Tuesday, December 28, 2004

I had a dream the other night. It was a weird dream in terms of what I normally dream. I was a father. I was an actual father conversing with my son about music. He was trying to play a guitar. He wanted to take lessons and for his birthday I bought him and old Fender to start with. He was slightly interested in playing rock music. I remember listening to the local radio station trying to see what he sought that was so alluring to him. I listened trying to understand him but the music the kids listened to was just not my style. I would often turn back to an oldies station where Nirvana, Soundgarden, Metallica, and The Doors played. Knowing the guitar of choice for some of the oldie bands was an old Fender it influenced my decision for what I bought my son. So I had given him my gift and he was strumming it a little trying to gain the feeling for it. I was bringing out some of my old music CD’s and blowing the dust off my stereo. Now a days everything was controlled by streaming from the net so you never needed to actually touch any media. I bought out an old Door’s CD to let him listen to what history says he will repeat. I think in the end he got frustrated with me as I was trying to give him appreciation for music that I loved. I had tried listening to his stuff and didn’t make the connection and now I was hoping we could do the same through this guitar.

Time fast forwarded a few years and I saw in some cases slow motion replay and in others super fast replay me pushing my son away by trying to make his dream what mine for him was. I pushed him away bit by bit each year. Where my father was not there I smothered mine and he went out each night staying out longer and longer until he would not come home for several days. According to my friend who worked for the police dept he was playing late at night in a rough club. I tried to imagine my son playing music for a few hundred other people and them connecting with him through his music like I was trying to do through that guitar. The connection I would never be able to achieve because though we both are the same we are so different. One night I got a tip on where he would be playing and went to the club. It had been 3 days since I had seen my son. It was also the first time I heard myself speak his name. I entered club seeking out son asking people if they knew where Kenneth was. Then I saw him up on stage standing there with the guitar hanging off his shoulders a bent and lit cigarette hanging from his lips leaving a little trail of smoke that weaved between his bangs and his eyes while he looked down to the floor. Occasionally a bit of ash would drop and land on a his hand but he didn’t seem to mind. He was slowly strumming along while someone in the background hidden by the haze would be playing bass. No words came out of his mouth for the music said everything. He was playing a cover of a Door’s song called “The End” I had never felt so proud of my boy and I snuck back out of the club. I was certain he would be ok that we would be ok.

Fast forward through time a bit more. I am an old man now. Hitting my 50’s my son is now 22 and travels around the world playing music for people. When he made it big he asked me what I wanted and I told him I only wanted him to be happy. He gave me a Fender like the one I had given him so long ago. He kept his still and played it during shows. One day while I was sitting in the den playing with the strings trying to learn how to play as I never did have the time or patience for it. I was sitting there trying to pull the first line out of “Light my Fire”. It was then my wife entered the doorway. She never looked so sad before. I went up to her and the tears started falling in her eyes. As she lost control she started yelling at me it was all my fault. Her fists beating against my chest as she blamed me for something I apparently did.

When she calmed down a little she spoke again, ‘You encouraged him and now he’s gone. Its all your fault.’

`What do you mean he is gone?’
`I got a call a minute ago from his girlfriend. He OD’d last night after a show. … they….’ She broke down crying again. We both slumped to the floor holding each other as we mourned the loss of our son. The loss of a dream. The fulfillment of prophecy I had spoken that he was destined to repeat history. I meant that the great songs of the past would help him learn and make new songs for the future. How could I have imagined he would follow the same footsteps as previous musical artists?

I dreamt I lived a life full of troubles and joy. I dreamt I was a man being a father. I dreamt I failed.

Friday, December 24, 2004

This counts as my 101 post total for my 4 blogs. 53,000+ words written over the past 11months. I wonder how much longer I can keep it up. Some posts take a lot more out of me than I would care to admit. Perhaps I should change the name of it to Tears and Blood. Such would be more fitting as these are not just my words but they are my feelings and thoughts. My dreams and nitemares. It is my story retold over and over with different words and different characters. In history thousands of others have told my story and it is nothing orginal. Thousands more will repeat it again in the future because history repeats itself.

I can’t get past this song. The lyrics running through my head in little circles Even when I can get rid of the instruments I still hear the voice speaking to me slowly. As if he is trying to reach across space and time to tell me something. You know those movies where the person receives a message from the future from themselves or someone else and its like, ‘You need to save the future!’ I keep hearing this and it sounds like a warning to me. It triggers several things that I see it applying to. One is a good thing but it could lead into something more and the end result could be even worse than the other.

‘I wont let this build up inside of me ‘

Self delusion allows one to mask someone else’s weaknesses and faults. It also can block your sight when reviewing your own faults. It is even more difficult when you can recognize some of them but others still remain beyond your sight. Sometimes we seek people who are like us in many ways. Once in a while the person you meet is so much alike you it is frightening. It is also tempting as you feel as if you know this person inside and out. What happens when you hate yourself and you meet yourself. It can become a relationship that can only really go one direction.

“I'm a slave and I am a master
No restraints and unchecked collectors
I exist through my need to self-oblige
She is something in me that I despise fine”

So many people fit the description so many of my friends match a little part of me. If I ever was to die I could be easily replaced. It would be a human puzzle. Take a little bit of personal pride from one. Add a touch of strength and conviction from another. Find the low self esteem in each and harvest it. Then a dash of anger and hate wrapped up in a blanket of love and compassion. Shake thoroughly and then bake for 25 years at 140.

“I won't let this build up inside of me
I won't let this build up inside of me…..
She isn't real
I can't make her real
She isn't real
I can't make her real”

It has always been my fault to place people on pedestals and admire them. Placing them a bit higher and magnifying in my mind their good parts. Ignoring what bad that I can deceive myself about. In the end after so much deceit I no longer recognize the person I had placed up there. They had ceased being real and became an dream that I wanted to come true. Such dreams fall apart easily. Am I someone else’s dream? Have I been placed up higher and when I disappoint them will they delude themselves into thinking something else? I doubt I could ever be such. I could pity the person who would do that with me. For I do not belong on a pedestal. The janitor doomed to clean the hallways of hero’s I am cursed to forever dream.

“I can’t make me real.”

