANU PF government. Mugabe has said, the white man has fucked us, now we will fuck him. He thinks he can live here and own all the farms, well no, this land belongs to us. I know how many blacks he has murdered too, the people who oppose him. Nobody can deny how strong he is.

I knew that Mugabe understood what we went through, because he is an African. This is why he wants to put the guns in our hands. He knew that he could be heretic and then be president. He knew that there was enough hate to make people move for him, kill and die for him. He knew he could be heretic-president. And no matter what he does, he can explain it with the idea of conspiracy against him by the white man, because it is always true that the white man doesn't want him to succeed. The white man will sabotage the black leader, no matter how just. And therefore revenge is something you cannot stop. The hyena is a murderer too, but he doesn't care about revenge. He does not resent anybody.

Sometimes in the village there would be bad food for months. It got better some years and worse some years. It got really bad in the last few years, after my school shut down. We would get maize porridge every day, that was our only meal. They paid for British style uniforms and books about white men but they could not give us good food. As food got worse in the country our lunch got worse. There would be weevils in the food. You would try to eat them like they were grains of rice, and you could only trick yourself if you ate quickly. Swallow without letting it hit your tongue first. Get it past your tongue like you have no tongue. Hold your tongue like in class or when a white man comes.

When you eat shit, when you are placed lower than a maggot on the food chain, it explains why people do horrible things. I'm telling you this because you should know. You should know about people treated like animals for slaughter.

My village was near a farm. It was owned by the Keelin family, white family. It was over 600 acres of land. When times were good it made millions of dollars and it gave jobs to many many workers. When I went by on the road I would see the white family on their porch. They had three blonde girls. Always in white dresses with lace on them. To make them look as pure as they could. Signs of being clean. Clean white rule. This is what they are. The girls as they got older made gestures that were carefree. They were the most white by the way they flipped their long hair. Looking down, sewing something, flip her hair around. I would watch from the road while I walked by. I wanted to warn them sometimes or tell them to go back to Europe.

Anyone who is that carefree will not last here. You can't be flipping your hair around in this land.

One day I was leaving my house. My house is made of corrugated tin and it falls down in the rain. I got out and as soon as I looked into the sunlight I heard chop-chop-chopping of machine guns. I pulled back in and lay on the dirt floor. I heard someone pull open the metal covering my door. I felt a gun push on my head. "Get the fuck out!" I got up and didn't look to see who it was, but I knew that I knew him. I left the village without looking behind me. We had almost nothing but still there are people who want our belongings and our houses. I saw a group of men from my village on the road. They were climbing the fence to Keelin property. By now the farm was not making money. The workers had left because people had forced them off and began to attack the family.

I climbed the big metal fence. My feet were bleeding from a sharp piece of it. We walked through the field and I saw the looks on the men's faces. Nobody said anything but everyone was excited and nervous. The man close to me was smiling like he won something, the man far from me was frowning like he was going into war. We knew that we couldn't get in trouble for what we were doing, unless the white man was going to shoot us.

The sun was setting. I knew that the daughters were upstairs in their rooms. The father and mother stayed downstairs near the kitchen. Maybe they knew we were coming. We broke the window with big pieces of wood. We heard screams from inside and we heard them running around. We followed the voices to the window on the other side of the house where the woman was trying to nail pieces of wood on it. We smashed this one too and knocked the wood and hammer out of her hands.

I cleared all the glass from the sides of the window with a piece of metal I found. I took off my shirt and put it over the bottom of the window. We climbed into the kitchen. The men with me started to laugh and make noises.

Two of the men went into the master bedroom. I went up the stairs to the second floor. I heard the man yelling and the sound of something breaking. I didn't hear his wife. The stairs were creaking and it was silent upstairs. But their bedrooms doors were closed.

Ee-yee, ee-yee! When we were kids we tried to imitate the hyenas and when we made hyena noises we sounded just like them. We heard one of the girls crying from behind her door.

