I am beginning to hate my writing again, which is a good sign to take. Its what closed me up and made into the whiny, driveling little corporate whore I am today. I looked to deep, saw the voices were not really there except for a retarded little boy who was in control of the dangerous seat of my heart. I closed the door and didn't look back until the voices and the hope returned. Five years later the doors are wide open again, and while the fear has passed, the utter disdain for the contents of the room have finally become realized.
I literally locked up a demon that whispered words and thoughts I voiced too often over these years to me hoping for the gates to open. Now that they are I see he has just cowered into the corner and is too much of a faggot to come out and play. I want to kick the little fucker square in his jawline for being such a persistent pain who had some of the sole forms of hope I had recently, but I also locked up knowledge of something up in the process of locking that literal demon away. That now has come swimming back to me like some hellish dolphin in a twisted episode of flipper, I forgot about the fucking man-child sitting in my heart. The little retard that when something gets my heart and emotions a fluttering starts up like some hypoglycemic imp with a bag of skittles. He then begins to a spastic run around the contents of my head screaming "WHOOOOO, BUTTONS!" and proceeds to crash all the systems in my head. This was all easier to accept when I had some dark voice lying to me whilst not realizing why I had just metaphorically shit my smarty-pants. But no, I had to open the box, and see the mess I left behind. Guess I must be growing up finally, and I think I may be growing up into a grumpy hermit.
I do see who I really am, what to say, but it's getting clouded by these disappointments and distractions. I need to kill the coward and control the boy, wish I could leave a gun somewhere in my head and see who has the balls or the stupidity to do it themselves but I cant seem to find and mental weapons even for myself to wield on this one.
I need to speak these things, need to explain the demon to someone and that little shithead that makes me do stupid things, I need someone to notice them too, but alas, no one seems to do that or afford me the opportunity to say them. Everyone smart enough to get it is too wrapped up with their own lives or anyone empathetic enough to see it is too dumb to comprehend. Maybe I am assigning labels, but I cant seem to understand it otherwise. I am perhaps being a picky bitch hoping for the perfect moment, but I feel like that is what is needed. A perfect moment is what finally opened these doors, but I cant seem to reclaim that. I cant seem to be important enough for a muse to find me right now. Then again, maybe that child in my heart is making me impatient and I am spiraling downward in some infinite loop of my own making. I need mental weapons and I cant seem to find em.
I tried making a list today of all the ideas I want to change in people's heads. I knew they were there, but when I went to write em down, I couldn't think of anything I want to change. Better yet, I couldn't comprehend my audacity for wanting to do that. My idealism far exceeds my arrogance. This is why I am writing, why I started this blog, why I wanted to write my book. Deliver a bitter candy of thought, but I don't know why it's bitter, and why anyone wants a candy anyways. I don't make much sense I know, but it makes sense to me, the reason why I give a fuck to why anyone else does is beyond me.
Zach, maybe you should stop reading this drunk while taking a shit and call me out. Fuck anyone needs to call me out. Justification is the fuel and I am burning out.
I am high maintainace, but I am starting to feel that's not too much too ask. I want someone to do the exact same things I want. A free trade of thoughts and a late night drunken showing of scars. I am not good at looking vulnerable with men, but I just want something to kill these problems I brought back into my life again. Applications are open for Muses, if you're cute with a nice rack and good note taking skills you move to the front of he line, but I am willing to interview anyone willing to send in a resume.
BTW, that forward post was written by me. I guess I fail at humor.....
Friday, December 05, 2008
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Fwd: FW: Fw: Great Jag-offs of History
Yeah, I hate forewards, but this was kinda interesting. Bonus points if you kind find out if this is true. I'd be interested in what you guys think.
--Forwarded Message Attachment--
From: CRobbins@100AW.net
To: (Robb Digman)
Subject: FW: Fw: Great Jag-offs of History
Date: Tue, 2 Dec 2008 09:23:48 -0600
Thought you'd be interested in this, most of it seems true if not all and you you never know...... Chris
From: PBear@HUNY.services.net
Sent: Tuesday, December 2, 2008 6:49 AM
To: CRobbins@100AW.net
Subject: Fwd: Fw: Great Jag-offs of History
---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Rob.IT@30AW.net
Date: Mon, Dec 1, 2008 at 7:32 AM
Subject: Fw: Great Jag-offs of History
To: Tger@Bounce.com, PBear@HUNY.services.net, RU@gmail.com, E.Ore@100AW.net, OWL@100AW.net
Sent: Wednesday, November 12, 2008 5:47 PM
Subject: Great Jag-offs of History
Open your purse, look in your pocket, or tap mindfully on the black piece of plastic on your desk you call your phone right now. The thing that ties us all together has come a long way since it's inception. Cumbersome beasts, tethered by giant rolls of nylon-clad copper, to little plastic monsters behest of space magic we know today, the telephone has come a long way since the early days. When one Alexander Graham Bell was trying to develop a text to speech device for his deaf wife. Just a "parlor trick" The very speech minded Bell was trying to create, in order to tell his very deaf wife what to do, since, she couldn't hear the telegraph he used to communicate from his lab. The image that Bell was trying to create a "Great long distance communication device" was just a myth, propagated by AT&T lawyers and history. Had it not been for Bell's own wife, who insisted he keep working on his electronic "honey do" list, would have been a much different story. In essence, your phone is the culmination of one man's will to tell his deaf wife what to make him for dinner and the greed that came from it.
Bell was an inventor, that much is true. Creating a grain huller at 12, making an artificial head and voice box around sixteen. He was a genius, that much is true. He was teaching vocal courses in return for schooling and board at sixteen as well, becoming an expert in his family's deep interest in "Elocution", the study of proper speech and diction. Or a gentlemanly way of saying the one true way to communicate. Think about that statement as it seems to sow the seeds of what's to come later on.
Bell was obsessed with the telegraph, installing a telegraph line from his home to a friend's in college, he became obsessed with the transmission of sound over electricity. He even created a piano that could transmit notes over distance for others to hear. He eventually became credited with a method to transmit multiple telegraphs over the same copper lines which streamlined and sped up the abilities of the telegraph system of his time. One day, while trying to develop a way to take spoken words using the "Elocution" method and turn them into a written character, he realized carbon reeds under current could possibly transmit sound very similarly to a telegraph pulse. His investors from the telegraph companies took notice and saw similarities to several other inventors they were trying to commission for a new "modern" telegraph system. On valentines day, 1876, one of these inventors(Elisha Grey) filed a patent with the US patent office for a telephone design using water and electricity. Several hours later Bell's patent lawyer filed a very similar patent which was pressed through the patent system in an unprecidented(even in this day) three weeks, effectively beating Grey's patent. In fact when Bell uttered the famous "Mr Watson — Come here — I want to see you" into the first phone handset, it was into a water receiver based upon Grey's design that never was used in any public demonstrations past that point.