Thursday, December 23, 2004

It has been too long. I could almost say it has been impossibly long but mentally I tally up the days and I come to a conclusion. 13 days it has been. 312 hours have passed either in restful sleep or in twisting torment. 18,720 minutes have passed by many leaving me to ponder what has happened. 1,123,200 seconds unaccounted for. Mentally I tally up again what I did during those days. I know I was busy. I know I did something to pass the time by. Still does any of that time matter? I could possibly add up a whole minute and have something that would brighten the darkness of a wasted youth. Wait counted it up again. It would be 10 minutes of time total that were bright and shiny. Small moments that have added up together. Taking by themselves each are small and would mean nothing to most people. Ah… but to me those moments were the bright points the fill up my life. A thousand moments each by themselves could fill a lifetime. Little moments like those which allow me to tally up an otherwise wasted 2 weeks and know that I did receive something. I could not really name what I seek. It is not salvation. It was never redemption. Perhaps what I seek is something close to intimacy.

I often try to not let it build up inside of me. But how can I compete with 13 days. A magical number in itself. How can I compete against the 312 hours that passed by some slowly and others burning like flash paper in darkness? The 18720 minutes tell me that I waited too long and that telling myself that I will not let it build up inside of me is self delusion. It is impossible to change the past. That is what those moments compete against. A lifetime full of those moments but on the other side of the coin. What stops the healing process is I wont allow myself to forget. That hinders the forgiveness. As I remember vividly those memories that will haunt me. I will not forget however nor will I forgive. Denied forgiveness I am stuck in a circular path. Slowly digging deeper into the earth. 6 feet the depth will be and a decision will be made. Either forced or it will be a natural conclusion. It is evolution baby because all endings are the start of a new beginning. Now listen carefully because the chorus is radio friendly and almost catchy…

‘all I have to do is believe
In the things that believe in me
My ends justify my means
As my means will be my end’

According to a website every day 24,000 people die of hunger. In my 13 days 312,000 people died waiting for nourishment. Every hour 1,000 people die. That means every minute 16.6 people die. I wonder if the .6 means they suffer for a minute before the next one comes along to free them from their torture. Every 3.5 seconds another person dies. So by time you finish reading this sentence someone has died. Feels good doesn’t it? What it doesn’t. Too bad because another person has died while I played with your emotions. It doesn’t really feel like anything at the moment. Perhaps you should let it build up inside of you and build up and build up… until you explode into a mushroom cloud of rage.

My ends justify my means. I wonder how many religions have used that in the past? How many people have died because of that phrase? So what is my end? What drives me? That I still do not really know as what I seek is difficult to name. I could probably spend a lifetime trying to decipher it. Actually I kind of am spending a lifetime on it. One spent quickly like burning a field of dry weeds for warmth. I shall be the flame that will burn bright briefly then disappear leaving a cloud of smoke and a scorched land around me. I speak in metaphors. Perhaps replace land with souls and minds of people who knew me. Replace cloud of smoke with clouds of confusion and sorrow. Or just let me butcher the language even further and I could suggest more things to describe it. I seek something close to intimacy.

‘all I have to do is believe
In the things that believe in me
My ends justify my means
As my means will be my end’

Leniency, passion, trust, and compassion? So many words that fill my mind when I consider what my options are. I consider so many different things as I started this to get back in touch with someone who I lost touch with. Someone who I haven’t spoken to in 13 days. Someone who possibly sat in some ethereal realm watching the 312,000 souls pass into the afterlife. Sometimes it takes me 3.5 seconds to breath in deeply. Amazing what those moments add up to. If you met an artist who killed people to create beautiful masterpieces would he still be an artist? If you took someone who forced themselves to listen to sob stories and read sad tales to conjure up the emotions they needed to write that sad song would they be any less talented? If a witchdoctor was able to grasp the passions and feelings from souls of the dead and used them in the beating of his drums that made thousands dance would he not be an artist? Using the tools at ones disposal should not make one any less than what you would be if you used lesser tools. Though placing murder as a tool to gain something is a broad step to take. Taking lives should never be an option but what if they were scheduled to die by execution? What about those doomed to die and wanted to get it over with? What line do you cross or how does one find the line? Nothing is ever really what it seems anyways isn’t it about what ends you achieve. In the history books do they not write about the ends that were achieved? Do they go too much in depth to the tools used or are the tools just a footnote to what changes were created?

‘I have to do is believe
In the things that believe in me
My ends justify my means
As my means will be my end’

I have him conjured in my mind now. We are speaking and I know what his point of view is. It takes so much to reconnect and now I am afraid I will lose this connection. Though its all abstract that which I am writing. Its an illusion, delusion, and confusion. I sit and write random drivel that most people would have stopped after the first paragraph. It would have taken them a minute to decide that I was insane. Though the 16.6 people who died in that time could not be contacted for comment.

Though a flash of a dream or perhaps a vision induced by music I see a doctor leaving a nail inside a poor boy who made the mistake of stepping on it. ‘I think I will leave it in there for a few days. It will build character and teach him a lesson.’ Unnecessary cruelty it screams to me. How much character does one need? If there was a counter that went to 999,999 before it rolled over I would imagine mine rolled over either quite a few times or at least once. If some being has a greater plan for everyone why would such a compassionate being choose a life of pain for someone? How can you love your children and punish them when they are ignorant? Am I being punished or is this my reward?

‘I have to do is believe
In the things that believe in me
My ends justify my means
As my means will be my end’

So I sit there pondering completing a story. Finishing something that I had completed but my computer conspired against me. I was going to finish a story for a character but now as I look it over the reflections looking back at me almost scare me. Previously I never really thought about how much in common I had with this character. Now I look and I wonder if I was writing about myself. Changing only a few things and creating metaphors to hide that which I did not want to say right out. Perhaps I shouldn’t bother as now I think I understand him more. I should look no deeper inside than myself. Though when I utter the phrase, ‘Breathing death and dripping torment out of my hands as I walk’ I do not mean it literally. I probably don’t even mean it at all. I could vision myself achieving that statement. Breathing out a slight growl with my brow furrowed. Eyes still blue but now the kind of ice. Five thick ropy lines of blood dripping down my arm each going down to a finger where they converge into a single blob held together by my will while still dribbling onto the carpet. When I was younger I often said I was powered by Hate. Sadly there are too many types of hate. Its like gasoline. You have the cheap, medium, and premium grades. Premium carries a high cost often associated with its name. You still have to seek it out and usually pay for it anyways because the difference is shown while you start to burn.