Friday, December 17, 2010

I wish I was as awesome as William Blake. I might try to go back and make this whole thing rhyme, we'll see. Please tell me what you think the message is so that I can see if what I meant is coming through;

Principles and Paragons,
Blood-spilling martyrs
A journey of fire creates
The(y who have) Chosen

When pain remembered
but triumph forgotten
The Chosen believe another Chose;
Cull who suffered not the fire as they
rage at fate before time's hand
(Forgot the eyes that walked the fire
choices triumph not damnation)
Burn the witches black as hate
Only forgotten the power of fire
to choose the martyrs, choose the saints.

Cycles and cycles spinning wild
from the ashes born the child.
Burnt to bone, forged of fire,
head of storms and heart of ire.
Convicted for his father's sin
So the Chosen all begin.

Elided is the choice at hand,
the scars of vengeance burn at brand.
They are their father's sons in name,
and for the crime, earned the flame.
But father's paths and father's lives
are not what we ourselves contrive.
Remember now, the choice is yours
to carry on your father's wars.

Stampede forth, lead the herd
Judgment by the Holy Word.
Fear the choosing, be the Chosen
Give the soul to mob's erosion.
Split the scars to open eyes,
walk the fire as the wise.
Reject the path that 'Fate' would give,
Thy Holy Word; "This is mine to live."
Write The Book of Man anew
Let He Who Chooses be you

Monday, December 13, 2010

Gay -I'm not what some believe, what some want or what seems like the answer to sexual frustration. To be other then the average is to stand out, but when one follows our inner desires there is no harm nor blame. Curiosty for something different can lead the confused for a taste of something seen as forbidden. The allure of what shouldn't be wanted and may promise solutions to these problems leads some to try new things. When there are things in society that truly cause harm and bring a premature death I tend to look past peoples sexuality.

Extension of deadline

Given the delay in receiving the topic, I feel that it is appropriate to extend the writing period until tomorrow. The next period will begin on Wednesday 12/15 with me choosing something for H.

Why Does Gayness Scare People?

Don't Ask Don't Tell has been a controversy for several weeks in America, as legislation to repeal the intolerant act goes to vote in a matter of days. Some people believe that homosexuality is the last frontier in civil rights, but I disagree. The denial of human rights, whether from acts of racism or sexism, originate from fear, and unless a nation of people can look at their own fear, there won't be much widespread acceptance despite legal legislation.

I want to compare homophobia to racism. There have been widespread abusive attacks both verbal and physical to black people and gay people in the United States for many years. These groups are targeted because they are different than the attackers. With racism it is easy for an attacker to identify someone as the 'other.' All they have to do is look at the color or shade of someone's skin and recognize that it is different from their own. The victims of racism are targeted because they are different by no fault of their own and this contrariety in skin color sparks fear in people. They have no control over how they are born but still others feel threatened.

Gayness, on the other hand, is not so clearly visible to someone. Unlike the color of someone's skin which can be identified on first sight, gayness is physically hidden and is an internal difference. Because it is less obvious, this might even hit deeper into the fear someone feels about gayness because gayness does not discriminate. Because a white person can never truly be black in appearance, it is a clear-cut image of us versus them. However, a white person can be just as gay as a black person, and gayness is a human function.

For those afraid of gayness, it is an invisible enemy. The traitor within the fort walls. People are seemingly afraid that they will 'catch' it or become contaminated by someone else's gayness. Perhaps this is because those afraid of it won't examine what it really is. Perhaps because they are afraid that they themselves might discover that they are gay without really understanding what that means. Instead of dealing with this fear, these people would rather push it away and strike out on those identified as gay.

Another factor to consider is that people feel gayness is unnatural. They argue that human sexuality is a function of reproduction and should remain a binary relationship.

When it comes down to it, this view is just a belief. Take a look at the cover of Rolling Stone and tell me that Lady Gaga's sexuality is a function of reproduction? Other cultures like ancient Greece and Rome did not shun gayness as much as today. Contrastingly to modern times, older men of antiquity were known to have sexual relations with their young students as part of the educational process. A then acceptable exchange for knowledge.

Fear arises by the unwillingness to allow change to take its natural course. In other words, when people hold onto beliefs that are as flexible as a golf club, the changing world will try to bend the metal to no avail until the outside power snaps it in two. Beliefs that cause violence and discrimination, are actually just thoughts that were taught to young children as a reality. Children are taught that these differences exist. However, thoughts are electric impulses and what can be more unstable than a moment of electricity?