Bell, when he wasn't "inventing" was mainly driven by his desire to teach others how to communicate. Helping people with lisps, deaf-mute's, and other speech impediments. According to the orthodoxy of Elocution anyone of good mind and ability was able to learn the methods and become a productive member of society. Helen Keller was even among his pupils, but broke away when his methods were not suitable for her purposes. In fact even though Keller was once quoted as saying Bell dedicated his life to the penetration of that "inhuman silence which separates and estranges." he was reported to have said Keller "...was not of the proper stock for Elocution methods, and hopefully can fulfill a lessor role in the machinery of man.".
Bell, like his father, eventually married one of his pupils. A young woman by the name of Mabel Lee Hubbard. A high functioning deaf who lost her hearing due to Scarlett fever. His own Mother was a victim of a degenerative hearing disease who went to his father for his knowledge in elocution. While both his mother and wife could speak and read lips due to their experiences as fully abled youths, Bell took them as the Gold standard for deafs, and believed they were shining examples as to why Deaf people should all be able to speak, and communicate with others as well as any other human being. Any other deaf person who could not rise to the levels presented by these women were most likely not of a proper mental ability and should not be allowed to marry, reproduce, or become productive members of society.
Bell's hypocritical disgust at deaf and hearing people intermarrying was so strong (as well as his racism, classicism, etc. that was common of the era) that he became the Chairman of the Board of Scientific Directors of the Eugenics Record Office. Which was cited by the rising NAZI party in their legislation policies against deaf, blind, physically/mentally disabled (as well as Jews, Poles, etc). The National Geographic magazine was even a publication began by Bell and some of the members of his group of industrialist society members. It is still ran by his descendants and at one time publicly advocated (and some say, still does advocate) various forms of "contraception" as the best way to "help" displaced ethnic/social groups of people around the world.
Bell's schools of the deaf (his first line of his defense against the deaf creating their own culture and not integrating into society to paraphrase Bell) even in today's times do not allow ASL to be used, discourage the usage of ASL in the home, and lie to hearing parents of deaf children that deaf kids using ASL "will never learn to speak" because ASL "makes kids lazy.". Most Deaf kids, as a result, even today, do not learn ASL or anything of Deaf culture until they rebel in high school or university. Mostly due to their parents not allowing them to learn it because Audiologists and Oralist educators are convinced deaf kids shouldn't use sign, and worried, scared parents believe the first opinion they get.
In closing, don't believe everything you read. While the surface may appear to be completely altruistic, a darker undertone may possibly become revealed. History is always written by those that win, who all too frequently end up being thieving, elitist, proto-nazis.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexander_Graham_Bell
http://www.pbs.org/weta/throughdeafeyes/deaflife/bell_nad.html
http://www.eugenicsarchive.org/eugenics/image_header.pl?id=1440&detailed=0
http://podblanc.com/eugenics-article-1912-national-geographic
--Forwarded Message Attachment--
From: CRobbins@100AW.net
To: (Robb Digman)
Subject: FW: Fw: Great Jag-offs of History
Date: Tue, 2 Dec 2008 09:23:48 -0600
Thought you'd be interested in this, most of it seems true if not all and you you never know...... Chris
From: PBear@HUNY.services.net
Sent: Tuesday, December 2, 2008 6:49 AM
To: CRobbins@100AW.net
Subject: Fwd: Fw: Great Jag-offs of History
---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Rob.IT@30AW.net
Date: Mon, Dec 1, 2008 at 7:32 AM
Subject: Fw: Great Jag-offs of History
To: Tger@Bounce.com, PBear@HUNY.services.net, RU@gmail.com, E.Ore@100AW.net, OWL@100AW.net
Sent: Wednesday, November 12, 2008 5:47 PM
Subject: Great Jag-offs of History
Open your purse, look in your pocket, or tap mindfully on the black piece of plastic on your desk you call your phone right now. The thing that ties us all together has come a long way since it's inception. Cumbersome beasts, tethered by giant rolls of nylon-clad copper, to little plastic monsters behest of space magic we know today, the telephone has come a long way since the early days. When one Alexander Graham Bell was trying to develop a text to speech device for his deaf wife. Just a "parlor trick" The very speech minded Bell was trying to create, in order to tell his very deaf wife what to do, since, she couldn't hear the telegraph he used to communicate from his lab. The image that Bell was trying to create a "Great long distance communication device" was just a myth, propagated by AT&T lawyers and history. Had it not been for Bell's own wife, who insisted he keep working on his electronic "honey do" list, would have been a much different story. In essence, your phone is the culmination of one man's will to tell his deaf wife what to make him for dinner and the greed that came from it.
Bell was an inventor, that much is true. Creating a grain huller at 12, making an artificial head and voice box around sixteen. He was a genius, that much is true. He was teaching vocal courses in return for schooling and board at sixteen as well, becoming an expert in his family's deep interest in "Elocution", the study of proper speech and diction. Or a gentlemanly way of saying the one true way to communicate. Think about that statement as it seems to sow the seeds of what's to come later on.
Bell was obsessed with the telegraph, installing a telegraph line from his home to a friend's in college, he became obsessed with the transmission of sound over electricity. He even created a piano that could transmit notes over distance for others to hear. He eventually became credited with a method to transmit multiple telegraphs over the same copper lines which streamlined and sped up the abilities of the telegraph system of his time. One day, while trying to develop a way to take spoken words using the "Elocution" method and turn them into a written character, he realized carbon reeds under current could possibly transmit sound very similarly to a telegraph pulse. His investors from the telegraph companies took notice and saw similarities to several other inventors they were trying to commission for a new "modern" telegraph system. On valentines day, 1876, one of these inventors(Elisha Grey) filed a patent with the US patent office for a telephone design using water and electricity. Several hours later Bell's patent lawyer filed a very similar patent which was pressed through the patent system in an unprecidented(even in this day) three weeks, effectively beating Grey's patent. In fact when Bell uttered the famous "Mr Watson — Come here — I want to see you" into the first phone handset, it was into a water receiver based upon Grey's design that never was used in any public demonstrations past that point.
Bell, when he wasn't "inventing" was mainly driven by his desire to teach others how to communicate. Helping people with lisps, deaf-mute's, and other speech impediments. According to the orthodoxy of Elocution anyone of good mind and ability was able to learn the methods and become a productive member of society. Helen Keller was even among his pupils, but broke away when his methods were not suitable for her purposes. In fact even though Keller was once quoted as saying Bell dedicated his life to the penetration of that "inhuman silence which separates and estranges." he was reported to have said Keller "...was not of the proper stock for Elocution methods, and hopefully can fulfill a lessor role in the machinery of man.".