‘I have to do is believe
In the things that believe in me
My ends justify my means
As my means will be my end’

Tuesday, December 07, 2004

I plan on continueing this later on. I have a general idea on where it will go. Hopefully it will work out. Either way enjoy or hate. I plan on adding more tomorrow or tonight. Whenever I get to it. As I now have to sleep.

Lights are bright inside this room. Making even the sunlight outside seem dim in comparison. I stood there for a moment looking into the mirror at my naked body. The fine lines and bits of hair scattered about. Scars on my chest and arms too faint to make anything out but my imagination and memories made up for the lack of detail. ‘Grant me death’ was the plea but never was it given. The execution was stayed as none wished to do the deed. At least no one within my own mind. I now stood there alone. Having found rebirth has made living an addiction. Each moment spent trying to do more than the previous one. Experiencing new things at all times and sharing it with others. Minutes filled with conversations about theology. Hours spent hiking and enjoying the world. Days filled with study and reading trying to grasp a simple yet so complex of an idea. Weeks packed full of conventions and fellowship with fellow believers. Months of talking and words used over and over again. Years if fighting trying to fill my life with something more than what I already had.

Standing there one hand caressing my clean shaven face. It traveled downward along my left shoulder and arm. It followed the path etched upon my soul. It was a short path and memories fill me as I idly traced over a scar that once spelled out ‘Why‘.

It was a dark and rainy night. Mom had tried to put me to bed early tonight. I wanted to stay up and watch TV until daddy came home. So I lay right outside of my bedroom door. Head laying in the hallway so I could watch the TV. I remember cupping my hand over my ears and I could barely pickup the one liners and parts of the punch lines. It wasn’t the words that entertained me. It was the pictures on the TV that moved and the occasional clash of the drums when a joke ended. The funny tricks people or animals would do late at night so others can watch them. I would lay there still as part of the floor. Slowly and mentally pushing further into the floor as to make myself disappear. A few times mom would look in my direction and she would not see me. So I stayed there laying watching TV, silently hoping daddy would come home before I fell asleep. Time passes by differently when your young. To me it passed slowly but to the rest of the world only an hour passed by. The TV show was ending and the jokes were being tallied. People were still laughing when some stomping at the door was heard. I had dozed off a little laying there but now Daddy was home! I silently got up and went back into my room. Barely closing the door so I could peek out and catch when Daddy walked by. I made a plan, on opening it quickly to give him a hug before as he passed by heading to bed. More stomping at the door and the front door opened. It groaned like an old man getting up as it opened slowly. Heavy footsteps sounded as one stomping ones feet on the rug near the door. The slight creak as the large person turns around then the closing of the door. Occasionally a creak in the wall as someone put their hands against it as they balanced themselves. Though I could not see what was happening I could imagine it. Mom welcoming home dad. Typically an argument would ensue but tonight there was a few seconds of silence. I crept towards my door so I could listen in on the conversation. I stood there waiting and holding my breath as it was so loud it could prevent me from hearing everything.

“Where have you been?” Her voice sounded stern and angry. She had work in 5 hours but had stayed up waiting for daddy.
“I was over at Joe’s place with some guys. We were talking about the move the rig could be taking….” His voice was just a little slurred but to it still sounded like dad.
“Why didn’t you call?” Her voice raised a little bit but still controlled as she apparently did not want to wake me. Good she thought I was sleeping.
“I did but the phone was busy.”
“No one has been on the phone all night long.”
“um no I meant someone there was using the phone and I couldn’t call.”
“For 3 hours? Someone was on a call that was so important you could not even call?”
“um It wasn’t my house so I didn’t bother asking.”
“You know what today was. Why did you not bother calling?”
“Um today.. ?”
A crack filled the air. Even without watching I could tell mom had slapped dad hard. I waited wondering what will happen next.
“Today was my doctor appointment. Don’t you remember me telling you this?” Her voice was now shaking a little. I can still picture tears in her eyes.
“Oh sorry. The replacement crew was late and we got back late I missed it figured you could handle it ok. How did it go?”
“It went .. You don’t care your just asking now because you will feel guilty otherwise.”
“No really I do care. Martha you’re my life.” Suddenly his voice changed a little. It grew warmer as if he was shaken from whatever was preventing him from grasping the situation. “Though I hangout with the guys now and then you’re the one I want to be with. Lets sit down and tell me how it went. Was the prognosis good or is there some treatment we have to pursue?” A few sounds as they moved to the couch and further away. I could hear crying from her though as she tried to tell how her appointment went.

“I was told it is terminal. They cannot operate due to the closeness of my spine. Even if they could remove it I would have very little chance at survival.”
“We can beat this dear. We will find another doctor to look and examine it. I will take a few days off next week and we will both go.”
“He told me even if they did try to operate the chance of me surviving and not suffering permanent damage or being disabled for the rest of my life was nil.”
“Alright its ok. Don’t worry we will beat this. I will call your work and tell them you wont be in tomorrow.”
“No I need to go. Otherwise the girls will work short and I don’t want them to suffer.”
“But you will suffer. Sometimes you have to put yourself before others.”
“No I cannot. I want you to promise me one thing though.”
“Anything dear you know I will do anything for you.”
“I want you to stop the course of action your on.”
“I want you to be a father. I know you are doing exactly what your dad did and it worked fine for you. I want you to be more though. I want you to be the dad that you never had. I want you to be the daddy to Nicholas that he deserves.”
“I will do that not only for you thought but because he is my son and I love him.”
“Do you promise?”
“I promise. Now are you sure you don’t want me to call in for you?”
“I will be fine. I want you to find a day to take off work next week and we will go see another doctor then.”
“Alright dear. Remember though I get wrapped up in other things I still love you.”
“and I love you. Don’t you ever forget that.”

Sounds as they got up off the couch and started heading into the hallway forced me back into my bed. I quickly laid down and pretended I was asleep as my dad came in and tucked me in. I remember this memory so vividly because it was the last time I heard my mom. The next day she suffered an aneurysm and died at work. The next few years were tough but my dad was there. Always supportive. Always there when I needed him. He kept his promise to her and was there for me as if trying to make up not being there for her when she needed him.