Sunday, December 12, 2010

G is for

Gayness-- write about gayness or the idea of being gay

Saturday, December 11, 2010

It's a little weird... Probably my three favorite people in the world were met under such weird circumstances that it seems almost providential.
The first situation:
I got an EMT job in late February that paid pretty well. Some of the people there were shitheads, including the guy who was training me. Long story short, I washed out of training and was forced to look elsewhere. Eventually, I interviewed at a company where the person interviewing me seemed really familiar. Turns out the head of HR was in my graduating class at Oxy (my having gone to Oxy was probably nigh providential in its own right), though we never knew each other. Easily getting the job because of this, I started to work at this shitshow of a company. Months passed and the person in charge of the schedule got progressively more batshit crazy. Eventually, she partnered me with this one guy (who's a fucker) who didn't show up the first shift we were scheduled for. The next week, I was like, "aw fuck, he showed up." I had seen him at station in weeks before and he had always seemed like someone who I would never get along with. Turns out I was wrong.
Second situation:
I kinda forced a friendship between myself and the bartender of one of the bars nearby. One night, while I was there, she pointed out one of her friends. A couple nights later, I was out at a different bar with my friend, Nick, and she happened to be sitting right next to us. I stammered through breaking the ice, she being exceptionally aloof. I think the thing that changed her mind about me is that she wasn't drinking because she admitted to having a problem with alcohol. My friend said "then you should just drink less" to which I responded "that's not the way it works, it's all or nothing," having read that we shared that extremist streak. A couple nights later, the bartender finally invited me out separately from being a customer. Her friend was there and we got to talking. Possibly my favorite line yet delivered to a girl was she said, somewhat jokingly "like right now, I'm silently judging you," to which I responded, "And I hear those judgments loud as thunder." It's weird how you can tell when you've said something that strikes a person. Then I sang Zombie (by the Cranberries) karaoke and totally messed it up, showing her that who cares? This is the least providential of the three, but it's still weird how we end up where we are and knowing who we know.
The third:
This requires some explaining. First, my friend's room mate (later my room mate), Ken, knew this chick at USC who was turning 21 (this is in march 2008). Said girl wanted to have a party, and Ken offered his very spacious house for this party. This house is in Eagle Rock 10-15 miles NE of USC. Given that it was USC, she had everyone bussed to the house. Given that I knew and was friends with everyone who lived at the house, I was invited. Anyway, I'm watching this girl throw nuts to this guy who is desperately trying to catch them in his mouth (and failing). Being amazing at catching stuff in my mouth as I am (and hating people failing/disappointing), I said "stand aside, young lad," and demonstrated how it's done (100% throw to catch ratio, thank you). After this whole thing, I start talking to this girl and somehow it comes up that I'm from boston. She tells me that she visits boston late summer/early fall and that, since she's turning 21, she'll be able to go to this 80's night at one of the bars. I'm like "yeah, the Common Ground. I've been to the 80's night. I'll take you when you're there." Now I'm completely serious. I would do it if she were to take me up on it. She tells me that she's down and that she'll find me on facebook. A couple days later, she friends me on facebook and is like "you're still down to take me there, right?" Long story short, she followed through and I did end up taking her out and it was awesome. (Actually, the 80's night was pretty disappointing) On another note, we went to a show one of the nights she was there and I found out later that there is a very very good chance that the ex-boyfriend of Ken's room mate's now-girlfriend was at that show. It's all weird.

I am afraid

Closet become warehouse
see out
far far
into the tomorrows
Shadow's twine beckon my wandering eye
Screaming down the forward tomorrow path
I come before what
may yet come
(tomorrow before tomorrow)
Glistening logic, extrapolation of
enterprising energies
leads to beacons of what I hope are not to be
I tremble, heart shudder at my lifedoom
unpleasant acrid
What is choice when it's death fast or rot?
I ran away
Warehouse become closet again

This is not capturing what I want it to capture... I like where it's going, but it needs work.

Friday, December 10, 2010

Fate- Where we are from where we have been, and where we will be from where we are. Guided by deminishing mistakes and increasing rewards to satify the pursuit of our meaning

What Do I Know About Fate?