Bell, like his father, eventually married one of his pupils. A young woman by the name of Mabel Lee Hubbard. A high functioning deaf who lost her hearing due to Scarlett fever. His own Mother was a victim of a degenerative hearing disease who went to his father for his knowledge in elocution. While both his mother and wife could speak and read lips due to their experiences as fully abled youths, Bell took them as the Gold standard for deafs, and believed they were shining examples as to why Deaf people should all be able to speak, and communicate with others as well as any other human being. Any other deaf person who could not rise to the levels presented by these women were most likely not of a proper mental ability and should not be allowed to marry, reproduce, or become productive members of society.
Bell's hypocritical disgust at deaf and hearing people intermarrying was so strong (as well as his racism, classicism, etc. that was common of the era) that he became the Chairman of the Board of Scientific Directors of the Eugenics Record Office. Which was cited by the rising NAZI party in their legislation policies against deaf, blind, physically/mentally disabled (as well as Jews, Poles, etc). The National Geographic magazine was even a publication began by Bell and some of the members of his group of industrialist society members. It is still ran by his descendants and at one time publicly advocated (and some say, still does advocate) various forms of "contraception" as the best way to "help" displaced ethnic/social groups of people around the world.
Bell's schools of the deaf (his first line of his defense against the deaf creating their own culture and not integrating into society to paraphrase Bell) even in today's times do not allow ASL to be used, discourage the usage of ASL in the home, and lie to hearing parents of deaf children that deaf kids using ASL "will never learn to speak" because ASL "makes kids lazy.". Most Deaf kids, as a result, even today, do not learn ASL or anything of Deaf culture until they rebel in high school or university. Mostly due to their parents not allowing them to learn it because Audiologists and Oralist educators are convinced deaf kids shouldn't use sign, and worried, scared parents believe the first opinion they get.
In closing, don't believe everything you read. While the surface may appear to be completely altruistic, a darker undertone may possibly become revealed. History is always written by those that win, who all too frequently end up being thieving, elitist, proto-nazis.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexander_Graham_Bell
http://www.pbs.org/weta/throughdeafeyes/deaflife/bell_nad.html
http://www.eugenicsarchive.org/eugenics/image_header.pl?id=1440&detailed=0
http://podblanc.com/eugenics-article-1912-national-geographic
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Another showing of the hand
Still not sure if I like the way I'm presenting my main charactor. Lemme know if this is a good set-up if you're watching.
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That is perhaps why Marcus was so upset, why the thought of topless women had more effect on him than meeting someone claiming to be your guardian angel. The brain that worked so well as a cave-man has no other use than to act upon instinct. Why, as he moved down those creaking steps he didn’t count the floors to the building, didn’t think of how to fix his car, didn’t think of what to spend his tip on? Because at that time in his life, his true culture was dead. When culture dies humans become like animals, only looking to mate, then die. A sad existence, even for an animal.
At the bottom of the steps he inspected the orange coupon I had gave him and said “Minute Made” as he read the company name on the front. Black and white cartoon Maid carrying aloft a hot pizza as she strangely sprinted across the lettering. Pushing his hat back down over his eyes he pushed the glass door on the veranda of the stairs and got into his rusty little dream, and noisily started up an took off down the road away from the eatery on the corner you know, but always forget.
Miskatonic was a changing town as of late, which mad Marcus’s drive back to his generic little pizza store all the more difficult. Main throughfares became blocked by construction of huge faceless condos that sat somewhere between hundred year-old Victorian gambles and old brick storefronts that were places of commerece and entertainment the old town once had. If you looked close enough, past the beige modern brick that sought to eliminate the past, old walls still had hoover, victorilux, and dairy logos pained upon the old brick over half a century ago. Bars still had beer signs hung in the seventies. Don’t look too closely thugh because orange road barrels and chain-link fence jutting into the road marking the newest dissimilar affront to the past will jump out at ya which Marcus deftly swerved around on a daily basis on these roads.
Miskatonic is a town you can go from one end to the other in less than 40 minutes, but its dense populace and urbanite setting made it feel like aq much larger city than it was. One third of it’s people were students and the other two thirds were people who had become so settled into the city that they were a conglomeration of old names and families that only were separated by the students who had stayed in town to put down roots. I am not a native but I still feel that this place is home to me, and I’ve been here long enough to recognize the surname Graves and know that Marcus was a townie, through and through, and even if he was able to escape the gravity well this town’s reality has, he would always be and never escape being a citizen of Miskatonic.
Marcus in fact was the last male Graves left here. His only living relatives were a sister who lived in a quiet little neighborhood far from the downtown with her husband, and a sweet and cranky grandmother who lived not very far from the home he grew up in. Marcus lived alone, save the few friends who came over, in the home he grew up in, without his parents, who died and left him in a car accident five years prior.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
That is perhaps why Marcus was so upset, why the thought of topless women had more effect on him than meeting someone claiming to be your guardian angel. The brain that worked so well as a cave-man has no other use than to act upon instinct. Why, as he moved down those creaking steps he didn’t count the floors to the building, didn’t think of how to fix his car, didn’t think of what to spend his tip on? Because at that time in his life, his true culture was dead. When culture dies humans become like animals, only looking to mate, then die. A sad existence, even for an animal.
At the bottom of the steps he inspected the orange coupon I had gave him and said “Minute Made” as he read the company name on the front. Black and white cartoon Maid carrying aloft a hot pizza as she strangely sprinted across the lettering. Pushing his hat back down over his eyes he pushed the glass door on the veranda of the stairs and got into his rusty little dream, and noisily started up an took off down the road away from the eatery on the corner you know, but always forget.
Miskatonic was a changing town as of late, which mad Marcus’s drive back to his generic little pizza store all the more difficult. Main throughfares became blocked by construction of huge faceless condos that sat somewhere between hundred year-old Victorian gambles and old brick storefronts that were places of commerece and entertainment the old town once had. If you looked close enough, past the beige modern brick that sought to eliminate the past, old walls still had hoover, victorilux, and dairy logos pained upon the old brick over half a century ago. Bars still had beer signs hung in the seventies. Don’t look too closely thugh because orange road barrels and chain-link fence jutting into the road marking the newest dissimilar affront to the past will jump out at ya which Marcus deftly swerved around on a daily basis on these roads.
Miskatonic is a town you can go from one end to the other in less than 40 minutes, but its dense populace and urbanite setting made it feel like aq much larger city than it was. One third of it’s people were students and the other two thirds were people who had become so settled into the city that they were a conglomeration of old names and families that only were separated by the students who had stayed in town to put down roots. I am not a native but I still feel that this place is home to me, and I’ve been here long enough to recognize the surname Graves and know that Marcus was a townie, through and through, and even if he was able to escape the gravity well this town’s reality has, he would always be and never escape being a citizen of Miskatonic.
Marcus in fact was the last male Graves left here. His only living relatives were a sister who lived in a quiet little neighborhood far from the downtown with her husband, and a sweet and cranky grandmother who lived not very far from the home he grew up in. Marcus lived alone, save the few friends who came over, in the home he grew up in, without his parents, who died and left him in a car accident five years prior.