I put my under cloths on. There was a tradition that I was to cast off my old clothes and present myself to the congregation a new man dressed in white. New clothing to cover up the used body that I inhabited. I read my literature. I memorized the words and I went through the motions seeking an answer. Seeking something to help me find where I can find the answer I kept asking throughout my life. As I pulled the robe around my shoulders the white reminded me of hospital sheets and brought forth another memory.

The years had passed since she passed away. I got involved in sports and just like my father I found out I had legs that could carry me swiftly across the ground. I could almost run on air. I remember dreaming when I was younger about running up into the sky to meet mom. As soon as the coaches found out that I could run I was placed into ever sport program they could fit me. Age 10 it was baseball and football. At 11 a local soccer group tried to form and I got involved in that. At 12, 13, 14, and 15 it was all the same. I would go out for a sport and excel in it. My dad would sit on the sidelines watching and cheering. He would help me train and even bring me along to the oil rigs so I could run around free and during their lunch and other breaks they would take turns throwing a football or hitting a ball out to me for me to run after. Both of us were almost possessed. Trying to be something more than what we really were in hopes it would honor her memory. Being good at sports made me popular in school. Girls would notice me and guys would hangout with me just to be seen. I remember my birthday parties were always full of people I barely knew but didn’t care that much if they were there. I was a rocket ship heading to the stars and if a few people wanted to hang-on I would not mind the extra weight. Every weekend though my dad would be there for the games and would be there after the games.

On the weekdays though when life had to return to normal for a few days before practice again he would go out and drink with friends. I did not mind him going out and leaving me home alone at night. I could take care of myself and he was there for me in so many other ways heck he deserved to go out drinking with his buddies. I remember one night he did not come home. I found this out because he wasn’t in bed in the morning as I made breakfast and headed out to school. When I got home he still had not arrived so I practiced by myself and ended up cooking my own dinner. That night though I got really worried and hoped onto my bike to find him. I rode down the streets until it was dark. The moon full in the sky lighting up the world making an almost eerie twilight. I stopped at a few places he would haunt and his friends places. I rode, and rode for hours on end. When I started out I rode fast pumping my legs hoping to find him before it got really dark out. I kept my legs moving until they started hurting but kept on riding. When the moon was high I figured I should start heading home incase he was there and turned on a street. I was riding on the side of the road and I remember seeing a truck coming down the street.

That is the last thing I remember of that night. I wish I could remembered more. The next memories are of rooms of white and tubes. A silent TV in the background and random faces entering and leaving my field of vision. White sheets, white bowls, beige cups, off white wallpaper, Nurses in light blue dresses and white smocks, white ceilings, and white floors. If I had thought about it back then I bet I could have imagined I was in heaven. There was no pain. There was always this grogginess that filled my mind. People brought me juice and food. All the Jell-O and TV that I could ever want.

I was 16 at the time when I found out my dad had killed himself. He apparently went on a drinking binge at a local bar then bought some more beer and drove out to a remote location. He slept there and came back to keep drinking. When he left the bar the second night he was legally wasted. Even after the crash and several hours at the police dept he was still trashed. They say he drove because he couldn’t even stand up. In the years I had spent with him I never at such a young age realized he still felt guilty over my mom’s death. Then after he hit me and sobered up he found out I may never walk again. He went home and ended his life. I found this out a week after it happened. No one had the heart to tell me.

I wonder what it was like for the nurses who would come in and try to cheer me up to only be confronted by questions of where my daddy was. Questions on if I could still go to the game. I felt no pain from the drugs they pumped into me. How was I to know my knee was now a jigsaw puzzle? It was my grandmother who ended up telling me. The morning before they wheeled me out so I could attend the funeral. It was her who also told me how they figure that nights events happened. It was her who spat on my daddy’s grave and me who slapped her for it. She gave me a look but she said nothing of it. I remember thinking how dare she do that to my daddy after all he had done for me. How dare she?

I lifted a cup of cold water to my lips not to drink but to wet them a little. I still looked in the mirror the metal bracer on my left leg looked out of place. The metal shined and reflected light back at me. A cruel reminder of life sometimes I could almost see a face in the reflection laughing at me. Even now as I look in the mirror at myself. I am all white even my hair as I bleached it a few weeks ago out of boredom. All white except for my blue eyes, red lips, and my shiny reflective metal bracer. The memories came quicker this time around.

Three months of surgery and laying in bed. Faces of people important and not so important would enter my little white world then they would leave. The insurance money from the truck paid for everything that had to do with my injury. My grandmother’s pleading paid for the time and for people to come and visit me. Teenagers are so flighty. You don’t show up for school a few weeks and suddenly your forgotten. I remember wheeling myself into the school one day to pickup some things out of my locker and half the people didn’t recognize me. A few teammates would stop by and say hi. They would quickly leave as if my injury was contagious and they worried they would no longer be able to walk. I wanted to scream at them that I was still me. I wanted to tell them to not take what they had for granite. I wanted to tell them so many things but my anger kept me silent. I doubt my anger helped. I was made on not being able to play football or hangout with them. I was forced to an existence of being bound to a chair and stuck in a room at my grandmothers as she tried to catch my education up. At times I would wake up screaming from a nightmare or from when the pain medication wore off.

A year went by silently. It was then I found out who my friend were. Sadly there was not many of them. I could count them on a single hand and still have room for improvement before expanding to the next hand. They were the last people I expected too. One of them was from the Art class I had taken as I had to focus my energy on something and trying to draw or paint took up a good amount of it. Another was a girl who liked to read. I would approach her with a question about a book, an author, or subject and she could point me in the right direction or warn me what would happen if I pursued the path. These two filled my life up with hope and fun. It was also these two who encouraged me to get a surgery done. I had heard in the news about this new surgery that could help some people walk. It was reconstructive and it was not 100% but it had helped restore others. Being that I had no job I tried pursuing charity and fundraising to cover the costs. In the end the town could only give so much I had to choose between using what was left from the sale of my parents house or the possibility of being able to walk again. Being young I followed the dream.

It took 6 operations 4 pounds of metal though only a few ounces remain inside me now and my family’s savings for me to take three steps. I promptly fell to the floor but I was happy. It was just a step on my path. She was there watching me. My grandmother tried to be supportive but she knew where dreams could take someone. Especially if they were delusions of grandeur. She always told me that self deception was a tool of the devil. I never really understood it but she was older and knew more than I did. Still though I took my first steps and from there proceeded further. A few months later I could take a small walk across the room and into the arms of my girlfriend. Soon I was able to walk to my desk in class and sit down. I could not stand or walk for very long without my brace but still I could walk. There was several years to go before I could run and I would never be able to achieve that which I already had but it was my efforts in trying to recover what I lost. It seemed though that every time I gained something I would lose something else.