The topic I chose for F is fate. I had spent a few days brainstorming ideas and narrowed down my selection to this as well as fear, fortune and ferocity. On a whim, I chose fate. I thought it would was appropriate.

I started to examine the topic and free-write about it in the mornings. Fate is what it's called when Cinderella marries prince charming, right? I don't want to insult you with assuming that in real life fate works this simply. Reality is a network of complexities and inter-connected causes that interact behind the scene to create something new. I also realized that fate is like the devil. You may get what you want but not how you want it. If you sell your soul to the devil to get out of jail, he might just abandon you on top of a desolate mountain at let you perish, but nevertheless he followed the contract to the T.

I came to realize that I don't know much about fate. My experience is so limited that I can hardly begin to offer an answer. I do know several trends that have appeared throughout my life. One, which I will examine ni this essay, is if you take a step forward, you are one step further down the road than you were before. Now this may not seem like much, but indulge me.

I will be running my second half marathon on Sunday - the Portland Holiday Half. I've been training for several months, and I've been putting one foot in front of the other for over 200 miles in preparation for this race. Many days, I don't want to go out. It's raining or cold and I would rather stay inside. But, I didn't. I got out there five days a week and put one foot in front of the other because you can't run 13 miles in one step or even in a leap. Only by a series of connected steps forward, can I attempt to accomplish it.

Sometimes when I was running I would see the half-way point landmark a distance off and this cute little thought would pop into my head saying "You'll never get there." But I did. I don't really understand how my body is able to travel through space from one place to the other - it is really quite miraculous - but it has repeatedly come through and now I'm back in my apartment at the computer.

So is it my fate to run this half marathon? I can't answer with a simple 'yes' or 'no' but I do know that if I didn't keep taking those steps, I wouldn't be where I am today.

Running is a good metaphor for fate. Both are completely reliant on the movement of time and on a beginning and an end. There is a start to the race and a finish and at least in popular opinion, there is a point at which one's fate is realized, the finish. Some obstacles are unchangeable for the runner like the weather and the pavement's condition, other things the runner has control over. The runner can decide how he will take that next step. Will he be aware of his posture or will he take the step grudgingly slumped forward. He can also choose to take it or just give up and crawl home. Although someone can't change all the circumstances in their life, they can play an extremely important role in their fate by taking little steps every day in their desired direction. This works because of the simple law of cause and effect or karma.

When you decide to take action, no matter how small it is, you are influencing the world. You are creating a future and sculpting your life although you will not know how the final end product will turn out. Fate is a process and not an end. There cannot be one fate that will stop our lives from progressing once it is realized like a "happily ever-after" ending. Although fate often seems like the end of the line, how can it be? Life is a series of present moments that fit seamlessly together like the words on a page or the steps in a half marathon.

Henry David Thoreau wrote: "What a man thinks of himself, that is what determines, or rather indicates, his fate." Do we choose to be a victim of outside circumstance and relinquish the power of our fate or can we be the master of the only thing that we every really have which is our autonomy in the present moment. Like a surfer trying to catch a wave, we must either paddle forward and catch it or let the wave crash and pull us along as dead weight. If we can take a step now, we can do it again and again and each time our destination becomes more visable. And only through a series of steps can we realize any fate.

F is for Fucking (Dedicated to Julian Assange)

Don't worry, this isn't really about fucking. Not in the sense that you would probably imagine from the title. It's about relationships, more specifically, but it didn't feel right to use that word, or to use the word love or the word obsession, even though those are both important to the meditation. Because fucking, really, is a kind of locus, or a black hole toward which obsessions, preoccupations, love, and, I will argue, politics and violence are drawn, often against their own best intentions. Fucking is the line drawn on the side of the cargo ship, beyond which the water cannot safely rise. Fucking is when things change shape and undo themselves, the sociopolitical Fahrenheit 451. When you are dominated you are 'fucked.'