Dejunier part 2
Might as well put another part of Dejunier up. Should probably share some more of the better parts, but I like this one.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
I turned around and looked down Main Street. Aside from the one or two cars making their way home from work, Dejunier was dead. I peeked in the station’s front window and saw Brian Priske’s feet up on the dispatch desk and his Official Dejunier Police Ballcap pulled low over his eyes. Looking at my watch I figured six was early enough to go down to Jolly’s Bar, get a burger, plug the jukebox with some Johnny Cash, and start drinking the rest of the evening away. So I walked away from the concrete steps of the station and headed down the two blocks of Main Street.
Jolly’s was pretty quiet as I walked in, a little too early for the regulars to be shooting pool and throwing darts. Though the Lullahy brothers were both at the bar beginning another night of drunken antics. They both looked up at me when I walked in with somewhat frantic expressions. I turned around to look at the boarded up window behind me and then back at them with a somewhat condescending smile. When I pulled out a stool at the bar thankfully they both got up and moved to a booth in the corner with their pitcher of beer and mutters about swine.
Out of the back room, Elizabeth Paulson came carrying two cases of beer for the bar. She saw me at the end of the bar and gave me a smile. She got behind the rail, set the cases down, and walked over to me wiping her hands off with a bar rag.
Elizabeth, she inherited Jolly’s from her grandfather about three years ago. She moved to Dejunier from her home and her “Lazy two timing Ex-Asshole” as she called him. I liked her, well maybe more than liked her. She was hell on two great legs topped with red hair and crazy, irish green eyes. She also liked to fish.
“Buisness or are you wearing that gun and badge to impress me Mr Lawman?” She gave me a little smirk and pointed with the rag down at my side arm. I turned a little red having her point that out to me. I guess I should’ve stopped in the station before.
“Maybe a little bit of both there Elizabeth.” I gave a little look over to the corner booth were the Lulaheys were stationed. “Those two still sore about last night?”
“They were in with the replacement money five minutes after I turned the deadbolt.” She leaned in a little too close and whispered “Then ordered their first pitcher on their Tab.”
She turned throwing that crazy red hair in my face and went back to her bar restocking leaving me with a little chuckle. I looked over in the corner two see the Lulahey’s, who were enrapt in our little interaction, comically find corners of the bar to switch their gaze to. Realizing it was about time I got off the clock, I undid the holster from my belt and put my gun up on the bar.
“Get me a beer and put this behind the bar for me, I’m off.” Almost on cue, The jukebox started up and Johnny Cash’s “Don’t Take Your Guns To Town” began playing through bar.
I will give Elizabeth credit; she knows her timing with people. I had finished three Leinie’s and packed away a cheeseburger before she asked me about my day. Most folks would have started right in as soon as I registered on their peripheral vision, but she waited until I had gotten comfortable so I could really spill the beans.
“So I heard you were out at the Cole’s today.” She asked as she pushed another bottle of north woods lager in front of me, leaning down on her elbows looking straight into my eyes.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
I turned around and looked down Main Street. Aside from the one or two cars making their way home from work, Dejunier was dead. I peeked in the station’s front window and saw Brian Priske’s feet up on the dispatch desk and his Official Dejunier Police Ballcap pulled low over his eyes. Looking at my watch I figured six was early enough to go down to Jolly’s Bar, get a burger, plug the jukebox with some Johnny Cash, and start drinking the rest of the evening away. So I walked away from the concrete steps of the station and headed down the two blocks of Main Street.
Jolly’s was pretty quiet as I walked in, a little too early for the regulars to be shooting pool and throwing darts. Though the Lullahy brothers were both at the bar beginning another night of drunken antics. They both looked up at me when I walked in with somewhat frantic expressions. I turned around to look at the boarded up window behind me and then back at them with a somewhat condescending smile. When I pulled out a stool at the bar thankfully they both got up and moved to a booth in the corner with their pitcher of beer and mutters about swine.
Out of the back room, Elizabeth Paulson came carrying two cases of beer for the bar. She saw me at the end of the bar and gave me a smile. She got behind the rail, set the cases down, and walked over to me wiping her hands off with a bar rag.
Elizabeth, she inherited Jolly’s from her grandfather about three years ago. She moved to Dejunier from her home and her “Lazy two timing Ex-Asshole” as she called him. I liked her, well maybe more than liked her. She was hell on two great legs topped with red hair and crazy, irish green eyes. She also liked to fish.
“Buisness or are you wearing that gun and badge to impress me Mr Lawman?” She gave me a little smirk and pointed with the rag down at my side arm. I turned a little red having her point that out to me. I guess I should’ve stopped in the station before.
“Maybe a little bit of both there Elizabeth.” I gave a little look over to the corner booth were the Lulaheys were stationed. “Those two still sore about last night?”
“They were in with the replacement money five minutes after I turned the deadbolt.” She leaned in a little too close and whispered “Then ordered their first pitcher on their Tab.”
She turned throwing that crazy red hair in my face and went back to her bar restocking leaving me with a little chuckle. I looked over in the corner two see the Lulahey’s, who were enrapt in our little interaction, comically find corners of the bar to switch their gaze to. Realizing it was about time I got off the clock, I undid the holster from my belt and put my gun up on the bar.
“Get me a beer and put this behind the bar for me, I’m off.” Almost on cue, The jukebox started up and Johnny Cash’s “Don’t Take Your Guns To Town” began playing through bar.
I will give Elizabeth credit; she knows her timing with people. I had finished three Leinie’s and packed away a cheeseburger before she asked me about my day. Most folks would have started right in as soon as I registered on their peripheral vision, but she waited until I had gotten comfortable so I could really spill the beans.
“So I heard you were out at the Cole’s today.” She asked as she pushed another bottle of north woods lager in front of me, leaning down on her elbows looking straight into my eyes.
Monday, November 03, 2008
The beggining
Fuck, I have to show my hand at some point
-----------------------------------------------------
He didn’t appear to be too dissimilar than most of the college drop-outs that brought me my guilty pleasures. Pushed down generic ball-cap covering a ragged mop of dark blonde hair, pants perhaps a size too big and a t-hirt emblazoned with the strange wittisizm “Sofa-King”. Whether this was the uniform of this cast is unknown to me. Fashion is a bit perplexing to me. I find a Black suit, white dress shirt and black tie gets me in anywhere, gets me a modicum of respect, and lets me blend in quite easily, has done so for years. It’s what I am wearing now, and was wearing then.
“I apologize for startling you, I have just been waiting in anticipation of your bounty” I tried bowing a little but he just seemed to be getting more uncomfortable. Kings and peasents would have been impressed by the show I was making five hundred years ago.