It was the summer after I turned 17 that she killed herself. I never really understood why she was so distant and always off in some other place. Her vivid imagination and smile are what attracted me to her. She was found in a bathtub of her own blood. A note written with love to me found in her bedroom. Her daddy apparently loved her differently from other fathers. She could not stand hiding it anymore and was scared I would find out. When I did find out it was apparently too late. When I went over to her house to confront her father it was also too late. The police had hauled him away. When I went to court to look into his eyes as they sentenced him it was also too late as he had either killed himself or was killed in his cell. The paper said he hung himself but there were conflicting reports otherwise. It appeared to start a trend. My being too late. Slowed down by my brace and broken body. When my grandmother passed away that fall it was expected. She was old and the past years did not go by easy for her. She left instructions with a lawyer to make sure I had money for a few years and a place to live. What she did not however leave was instructions for me. I had lost everyone that I cared for and was alone. It was this loneliness that forced me to spit on her grave after we buried her.

Depression is a tough thing to fight. I remember taking pills for the pain in my leg but never could find anything or take enough to stop the pain that existed elsewhere. Sometimes I would take no pills at all and feel nothing but the pain inside my body. Other times I would take so many I would go numb and collapse on the floor, chair, bed, or wherever else I was. I eventually dropped out of school and spent my time at home surfing the internet listening to dark music. The songs of darkness that filled my existence I remember fondly as I caress the scar on my arm. I remember writing “Why” because I wanted to know what I did to deserve this. Other words appeared across my body as I kept asking questions and never got a response. The pain pills would go unused as I wanted to suffer. Perhaps I would suddenly expire from suffering too much. I would push myself to the brink and be ready to accept death but could not do it myself. Anger would then fill my mind as I would be sickened with how weak I was. I would cut further and deeper into my skin to punish myself for not being strong enough to end it. Sometimes intelligence would reemerge from the darkness and I would make sure I would clean my knives and wrap up my cuts to prevent infection. Stories of people getting their arms removed from infection would scare me. I was partially crippled and did not want to be completely disabled. This continued for several months. Long nights full of songs of sorrow. Thousands of droplets as my life and pain was slowly bled out of me. Still each night as I sat there the light would reflect off the blade as it would with my brace. I was a slave to pieces of metal. One that caused me pain and the other that was put in me because of the pain. At times which was which would overlap and I could not disconcert the difference.

Monday, December 06, 2004

Just posted a few links that I wanted to share.





tomorrow I will write something and post it.. tonight its too late to do anything.

Wednesday, December 01, 2004

Wrapping gifts is always annoying. I try to fold the wrapping paper just right so it looks nice. I always apply too much tape. It always seems like I just do not have enough hands to correctly wrap some gifts. Also it means that once I finish wrapping up the gift that’s it. Either they will like it or they will smile and say thanks. There is no turning back once the nametag is written on it and the last piece of tape is applied. Also once it is finished there is no longer any chance for mischief. It seems somewhat final. Like closing a book after reading the last chapter. You read about the problem as it slowly grew. The hero’s valiant search for the treasure or the prefect gift. Their conquest of the creature guarding it. Either they best it with swords, magic, or credit card. Then the trip home and returning to normal life. Then always the short chapter as they try to settle back in as they work around their house. Suddenly the adventure is complete. The gift is chosen. It is then sealed inside a box or just wrapped up. A nametag and a bow complete it as the book is closed. I try to wrap only a few gifts at a time. Otherwise the sudden loss of being able to change my mind can make me panic. So I always leave one or two for the last minute so I know the adventure is not quite over. Soon I will have to journey to faraway lands and search out my prize. Will I find a prince or will I find a new blender in the land of Wal-Mart? What creatures will I have to battle to obtain my prize? Shall it be a snooty cashier or will a dragon leap out from the toy isle and attack me while I am armed with nothing more than a wallet full of debt and monetary promises to a bank? Perhaps tomorrow I will go on about choosing wrapping paper.

I hate cleaning my room. Heck even organizing items as I often get sidetracked. It is just time consuming and since I keep getting sidetracked it often takes longer than it needs to. So many memories and things that I keep with me.

An old box fell to the floor tonight. It spewed open papers across my floor. I put away what I was trying to put in my closet and I bent over to look at what fell. Inside of it had a lot of old papers that I keep for memories. One of the papers was a worn out piece of paper that has been folded, and refolded, and folded, and wrinkled, and mashed, and even has a bit of water damage on it. I remember this piece of paper. I try to stop myself but I cannot. I bend down onto my knees and pick it up off the floor. My hands start to unfold it while my mind screams against the next course of action. My hands have held this piece of paper before many times. My eyes have read it over and over in the past. My mind each time would comprehend the letters and the sentences. The meaning of the letter is simple. Lots of things have happened to me from this letter. My heart was broken over and over again. Fresh memories brought forth to the front to relive in vivid detail. Words that jumble as I try to think of a response to the words long ago spoken. Even now I cannot think of a response. The words get stuck inside my throat as my heart expands and will not let a single breathe escape. I read the letter again. The one sent so many years ago. It was the letter that told me you were not and never will be mind. I read it slowly allowing the words to sink it as I also struggled with myself to prevent the next course of action. In the end I replaced the box on the shelf. The papers refolded and made neat so if I need to retried them I can. I read your letter again today. It made my realize how filtered I am compared to what I was. A sudden burst of emotion and release that I do not get anymore. The intensity of what I felt made everything else pale in comparison. It seemed back then when I did something it was with everything in me. I did not go halfway in the matters of the heart. These days I hold so much back to keep myself from falling apart. I do it to maintain my sanity and to keep me alive. After reading the letter again I wonder if I died that day and now I am just suffering slowly. What is life without loving like you’ve never been hurt? What is loving someone halfway? Why have defenses up to prevent you from being hurt when they prevent you from experiencing it to the fullest?

I read your letter today. It was when you said you could never love me. I read it word for word. I think I can now give a response to it. Though you will never read my response or perhaps even understand it after all these years. I read it over and over watching the tears smudge your writing. It is now that I say goodbye and I hope you can find someone that you can love.