A few hours before I wrote this, some of my classmates were fucking in the library a few steps from my front door. They were there because they felt that the UK government was fucking them by raising tuition fees. Or perhaps they were there on behalf of those poorer kids who were being more fucked by the fee increase, or maybe they were just there to fuck, and couldn't have cared less about the cause. Or maybe the cause was fucking those who have fucked you, even though the person you're really fucking is the Nigerian or Caribbean immigrant who has to pick up your used condoms and convince herself that things here in the UK, despite these asshole kids, are still better than they are back home.

A major locus of fucking is college. This is the place where, to paraphrase one blog comment I read last night, one can fuck for four years with little to no punishment for mistakes. At Hapachatee College, nestled in a nice little college town, not too far from metropolitan cities but not too close to be cozy, this was usually the case. There were the 'town bicycles,' girls who smiled too hard in facebook pictures, whose pictures I would reproduce here in this blog if it wasn't libelous. Facebook is a good way to begin to describe them because they were as far as you could get from the girls who deleted their Facebook accounts because it's 'so fake' or because they broke up with their boyfriends. The hard-smiling girls were smiling too hard because they were too drunk to do much else. Their alliterative names and attractions to the entertainment industry added to their visibility, but most notable was their utter lack of self-respect. Even if a penis had never caught a glimpse inside them, almost everyone would still call them sluts. Many of these people would do this because they were convinced that they weren't being sexist, seeing the men who fucked them in the same light. Yet there was a way in which people became addicted to talking about these girls, Melanie Mellintons and Kate McFaddens, because it always brought a roll of the eyes and a laugh, or a grimace.

Notably, the guys who fucked them were often able to keep some anonymity, and rarely overlapped with the other group of the sexually stigmatized, the rapists. Every year the school, bolstered by its newly-created SAFE (Stop Assault For Ever) Center, would quietly place restraining orders on three to five male students who were accused of rape, and every year a few of them were expelled from the school. The SAFE Center also hosted regular survivors' meetings.

Perhaps the greatest problem with the issue of rape at Hapachatee was that it was never publicly discussed. In private, men of all stripes would make jokes about it, especially amused by the idea of one man raping another. The virginal Halo nerds would say 'U GOT RAPED LOLOLOL!!!' when they won a LAN game, and the hypermasculine, protein-shake chugging football players would sometimes say, with questionable irony, that rape is not a crime but human nature, or the nature of the animal which is inherent in the human, which reminds us, after all, that we are just animals who bury our dead.

Very few of these mysterious mentionings of rape made it to the ears of women. They were intended to be heard only by men, because you never knew, among a given group of women, who was the SAFE Center stalwart. There was usually at least one, and if you pissed her off, she would rape you in the ears to correct centuries of violence against women. If you dated one, good luck.

The truth was that everyone agreed that rape was wrong, even the football players. Every man was afraid, on a certain level, 1) that he would rape someone and 2) that he would be accused of rape for other reasons. I genuinely believe that, unlike men in most of the world, most Hapachatee men would rather be raped by another man than accused of rape. At least one of these things could be walked off. Being accused of rape was the worst possible thing that could happen to your reputation and your career as a student.

Among the black students, there was some discussion of the historical context of rape, in relation to an incident where one kid, James Carter, was accused of rape on a school trip to New York. The story goes that James had met an insecure, quiet, mousy white girl on the trip, got drunk with her at a party, made out with her in the parking lot, and followed her back to her room. At this point, according to the girl's roommate, the couple kicked the roommate out so that they could have sex. Of course, at this point in time knowledge puts on a mask, or becomes completely invisible, because there are only two people who know the truth, and it's entirely possible that one or both have deceived themselves about the course of events. According to her, James forced himself on her after she changed her mind about having sex; according to him, he decided that he didn't want to have sex and she, hurt and angry, accused him of rape when they returned to campus.

The administration implemented their state-of-emergency rape policy. James was prohibiting from walking in the school courtyard when she might be there during the day. He was also forbidden to be in the same academic building at the same time as her, and they gave him a schedule of the places where he was 86'd, based on her class schedule and accommodations. The director of the SAFE Center maintains that these measures are necessary, in general, to ensure 'the woman's physical safety and to help her begin the arduous process of recovering from her emotional trauma.'