“We at Vamino’s pizza apologize for your inconveinance and have taken off five dollars per our customer promise to…” Yadda yadda yadda. The little whelp was suddenly putting up a shell it seemed and I don’t go to extremes to receive robotic nonsense. Humans have too much potential locked up underneath to keep parroting the same taught bullshit for each situation. Also, did I mention I may be an asshole?
I lit the joint and let his little script come to an end. His face a pallid mask and more than a little blank as he stared at me for my answer, even the pungent smell of the Hashish did not affect him.. I rubbed my chin sizing the boy up.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Excerpt: The Devil
This is what the weight of that war is worth. A brick and stone box for you to shuffle in, and hope you do a little bit better than the other guy. At the end of your day, you shuffle back out, and go home to your fat wife, your fat kids, in front of your fat TV’s and consume food that you didn’t take any part in. It was just processed by some other boring, blank faced guy wearing department store clothes, fighting for the same little piece of the pie as you. If you aren’t bored to tears by that, you have been fooled. Most of the people you see around you are cogs in a machine built to do nothing more than to run, and not even run well, just as long as it can.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Future, or the knife in the ground.
Imagine you were given one hour, sixty seconds to put your entire life in perspective. What would it say? What would it sound like?
I want a reality that allows me to touch the things I hide from myself, yet distract me enough to address them when I want to. I listen to music that speaks of the simplicity I desire in life but feel like that isn't achievable. I know simplicity isn't sustainable, just happiness in fleeting moments. I need to become content with those moments, and learn that is the power I need to sustain off of. In the end you are born alone, you'll die the same. I just need to be content with what I may leave behind. The path isn't complicated, I am, and I need to find the happy medium where option balances desire to simplify myself. I am the one who really blocks option.
I need to find more in myself to keep me from fixating. I am the crazy person I fear I am. Which is not as bad as society has taught me. If I lead the way, I will not be alone, people see the path and are attracted to that. I need to see that and realize my words are for me, it's my respect for those words that which gives them power. I am not as dissimilar as I think I am and need to speak in that direction.
I put value on words, and need to see that value doesn't matter, words are words. Actions are the only true value. Talk less, do more should be the ruler I measure by. I have little self perspective because of that. I talk more than I act and that needs to end if I am to truely acheive my dreams. The mental knife I throw in the ground needs to actually hit dirt and I need to have that as a physical reference for me to look at. I need physical reference, not mental.
I need to quit dismissing my feelings and address them. Not just write them off as a lark because it doesn't suit my reality. I feel it so it's going to affect my reality. I also need to see that some feelings are not going to change anything and know when to leave them. The coldness I have harbored in myself needs to be used more wisely than I use it.
I need to believe in the tao(way), if I beleive in it it will take care of me. Switch atheist for the agnostic. I am old enough to have faith. "God" as some would call it has shown himself to me enough. Beleive, if only to be sane. Find a church or way to worship, even if it's your sole crazy way. Don't question the tao, even if it questions you. The tests are what make you, you. The content will find a happy ending. Only something outside of you can do that, not you.
Right now, you're job is not you, and you are not your job. You need to sacrifice and work to do that. Reality as it stands has not given you the credit you need to acheive that. Work hard to get that reality and it may become so. A fire is only a fire if it burns hotter than anyone can touch. You are the fire, not the fuel. Find the fuel to acheive that temperature. Reality is that fuel.
Finally, you dictate what's important. The american dream is a commercial sold to those who have the money to buy it. The Robert dream is more important, and it shouldn't mirror what anyone else wants other than the humanistic level. We are all human, some just are less creative than others, you shouldn't be one of those people.
I love everyone, which is why I hurt so much sometimes.
---------------------------------------------------------------
The heart sits upon the sleeve, it is exposed, but not vulnerable. The only way to hurt it is by surprise. Shields cannot say up at all times. The brain see's all, it just chooses to ignore what it doesn't want to see. It cannot comprehend that what it does not believe in. Honesty is the grease that keeps this machine working, even if it gums up the gears from time to time.I want a reality that allows me to touch the things I hide from myself, yet distract me enough to address them when I want to. I listen to music that speaks of the simplicity I desire in life but feel like that isn't achievable. I know simplicity isn't sustainable, just happiness in fleeting moments. I need to become content with those moments, and learn that is the power I need to sustain off of. In the end you are born alone, you'll die the same. I just need to be content with what I may leave behind. The path isn't complicated, I am, and I need to find the happy medium where option balances desire to simplify myself. I am the one who really blocks option.
I need to find more in myself to keep me from fixating. I am the crazy person I fear I am. Which is not as bad as society has taught me. If I lead the way, I will not be alone, people see the path and are attracted to that. I need to see that and realize my words are for me, it's my respect for those words that which gives them power. I am not as dissimilar as I think I am and need to speak in that direction.
I put value on words, and need to see that value doesn't matter, words are words. Actions are the only true value. Talk less, do more should be the ruler I measure by. I have little self perspective because of that. I talk more than I act and that needs to end if I am to truely acheive my dreams. The mental knife I throw in the ground needs to actually hit dirt and I need to have that as a physical reference for me to look at. I need physical reference, not mental.
I need to quit dismissing my feelings and address them. Not just write them off as a lark because it doesn't suit my reality. I feel it so it's going to affect my reality. I also need to see that some feelings are not going to change anything and know when to leave them. The coldness I have harbored in myself needs to be used more wisely than I use it.
I need to believe in the tao(way), if I beleive in it it will take care of me. Switch atheist for the agnostic. I am old enough to have faith. "God" as some would call it has shown himself to me enough. Beleive, if only to be sane. Find a church or way to worship, even if it's your sole crazy way. Don't question the tao, even if it questions you. The tests are what make you, you. The content will find a happy ending. Only something outside of you can do that, not you.
Right now, you're job is not you, and you are not your job. You need to sacrifice and work to do that. Reality as it stands has not given you the credit you need to acheive that. Work hard to get that reality and it may become so. A fire is only a fire if it burns hotter than anyone can touch. You are the fire, not the fuel. Find the fuel to acheive that temperature. Reality is that fuel.
Finally, you dictate what's important. The american dream is a commercial sold to those who have the money to buy it. The Robert dream is more important, and it shouldn't mirror what anyone else wants other than the humanistic level. We are all human, some just are less creative than others, you shouldn't be one of those people.
I love everyone, which is why I hurt so much sometimes.
Another story Idea I cant finish
Main plan for story: Take certain series of paragraphs and have them printed and trashed. Insert pictures of woman going through the woods. Take pictures of these pages and pictures on the ground around Madison. Really creepy in the insanity and spooky looming pictures. Look towards photoshop. This is fear no.3, Being alone. Represent a story that is slipping through the cracks into un-existance.
E-mail, Placemat, In garbage, on bulletin board, on the floor, on a lamp post, _________, __________, __________,
______________________________________________________________
Everything will one day disappear. People, places…. Things. Eventually fade and die to never be seen again. It’s only natural in a universe that’s consistently moving forward for things to be left behind. Like the light on the event horizon of a Black Hole, memories are sometimes the only thing that can tell us of what no longer exists. But if all you have left, is what’s left behind. You too will eventually be left behind.