Monday, November 29, 2004

Just something to hold space.
A bit more along the lines of the previous writing.

Feeling reborn I emerge from the shower. It is a weird feeling emerging from this chamber of steam and white light into the world. I emerged wearing boxers running a brush through my hair. Sam was standing in the kitchen making someone while talking on the phone. Since it only killed the cat I figured I could stand and listen while I brushed my hair. Like a thief in the night I crept up closer and hid behind part of the doorway.

‘When is your show playing next?’ Little pauses as I could not hear the other party listening to a one-sided conversation is at times difficult.

‘Yeah I should be there. Perhaps catch you after the show and chat for a bit.’

‘Don’t worry I will make sure he doesn’t show up. Yeah he is here crashed on my couch and is now taking a quick shower. Ha no we are just friends. I thought it at one time but we can’t stand each other enough for anything more. No remorse besides its better this way. I can smack him without regret when he fucks up.’ Then I heard laugher from the other party on the phone. So nice to know that my pain brings a smile to someone.

Caution quickly filled my mind. Knowing I would get slapped again if she caught me here I snuck back to the bathroom to get dressed and hopefully get some lunch. I silently went back and closed the door behind me.

Tuesday, November 23, 2004

I still try to work at conversation. Enjoy either way.

“JEFF! Jeff! JEFF!” My name called from a long hallway of light. I remember all the stories when you see a tunnel with light at the end your supposed to run away. So I stood there for a moment pondering which I should follow. I started turning around to run away when, SMACK!

I woke up to the sudden burst of pain. My hand went to my cheek immediately where I felt the sting. I looked around trying to gather my surroundings and find out who would prevent me from running away from the light. Over to the right was the floor and a familiar coffee table. Straight a head was a 19 inch television. To my left and up is the ceiling and the familiar face of Sam. Her hand hovering above me like a snake ready to strike again if provoked.

“Why did you go back to that bar?”

“huh? What are you talking about?” A thick cloud covered my mind as I tried to remember what bar or place I was not supposed to go to? Where was I last night? What happened. I scanned my memories to figure it out.

SMACK! As the snake struck and hit my forehead. My chain of thought broken and I realize I must have fell back asleep as my arm was not numb from my weight.

“Answer me or face my wrath mortal.” Now when I looked up I saw a cup of something. I had an idea of what it contained.

“You wouldn’t dare and get your couch soaked.” I was always good at poker.

“Oh yes I would.” She said as she emptied the glass of water onto my face. I sputtered and quickly got up but the damage was done. My haze lifted and the quick movement made me lose my balance as I fell to the floor striking my shoulder on her table.

“Ouch! Why did you pour that on me?”

“I asked you a question and you fell back asleep on me. Now I want answers and your going to talk. Why did you go back to that bar last night?” She reached back and apparently had stocked up on ammunition as she now had another cup in her hand. It was times like this that I could not tell if she was serious or playful. Nietzsche was right, women are confusing and abstruse often like the truth at times.

“Um I was getting a drink there.” Still I could not remember what or which bar she was talking about. Last nights activities were a blur and a few blank spots. I must have drank a lot and crashed on her couch. I hope she didn’t have someone over at the time. Did I make an ass of myself.

“I’m sorry about last night.” When dealing with women always include an apology. I have to give props to my friend Big D and his guide to dealing with women. Mentally I congratulate myself on the proper retort and I get surprised by an ice cube to the face.

“What? I said I was sorry. What was that for?”

“I told you to stay away from her. Why did you go back to the bar?”

Fuck, now it all came together. She found out somehow. I did not think that my short activities there would have been noticed as I had left quickly afterwards. Then proceeded to drink myself into stupor.

“Um I didn’t know she was there, I’m sorry. It was a simple mistake. I did not stay there very long and left early in the night.”

“But you stayed and I don’t know what else you did but I imagine it was not good.” She reached into the cup and threw another piece of ice at me. I was able to dodge it this time and it rattled against the wood floor in the kitchen.

“I could not help myself.” Honestly I did not know why I ended up at that bar.

“I told you to stay away.” She seemed to be getting upset over this whole ordeal.

“Sorry I meant to but I have to say the thought of her dragged me back there.”

“Why Jeff? Why?”

“I don’t know why. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons why I went back there. To try and figure out why. For some reason she has been in my mind. Both her music and her face. Something deeper lies behind her façade that she presents and it draws me in.”

“She does hide behind any masks or layers Jeff. She is not like you. There is no internal monologue with her. There is no ulterior motives with her. There is no plan B that she falls back onto when her initial plan goes sour. She is sporadic and emotional. She is raw and pure. She is the opposite of what you are. Your controlling and manipulative. I love you dear but I want you to stay away from her.” Her arms had lowered the cup was now dangling in one hand as she looked deep inside me.

“Why are you so protective of her?” It was all I could say. Though it bothered me what my friend thought about me. What does she know about the difficulties that I have gone through.

“She is someone special. She will go out and do great things someday. Her band or her music will touch and change thousands of people. She will go out and make a difference while your still here working the late shift at Shop-Mart. I don’t want you ruining her life.”

“What makes you think I would ruin her life? Heck what makes you think she would even take remote interest in me?”

“Because Jeff you’re a likable guy. You’re a nice person by default just you have some issues that need dealt with in your own time. Your laid back and usually carefree. I know that given time what will happen. I wish to avoid that for her. Pick some other nice girl there are thousands out there. You can be happy and complete with one of them.”

I listened carefully letting it soak into my ego a small voice inside my head telling me I should not pay attention as she is complimenting me to hold my attention.

“You cannot protect her forever. Besides if I am such a bad person….”

“Not a bad person Jeff. Your not listening to me. You’re a wonderful person just when your in a relationship with someone your too demanding. Its like we have to choose between you or the world and you expect us to choose you all the time.”
Flashes of insight filled my head as a few things made sense regarding my failed relationship with Sam when we were younger. I know I am a bit melodramatic but damn I did not think I put people in such a position.

“But now that you have told me I can change.”

“You can but you can change and find someone else. Please avoid this girl.”

“That’s asking a lot. What if she is my soul mate? What if she is my destiny? What if she doesn’t even acknowledge my presence? Your assuming a lot about me. I am not some Giacomo Casanova.”

“I don’t want to take a chance.”