Although nobody had taken a demographic poll of the last several years, because the information was strictly confidential and relayed only by word of mouth, the black students wanted to pose the question of rape in relation to racism. Some of them wanted to ask if there was a racist motive in accused James of rape, as there had been for countless black men in the last hundred and fifty years who were lynched by white mobs 'protecting their women.' This is a difficult debate between the students, because it seems like no matter where you stand you're potentially betraying someone who has not been justly treated by the law. It mirrors the perversely stupid way of framing the most recent presidential election (Which do you like better-- a Black man or a woman?).

The real, undeniable kernel of this association, racial oppression and sexual assault, is the sexual assault of women, Amerindian, South Asian, African and otherwise, by those men who believed themselves to be white, and believed themselves to be 'enlightening' them in the most violently intimate way, injecting a little cream in the coffee, some lightness in the dark, and there is no irony in these metaphors, because it is metaphorically that rape is both justified and condemned. Metaphor is our only weapon when we know nothing, and we must admit that rape is something about which science can say nothing, only that a coitus happened, which proves nothing.

One of James' friends was one of the least likely people to be accused of rape. He was a curious phenomenon of a guy: broad-shouldered and chunky like a wildebeest, Irish or Scottish-looking, with blonde eyebrows, Gabe associated almost exclusively with the black students. He was sometimes called the token white guy. And, like all tokens, he was showered with praise by those who surrounded him: he was a mascot, really--big, lovable, and completely unthreatening. White people didn't really know who he was, but a few of them did attend the 'Night at the Apollo,' put on by the Black Student Union, at which he read a slam poem.

He knew, more than any other white kid, how important it was to look stylish. He had the careful combination of formal and informal that distinguishes 2008 chic: the luxurious brimmed hat, the scarf, the leather shoes, the designer jeans. He had a fade, and gave the crowd his best Kanye smile.

'This poem is called "Sweet Caramel,"' he grinned. The women tittered, looking up from their iPhones for a moment. He began to deliver the poem in that strange, patented poet's lilt, abbreviating his sentences at illogical moments in case anybody forgot that he was reading a poem.

'Did you know I had
A secret?

Did you know that once
I could not admit
to anyone
what I am about to admit
to you
at this very moment?

As a boy I could not let it be known
that the women I saw walk past my house
and the little girl I held hands with
made me feel a certain way because
because I am one skin color and she is another

you see
I know that a black woman
is a special breed
that there is nothing
i said nothing
no nothing in the godforsaken world
like a black woman!'

The crowd roared with approval. Small beads of sweat appeared in his cheek. He was now a Pentecostal preacher.

'Can you tell me
about the "typical black woman?"
You can't tell me about her, because she
does not
Black women come in all colors, in all shapes
their personalities are as different as the stars and also just

and can't nobody tell me that a white woman is better
not smarter
not more loving
or more responsible
because ain't nothin in the world like a sista!

I may be white but I can see that!'

The standing ovation greeted Gabe with slaps on the back and kisses on the cheek. He won the poetry contest that night.

I didn't really make anything of it. I went back to my room and went to class the next day. Gabe didn't impress me, but I could see where he was coming from.

About a week later, I was talking to my friend Mike, who was also at the performance and had dropped out of school about a year earlier. There is nothing that Mike hates more than white people who try to act too 'familiar.' This is why he has said, on many occasions, that he despises Gabe and people like him.

Mike rants, and Mike says a lot of dismissive things. So when he started ranting about Gabe, I was listening with half an ear. But then he made a point which struck me.

'Everybody thinks Gabe is so great, Gabe is putting his ass on the line by saying he likes black women. But it's funny how he doesn't mention ONCE that this is how colonialism and slavery worked--by white men liking black women. They liked them so much that they forced them to do all the things that women usually do when they love someone. So basically he's a fucking retarded motherfucker.'

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

He sings:
"Oh, say, can you see"
The air bursting against his face
And reddened white cheeks.
His hair taught with wind hands
Underneath the slitted helment
As he glides downhill twice as fast as echo.
Malnourished eyes, sunk back, give forth
Connected love.

"By dawn's early light,"
Greeting him with open arms
Accepting his exuberance with gravity-movement.
A cycle, left+right+left+right,
Knows not up nor down just momentum
and inertia.