If that’s true I disappeared a long time ago, pulled into a black hole and frozen on the edge looking in screaming. Watching everything around me being pulled in as well. My memory is all the light I have left, and even that is beginning to fade. I sometimes wonder if it completely goes out. If I too will finally leave this plane. Actually, why I am still here is the question I ask myself every time I breathe, eat, shit, and open the door.
I have to remember. I have to keep my memory from dying or the darkness will consume all. Things far worse than any nightmare will win, and they shall feast on all of the light, upon which we all live. I have to write these things down. These words need to remind me, keep me from disappearing along with her, and maybe. Just maybe. Bring her back, and prove she existed.
Lynne kept me from disappearing a long time ago. She filled the hole inside me that was swallowing my soul and body. A hole so black and great it prevented me from seeing those around me until she appeared like a brilliant star on the horizon. Just to see her smile and know that she was listening was all I needed to make me see all of the great things around me. The world existed in those liquid brown eyes of hers and I should have been happy with that…but I still had to look further…
Miskatonic is not a huge city. Big enough for a couple hundred thousand and Miskatonic State U., one of the greatest colleges outside of an ivy league. Not that I have ever graced its student roster. Lynne said just growing up around it was more than enough for my intelligence. Miskatonic U. had that sort of sway over the rest of the city. Culture and information just spilled over from it’s classrooms and halls into the rest of the city making it kind of it’s own little reality from any other place in the state.
Maybe that is why things have happened so easily. Why my little reality is so easily being turned into nothing. However, wasn’t it the school that led me to this? Wasn’t it the fact they couldn’t lock up something so dangerous that it consumed everything that was dear to me?
Friday, October 10, 2008
Dejunier
Here's a sample of Dejunier, it nearly complete now but I need someone to spot check and point out it's flaws. It's probably gonna just be novella and have no idea where to send it, but hey, who cares? Anyways, here we go.
---------------------------------------------------
We pulled into the driveway of the Cole’s and I could see Janice with her oldest daughter standing on their porch. Both were in that blank and cold state that comes after you just can’t cry anymore but the pain won’t leave you bones. One of the boys, probably Holden, their middle one motioned us towards the southern pasture with a look on his face that made him seem more forty than fourteen. I didn’t see Bob Cole anywhere, probably fixing some piece of machinery in his barn or on the opposite side of the fields repairing a fence. I’ve been around this town long enough to know that for some, keeping working is the best way for them to work through these things
As the truck drove down the two ruts that led into the southern pasture we passed the horse pen. The two horses in it were slick with sweat and foaming a little. Something definitely had them agitated. I’m no farm boy, still I knew that horses will spook, but not in familier surroundings. Off in the distance an ambulance and the two department Blazers sat idely before the forest along with that now sickening yellow of police caution tape.
As I stepped out of the Sheriffs truck the first thing that hit me was a smell not unlike that which was at the “bad stone” earlier in the day. In fact, not quite unlike the smell at Wally’s cabin the night before. I looked over at the Sheriff and from the puzzled look on his face and the flaring of his nostrils I knew he smelled something sour too. Which was quite a feat for a man who’s been chain smoking since we left in the Country truck earlier today.
I hadn’t realized how cold I had become within the last 24 hours, I hadn’t realized how horrible the things I had seen had been in the last day until I walked up to the spot where little Rachel had died. Green grass, crimson blood, yellow hair, and a white sheet that seemed way to big to cover such a small body. Next to her Dick Whatley stood with such an intense silence above her body that when I looked up into his eyes I felt like he might shoot me on the spot if I lifted that sheet.
I said nothing to Dick, he was not going to tell me anything anyways. Be it shell shock or a sense of duty to a fallen lamb. I just stood up and walked over to Nathan Collier who was coversing with the two ambulance drivers. As I looked back over my shoulder Dick still held his stance, like a graveyard sentinal keeping evil spirits from an innocent soul.
As I approached Nate, he turned from whatever conversation he was having and took off his hat to scratch his head “Terrible day we’ve got huh, Willy?”
I hadn’t seen Nate yet that day but from the stubble on his face you could tell Lisa, trying to help me out, called him in this morning unaware.
“This unfortunately is the half of it.” I sighed and looked back at Dick and the white sheet hiding the tragedy of the hour. ”He been like that long?”
“He was the first one here. He’s the one who found all of this and called for back-up. When I arrived he was standing right there with that look on his face, and it hasn’t changed since.”
“Any idea why?”
“Dick’s a pretty religious man. I myself am not the best member of the church, but if I found what he did. I’d be doing same I’d bet.”
“What do mean?” I turned around and saw the look of glassy eyed fear I’d been seeing since last night.
“Follow me.”
I tapped Sheriff Kummer on the shoulder who had followed me over to talk to the EMPs and we both follwed Nate towards the woods. We walked past the corpse of Rachel’s horse which had managed to get far enough away from her body to die of shock, but not enough to rub the blood from its hooves. Rotting flesh was permeating the air more and more the close we came towards the first trees of the forest. The hairs were standing up all over my body as I began to see too many correlations between this and what I had earlier in the day. I damn near leaped out of my skin when I heard the sound of the Sheriff opening his lighter to fire up another cigarette.
Nate led us along the brush along the woods a few yards until we hit a small clearing in it leading inside. He hunched down and walked through it motioning with one hand for us to follow. I leaned down and followed him in when just inside I was hit with a stench so fowl I nearly wreched right there on the spot. It was a small pocket in the dense woods filled with what seemed to be the corpses of several hundred cats all in various states of decay. A small round stone in the center seemed to be the place of their demise from the dried black blood that covered it.
“Did the Cole’s have any clue this was in here.” I just stared in disbelief at the charnel surroundings of the place.
“Other than noticing a sharp decline in the amount of farm cats recently, no.” Nate had put a hankercheif to his mouth to try and block out the smell.
“What do you think of this Sheriff?” Sheriff Kummer was trying to kick the remains of a calico out of his way to get a position in the place.
“Satanists. I went to a Sheriffs convention in Madison last year about it.” He finally got the fur covered skeleton out of his way, nearly falling over in the process. “Seems Wisconsin is of the number one states for cult behavior of this kind. Some place round Lake Mills just reported something like this not to long ago.”
Nate just looked at me like this was a little too weird to be dismissed like that. I felt it too, but it was a ritualistic thing that was happening here. The blood covered stone proved that. I told Nate to get his camera and we all left. Bob Cole had a back-hoe in his garage and I figured after today, that spot was not going to be in the hidden darkness of the woods for much longer.