“Let me think about this. Your presenting a lot to me. Also I am almost shivering with cold from that water. Do you mind if I use your shower?”

“Sure but know I will not stop hounding you about getting a decision on this matter.”

“Alright just point me to where you placed my bag of emergency clothes.”

She pulled out of the closet a backpack with some of my clothes in it. Since she lived near the downtown area I would often crash at her place after a night of bar hopping to avoid any temptation to drive back home. I took the backpack into the bathroom and started up the shower. While I stood there under the spray trying to rub both sleep and the chill from my face I thought about the previous nights. Did I make a connection with her or am I just another random face? Should I respect my friends wishes or should I try to take a chance with destiny. As I pondered destiny cold water started spraying down on my face as Sam must be trying to tell me to hurry up. As annoying as she was, Sam was a good friend and worth a hundred chances at destiny.

Monday, November 22, 2004

Again I find myself sitting in front of a white screen that is void of reality. This canvas that I can create a new reality upon with ease. The fabric of fantasy that I slowly caress while I envision a new picture to paint with words. I could sit here and write about things that happened today, yesterday, or will happen tomorrow. I could command words to paint an accurate picture of what is to come. I could write about confusion over certain events that would mean nothing to anyone else except me or perhaps another. The circles my mind travels as I pursue a chain of thought. The unnerving rattle in my car, the aggravating friends who have been expecting a game to come out plan on dropping their lives for it. The cancellation of something important for the desires of a few. Plans have been made that will now be changed due to whim. I like plans. I like schedules. It gives structure and form to what otherwise would be a void called the future. It allows me to look on a piece of paper or to conjure up in my mind something that is set and is planned for. It gives me something to look forward to. Something to weave my life around and to basis my upcoming days upon. The past has given me weeks of gaming right on schedule. Months of structure that was followed. It turned into habit now that structure is disappearing and it frightens me like a little boy hearing thunder in the distance and is now hiding under his bed. It makes me shiver like a long run-on sentence that I have no way of correctly stating otherwise. I like structure. There is a structure in my heart. It is a large wall that has been built up over the years. Fortifications planted deep that help separate me from others to prevent pain. Something to counterbalance the chaos that controls my soul and clouds my mind. So I sit here trying to write about the things that concern me and the most often thing that appears is a simple memory. It has happened before in the past quite often. A simple act and a voice inside of my head telling me this is how it started in the past. I looked a little too deep into such things and I have been keeping myself from looking into this act any deeper. It was a simple act of kindness. A simple thank you. No matter how much I tell myself it meant nothing more I cannot remove the feeling of disappointment. I look deeper and cannot cipher what I want. Maybe she will read into this. Perhaps the writing on the walls will appear and she will read it out clearly. I could pursue my logic until I follow the same path a million times. From what I can tell what I do really want is a friend.

It would be easier if my goals and desires were set in stone so I had something to pursue. Sadly I don’t look that far ahead. Short term goals are simple enough. 1. Survive the Holidays with the family and the possibly meeting of old friends. 2. Survive the loss of social gatherings in large quantity. Learn to enjoy the little I get and treasure the memories until it picks back up again. 3. Work on fixing the things that I can fix and try to not dwell on those I cannot. 4. Gather ones thoughts before speaking or writing. Often people get lose in the translation as my thoughts to not convey into speech in their pure form. Work on reducing the amount of incoherent babble that comes out before intelligence rears its ugly head.

Surviving the holidays with the family should be easy enough. I can just spend less time by reducing the length of the visit or reducing the amount of visits. This would save money and heartache and sorrow. The less I hear the less it would bug me? Perhaps the less I hear the more it would bother me each time? Less time during visits sounds good thought. This would also reduce the chance of meeting up with old friends. The one who I have been avoiding by neither calling or making any attempt to visit. Why do I do such a thing? I wish to not interfere with her life. Also I figure if she needs me she can call me. She knows my number but I doubt she ever will. Perhaps it is time to close that book in my life and set it somewhere dark and secretive where no one will ever open it again. Some things even if they are good are perhaps best forgotten so they do not cast a shadow over future good things. I can delude myself and say Hey she will call me if she needs me. I know though that she does not need me. It was always I needed her. Even if she did need someone I would be close to the last person she would contact. There are many others that she cares more for than me. That is just a fact importunely.

Surviving the loss of social gatherings should be easily overcome by gaining more independence. I need to go out and do things alone and this gives me the prefect opportunity. This gives me the chance to try and meet new people or to learn more about others in the group who are not going to be playing the game. I need to not focus too much of the extra attention on some people though otherwise could scare them off for good. Why does this make me feel quite pathetic. Other option is to give in and start playing the stupid game risking falling into the trap I have feel into in the past. I doubt my will is strong enough to emerge this time.

Working on fixing the things that I can fix and not to dwell is also a tough one. It is often easier to reflect on the impossible tasks ahead instead of focusing on the easier tasks. Reflection on the tougher tasks end up with one doing nothing at all except dreaming. It is usually easier to dream than to do. Simply put I must dream less and focus on reality.

Last of all the gathering of ones thoughts into more comprehensive patterns and groups before I start to speak or write. Heck I doubt that will ever truly happen. I can work at it a little but know that my efforts will be wasted. This would definitely fall under the impossible tasks that are easier to dream about than to actually do. Looking at the past page or so of text proves my point. Perhaps instead it proves my unwillingness to change that part of myself. Who knows? I have decided one thing tonight about what I want. I will leave the rest for another night.

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Sometimes I find it amazing how quickly time goes by. I could be sitting doing something and get wrapped up in it while never noticing the hours pass by. Suddenly it is close to 3am and I have not even started that which I wanted to complete tonight. So I work now on it. Hoping I can complete within the little time I have left.

She entered the town from the south entrance. Going out to track down some bandits that were rumored to be camped near the town. A few select men and fast horses proved the rumor to be true. A swift sword and good planning allowed justice to be done. The stolen goods were being brought back behind her. They were a good mile or two behind her. The wagons they found laden with stolen goods. Pulled by what remains of the bandit camp. Soon they will be tried and sentence will be passed. Justice will be carried out.

The energy from the previous night’s fight and the feeling of a job well done coursed through her veins. Riding along her stallion she rose through the town up to her family’s house. As she approached the gate a young boy ran towards her to attend to her horse. She dismounted and threw him the reins while heading to the front entrance to the house.