"What so proudly we hailed"
Exploded from winded lungs,
Air-drought from overuse and under-rest.
The two vacuum bags draw in crisp cool space,
Funnel out exultant-morning warm.
Pride to be born,
Pride to be granted freedom of motion
"At the twilight's last gleaming?"

Monday, December 6, 2010

Ecstasy is, literally, to be outside of that which is the same (ie you). Ec-stasis/static. So ecstasy is that feeling which sunders the same, the explosion of contained energy. We use ecstasy to describe something of an explosive quality, and as such, the important thing to reaching ecstasy is pressure. If we look at modern physics (which I won't because I don't know squat about it), an explosion is caused by the sudden, violent release of energy in such a way that has it building up against something which all breaks at the same time. All explosions must have been restrained (or attempted to restrain). No pressure, no explosion. The greater the pressure, the more dangerous the explosion.
Taking that to our lives, emotionally, the more 'pressure' we build, the greater our explosion (ecstasy). What is pressure? Pressure is asceticism, mortification, self denial. We say no to ourselves until our 'yes' explodes. Most people (who understand this principle) avoid the naysaying for a couple reasons: it hurts too much, they're afraid that they will snuff their yes or they're afraid that their explosion won't be a yes but instead anger.
So... what does this mean for you and I, or anyone else who cares about this particular subject? We need to exercise our no but with control. We use the 'no' to strengthen our yes, culling out all the weak 'yesses.' We must not forget, however, that the whole point of this exercise is the 'yes,' not the 'no.' This is where I feel that most of us falter, especially religious dicta.
With this idea in mind, take into consideration the Christian doctrine of abstinence from sex until marriage. It is a mirror of intercourse itself; hold off until just the right time and then boom. In this case, hold off until you have said 'no' to all routes but one (your spouse) and, like a gun, there is only one way you can go; forward, deeper and deeper in love with that person, into everything about that person, into life.
Okay, I'm done for now.
Ecstacy-Undeniable electric smile glued to the walls of my racing heart. Tingling communication of heavenly pleasures across all my flesh give life to touch. Black and white world explodes with orgasm of color whose vibrancy massages the gloomiest of days into nirvana. Languages of beats never understood speak directly to my soul whose feet refuse to stop the never before movements of unspecific celebration. And what's more is the flow of eagerness to share joy of emotions once dormant now explosive

Sunday, December 5, 2010

Friday, December 3, 2010

D-an endless pursuit from which nothing can detour me and no set goal is the end point. All that is gained is given in return and a bond is formed none other can see. Continuation is a must without option, with nothing else in sight. Hunger and satisfaction are both the same, leading to an ever lasting cycle

Thursday, December 2, 2010

A Spanish Unbeliever Committed to Death During the Inquisition

To what God are you devoted that should demand my blood spilt for mere difference. How do my beliefs betray you and your order? Wherefore my mind, devoid of belief in your God, frighten you to the point of murder? Release me and you will show true devotion to your merciful God. Recall the mercy he repeatedly bestows upon you, his beloved.

Will you, spineless, cower to your worldly superiors and spill my innocent blood because of human fear? I have committed not one crime besides my thinking. And I, like you, cannot help but think. How does my contrary belief injury you or your God? Now I plead, free me and you will show your God true devotion to his Goodness, his mercy. Finish me and thou shall betray yourself to hell!

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

I, in my dreams
have seen only solid shapes recently
a square curtain of pale reality.
flickterdialogues and outsidepossible plans
to see you again
(it is so easy to throw these yearning to fantasy that we may never fear our end)

My wholethoughts seen immediate
blind my ears and deaf my eyes
for now the measurable, in its gross force,
overtakes the subtle stillness, I soul

Quiet! Quiet! I cast
the forward motion of my eye
tumbled by air current
of moving cars.

Tonight, my love
I remember my promise to you
I vowed to learn the swelling sea of
half thoughts
of a faith in my surge
of trust in my eyes, my ears and my heart
To stand at the top
to scream my choice because it is mine
without conception of wrong choices
or right choices
No need
Only you... music to me

New topic for 12/1-12/3

Topic is devotion