I stuck around long enough for me and Nate to coerce Dick to get in his truck while the EMPs zipped poor Rachel into a bag to take her away. Dick seemed noticibly releived as the ambulance bounced its way out of the feild towards the farmhouse. I then left the both of them to take pictures and ask the Coles if any of their boys had been listening to any Slayer records and wearing black lately.
As we bounced out of the field in the Sheriff’s truck I grabbed his pack of smokes from the center console and lit one up. The Sheriff just looked at me like I just pulled a frog out of my eye socket.
“Thought you didn’t smoke those things Willie?”
“I quit when I was twenty Rich.” I held the cigarette on it’s end in front of my face contemplating the lit end. “After today I need one.”
The Sheriff just laughed and steered the truck through the field gates and out of the Cole’s driveway. As we passed the barn I looked in and noticed the diesel backhoe idling blue diesel smoke from it’s stacks and Bob jumping up into the cab.
----------------------------------------------------------
I was relieved when Sheriff Kummer dropped me off in front of the brick façade of the police station. My day with him had worn my patience and hurt my lungs. He yelled something about he’ll be seeing me “real” soon as I slammed the door behind me. I personally hoped I wouldn’t see him until election time again. I stood staring at the red door that led into the station as he pulled away and began to think that the last thing I wanted to do is continue to serve and protect.
As the truck drove down the two ruts that led into the southern pasture we passed the horse pen. The two horses in it were slick with sweat and foaming a little. Something definitely had them agitated. I’m no farm boy, still I knew that horses will spook, but not in familier surroundings. Off in the distance an ambulance and the two department Blazers sat idely before the forest along with that now sickening yellow of police caution tape.
As I stepped out of the Sheriffs truck the first thing that hit me was a smell not unlike that which was at the “bad stone” earlier in the day. In fact, not quite unlike the smell at Wally’s cabin the night before. I looked over at the Sheriff and from the puzzled look on his face and the flaring of his nostrils I knew he smelled something sour too. Which was quite a feat for a man who’s been chain smoking since we left in the Country truck earlier today.
I hadn’t realized how cold I had become within the last 24 hours, I hadn’t realized how horrible the things I had seen had been in the last day until I walked up to the spot where little Rachel had died. Green grass, crimson blood, yellow hair, and a white sheet that seemed way to big to cover such a small body. Next to her Dick Whatley stood with such an intense silence above her body that when I looked up into his eyes I felt like he might shoot me on the spot if I lifted that sheet.
I said nothing to Dick, he was not going to tell me anything anyways. Be it shell shock or a sense of duty to a fallen lamb. I just stood up and walked over to Nathan Collier who was coversing with the two ambulance drivers. As I looked back over my shoulder Dick still held his stance, like a graveyard sentinal keeping evil spirits from an innocent soul.
As I approached Nate, he turned from whatever conversation he was having and took off his hat to scratch his head “Terrible day we’ve got huh, Willy?”
I hadn’t seen Nate yet that day but from the stubble on his face you could tell Lisa, trying to help me out, called him in this morning unaware.
“This unfortunately is the half of it.” I sighed and looked back at Dick and the white sheet hiding the tragedy of the hour. ”He been like that long?”
“He was the first one here. He’s the one who found all of this and called for back-up. When I arrived he was standing right there with that look on his face, and it hasn’t changed since.”
“Any idea why?”
“Dick’s a pretty religious man. I myself am not the best member of the church, but if I found what he did. I’d be doing same I’d bet.”
“What do mean?” I turned around and saw the look of glassy eyed fear I’d been seeing since last night.
“Follow me.”
I tapped Sheriff Kummer on the shoulder who had followed me over to talk to the EMPs and we both follwed Nate towards the woods. We walked past the corpse of Rachel’s horse which had managed to get far enough away from her body to die of shock, but not enough to rub the blood from its hooves. Rotting flesh was permeating the air more and more the close we came towards the first trees of the forest. The hairs were standing up all over my body as I began to see too many correlations between this and what I had earlier in the day. I damn near leaped out of my skin when I heard the sound of the Sheriff opening his lighter to fire up another cigarette.
Nate led us along the brush along the woods a few yards until we hit a small clearing in it leading inside. He hunched down and walked through it motioning with one hand for us to follow. I leaned down and followed him in when just inside I was hit with a stench so fowl I nearly wreched right there on the spot. It was a small pocket in the dense woods filled with what seemed to be the corpses of several hundred cats all in various states of decay. A small round stone in the center seemed to be the place of their demise from the dried black blood that covered it.
“Did the Cole’s have any clue this was in here.” I just stared in disbelief at the charnel surroundings of the place.
“Other than noticing a sharp decline in the amount of farm cats recently, no.” Nate had put a hankercheif to his mouth to try and block out the smell.
“What do you think of this Sheriff?” Sheriff Kummer was trying to kick the remains of a calico out of his way to get a position in the place.
“Satanists. I went to a Sheriffs convention in Madison last year about it.” He finally got the fur covered skeleton out of his way, nearly falling over in the process. “Seems Wisconsin is of the number one states for cult behavior of this kind. Some place round Lake Mills just reported something like this not to long ago.”
Nate just looked at me like this was a little too weird to be dismissed like that. I felt it too, but it was a ritualistic thing that was happening here. The blood covered stone proved that. I told Nate to get his camera and we all left. Bob Cole had a back-hoe in his garage and I figured after today, that spot was not going to be in the hidden darkness of the woods for much longer.
I stuck around long enough for me and Nate to coerce Dick to get in his truck while the EMPs zipped poor Rachel into a bag to take her away. Dick seemed noticibly releived as the ambulance bounced its way out of the feild towards the farmhouse. I then left the both of them to take pictures and ask the Coles if any of their boys had been listening to any Slayer records and wearing black lately.
As we bounced out of the field in the Sheriff’s truck I grabbed his pack of smokes from the center console and lit one up. The Sheriff just looked at me like I just pulled a frog out of my eye socket.
“Thought you didn’t smoke those things Willie?”
“I quit when I was twenty Rich.” I held the cigarette on it’s end in front of my face contemplating the lit end. “After today I need one.”
The Sheriff just laughed and steered the truck through the field gates and out of the Cole’s driveway. As we passed the barn I looked in and noticed the diesel backhoe idling blue diesel smoke from it’s stacks and Bob jumping up into the cab.
----------------------------------------------------------
I was relieved when Sheriff Kummer dropped me off in front of the brick façade of the police station. My day with him had worn my patience and hurt my lungs. He yelled something about he’ll be seeing me “real” soon as I slammed the door behind me. I personally hoped I wouldn’t see him until election time again. I stood staring at the red door that led into the station as he pulled away and began to think that the last thing I wanted to do is continue to serve and protect.
Monday, September 29, 2008
My Words
Communication seems to be sitting on the tip of my tongue lately. A statement that seems a little cliched and multi-faceted, but really the most succinct way of saying it. Words are my life and breath in any form so I guess a little word-play, even if it is for my own amusement at how it glitters, is called for. I'd like to say that my interactions, my writing, my intimacy, my opinions, all have been within some whirlwind cacophony of thinking I have been trying to tie together. But that's my paradigm in a paragraph and I'm either too clever or stupid to state it any other way.
The ability and moral dilemmas behind interaction have been placed under my third eye's magnifying glass lately and while the aid of drugs to break the bonds they hold between words may help, I feel that would be too great a blow to the tenuous hold I getting upon them for me to learn from that. Me and how I have to talk to you people need to hug this out and come to much more lengthy terms. Words are the condition, how they're used are the symptom. I am the doctor and I need to diagnose the virus. I really do believe we are all a similar consciousness, just each infected with our own diseases that affect our ability to touch that similar essence between us all. I need to see my sickness to understand them all and hope that I can erect my own humble Tower of Babylon. I don't want to reach heaven, just humanity, really just you; anyone who cares enough to look.
I think of how easy it is for me to communicate with my dog. A shallow yet dynamic relationship that seems incomplete and perfect at the same time. The fact that we share dissimilar biology and language makes us quite unable to truly put ourselves categorically the same, but we still understand each others wants and needs over such a large gulf. I can go out with him, wandering and bounding through the terrain, surrounded by a million different stimuli but we still cue off each other is some sort of primal bond that stems back to the days when my species, wearing possibly the pelts of his ancestors, took the first pups from the cave and attempted to make them part of our own tribe. He looks and growls and I look to see what is while he looks to me for the reaction. He knows to come closer if called, he knows to wag his tail by the tone of my voice and posture of my body. There are a hundred physical and vocal cues we can asses from each other that make a bond that makes humanity's reference "Man's Best Friend" quite true. It makes it hard to lie, easy to work, and brings a level of mutual respect I think too few humans understand. I am not some strange dog nut mind you, I do not pretend to be a Cesar Milan and frankly don't care to. I am just human and can see an interaction that takes very little moral filtering to achieve. It just is.
It's something I wish I could bring into my interpersonal relationships sometimes. I have this strange dichotomy of wanting to explain myself to others while doing it as simply and succinctly as possible. I have too many words and that can be worse than none at all sometimes. You cant just say some things, but I still want to be understood. Think of the prototypical male relationship (something I admittedly do not quite understand due to my own upbringing), men group together by culture and banners of legion made by interests. We talk of mating, working, and achievements. Some of the more grossly intimate and strange events are traded between us while other such things that are termed "unmanly" are avoided, even used for dominance in some situations. I don't care how open you feel as a man amongst your closest male friends, we have all made the comment "man-up" to our friends. It's still the role we are expected to play (That's why feminism works so hard to attack the language of society. It's part of the vernacular despite our best efforts). I would love to be able to share certain feelings about myself but I still cant help but feel sometimes that another man does not want to hear about that. It's not because I feel that they don't experience or feel the same thing, it's just that as men, we aren't supposed to do that. I will find myself doing it from time to time, but it just seems to queer things up to use a strangely appropriate term. Not that I haven't been on that other end as well, but we all go on our learned reactions, it's how we become adapt with societal roles, and I cant say I've reacted any better.
It's more than gender roles, dominance, or culture that plays into this for me though, it can be the very act of communication that can complicate itself as we twist it into some kid of sparring match, using words as our swords and silence as our shields. Things can always change within your heart and head so we don't always strike out with our words until we want to go at the heart of something with someone. The sound of a sword parrying back may or may not what we desire but the shield of silence will always protect us. It can say volumes about the sword striking out, but two shields facing each other mean we are always protected
...To be continued
The ability and moral dilemmas behind interaction have been placed under my third eye's magnifying glass lately and while the aid of drugs to break the bonds they hold between words may help, I feel that would be too great a blow to the tenuous hold I getting upon them for me to learn from that. Me and how I have to talk to you people need to hug this out and come to much more lengthy terms. Words are the condition, how they're used are the symptom. I am the doctor and I need to diagnose the virus. I really do believe we are all a similar consciousness, just each infected with our own diseases that affect our ability to touch that similar essence between us all. I need to see my sickness to understand them all and hope that I can erect my own humble Tower of Babylon. I don't want to reach heaven, just humanity, really just you; anyone who cares enough to look.
I think of how easy it is for me to communicate with my dog. A shallow yet dynamic relationship that seems incomplete and perfect at the same time. The fact that we share dissimilar biology and language makes us quite unable to truly put ourselves categorically the same, but we still understand each others wants and needs over such a large gulf. I can go out with him, wandering and bounding through the terrain, surrounded by a million different stimuli but we still cue off each other is some sort of primal bond that stems back to the days when my species, wearing possibly the pelts of his ancestors, took the first pups from the cave and attempted to make them part of our own tribe. He looks and growls and I look to see what is while he looks to me for the reaction. He knows to come closer if called, he knows to wag his tail by the tone of my voice and posture of my body. There are a hundred physical and vocal cues we can asses from each other that make a bond that makes humanity's reference "Man's Best Friend" quite true. It makes it hard to lie, easy to work, and brings a level of mutual respect I think too few humans understand. I am not some strange dog nut mind you, I do not pretend to be a Cesar Milan and frankly don't care to. I am just human and can see an interaction that takes very little moral filtering to achieve. It just is.
It's something I wish I could bring into my interpersonal relationships sometimes. I have this strange dichotomy of wanting to explain myself to others while doing it as simply and succinctly as possible. I have too many words and that can be worse than none at all sometimes. You cant just say some things, but I still want to be understood. Think of the prototypical male relationship (something I admittedly do not quite understand due to my own upbringing), men group together by culture and banners of legion made by interests. We talk of mating, working, and achievements. Some of the more grossly intimate and strange events are traded between us while other such things that are termed "unmanly" are avoided, even used for dominance in some situations. I don't care how open you feel as a man amongst your closest male friends, we have all made the comment "man-up" to our friends. It's still the role we are expected to play (That's why feminism works so hard to attack the language of society. It's part of the vernacular despite our best efforts). I would love to be able to share certain feelings about myself but I still cant help but feel sometimes that another man does not want to hear about that. It's not because I feel that they don't experience or feel the same thing, it's just that as men, we aren't supposed to do that. I will find myself doing it from time to time, but it just seems to queer things up to use a strangely appropriate term. Not that I haven't been on that other end as well, but we all go on our learned reactions, it's how we become adapt with societal roles, and I cant say I've reacted any better.
It's more than gender roles, dominance, or culture that plays into this for me though, it can be the very act of communication that can complicate itself as we twist it into some kid of sparring match, using words as our swords and silence as our shields. Things can always change within your heart and head so we don't always strike out with our words until we want to go at the heart of something with someone. The sound of a sword parrying back may or may not what we desire but the shield of silence will always protect us. It can say volumes about the sword striking out, but two shields facing each other mean we are always protected
...To be continued
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