Last night while she was looking through the bandit leaders belongings to find any of the money that was stolen so it could be returned she came across a letter written to the bandit. The letter reviewed a contract or an agreement between the bandit and another person. The bandit would pay out a portion of the loot to this person and that person would offer protection. This letter brought many confusing thoughts to her mind and she wanted to speak with her father. She walked through the entranceway and stopped briefly to throw her cloak on a hook. With a purposeful walk she headed towards her fathers study. The door was closed but she did not stop. She threw the doors open disregarding any politeness. Her father was sitting in a chair reading a book as she entered. He looked up at her with a warmth in his eyes watching his only child follow in his footsteps as a justiciar for the town.

“Ello there Emily. How went the hunt?” Word that she had gathered up a few men and left off to the north had reached him quickly.

“The hunt went well father. A rumor I heard paid off and I caught the bandits that have been attacking people for the past two months.”

“Interesting. I thought the bandit reports in the north were further out. It must be dire times when they dare stay that close to our town. Where in the north did you track them down? The ruins? Near the river? Wait was it along the Do’Sek’s Bluffs?” Interest had appeared in his eyes while he carefully put away the book he was reading. A silk marker stuck out from the middle.

“No I actually caught them near Pearson Crossroads to the south.”

“But you left to the north.” A look of surprise came across his face as if he remembered something important. “I have not heard of many attacks to the south. Are they here in town? I shall have to interrogate them immediately and we shall make sure they see a swift trial.”

“I already have spoken with all the bandits, father. They did not say anything at all. However the leader had this in his personal effects. I figured I would personally give it to you. Let you examine it.” She threw down a piece of paper onto the desk. “It appears they had an agreement with someone high. I did not tell the men anything. Such corruption would spread unrest if it got out too quickly. I will tell you the tale another day. I must go tend to my men. They should be entering the town now. I will see you soon.”

She turned around with a quick snap of her feet and walked out closing the door behind her. As she slowly walked away she thought about the seal on the bottom of the letter. It seemed familiar and she knew who it belonged to. After taking a few steps she quickly turned around and opened the door again to her fathers study. Stopping for a moment in surprise as the truth she did not want to believe was shown in front of her.

In the study on the desk there was a simple candle. Hanging above the candle’s flame was a piece of parchment that was starting to catch. The flame was licking up the sides of it. A look of pleasure was on her fathers face as he watched it burn. A look of horror slowly replaced the pleasure as he realized his daughter was watching.

“They offered me a good amount of money. I had been using that to help our poor and hire more guards. Why are you looking at me like that. I did it for the greater good.”

Emily looked upon this scene realizing the truth that stood out in front of her now. The money her father has been getting and had been using for some good had came from the blood of others.

“The greater good eh. Tell that to those who died during one of those bandit raids. Tell that to the men who I took with me and fell to bring those bandits to justice. For the great good you dare have the audacity to say.” She reached behind her back and grabbed a pair of manacles she kept out of habit. She unhooked them from her jerkin and threw them on the desk. The steel slid slowly across the wood leaving little scratches along it.

“For the greater good then put these on.”

“Emily I cannot do that you know. What would the townsfolk think?” He stood up and took a step back away from the manacles.

“What would the townsfolk say if I tell them what you did and nothing came of it. We are here to serve justice both our law, job, and god dictates that no one is above the law.”

“But I brought peace to this area. I squashed the orc tribes that used to harass travelers. I cut a deal with those bandits because one bandit group in the south reduced the total amount of raids and made the roads safer. I have done so much for this place and for you. This is how you wish to repay me?” He took another step back towards his coat rack.

“You taught me that justice is for both the poor and rich. You also said both uncivilized and civilized people deserve the same amount of justice. Yet you stand here and dare say that after all those years and teachings the law will not apply to you. Who do you think you are?”

“I am your father.”

Emily faltered and stopped for a moment now realizing she had a hand on her sheathed sword and was slowly advancing on her father. She was halfway around the desk when she stopped. Tears filled her eyes as she realized that indeed this was her father. She remembered the cold jail cells and the cries of pain that filled the hallways when she did her time as a guard there. She remembered the crying women as their men were hauled off to the gallows. Even the tears of men as they realized what punishment was awaiting them either in the cell or in the gallows. She lowered her head and looked at the floor watching a few drops fall to the floor.

“Your right you are my father. I’m sorry but I have to follow the law. You taught me that much.”

“Then I am sorry for the both of us.”

He had pulled out his sword and leaped forward to pierce her heart. His words spoken out of love though had given her warning. She turned to the side and the sword glanced off the supple chain mail she wore underneath her jerkin. The tip of the sword still drew a cut along her skin but it did not go deep. She looked up at her fathers eyes and realized what he meant to do. Taking a step back she drew her sword and slashed at his hand hoping to disarm him. He parried her strike with experience and swung again this time aiming for her neck. Her right arm came up instinctively to block but lacking her armed gauntlet she was used to the blade bit into her forearm into the bone. She screamed out in pain causing her father to freeze for a moment. When she regained control she used her right hand to grasp the blade and her left arm to drive the blade into her fathers belly. He tried to pull the blade away. Twisting it and pulling attempting to cut her hand enough the muscles would fail. She gripped it because her life depended on it. Blood spilling down onto the floor in large amounts. Her strength was quickly leaving her but she also felt him weaken. She pushed the blade in at an angle deeper and deeper into him until he released his sword and fell to the floor. She quickly followed him to the floor after throwing his sword across the room. She knelt over him mentally preparing the words she needed for a prayer. She knew she would only get one prayer off but she needed to heal him. All those times she fell as a child and he would help her up and kiss away the pain came to her mind. Tears blurring her vision while blood covered everything it could stick to. She reached to his face to say the prayer and he looked into her eyes. The light in his eyes started to fade and he tried to mumble something. She tried to say the words to heal him but could not. Darkness enveloped both of them.

A fading sun’s light pierced through the window. She found her self surrounded by soft. A fuzzy brown world was all she could see. Except a pinpoint of light shone through a hole and found its way into her eyes. She tried to roll over but a sharp pain in her right arm woke her. She tried to sit up but failed. An old man was sitting on a chair nearby reading a book.

“My dad?”

The old man looked up at her with compassion in his eyes. He set the book down to move closer to her.

“He is dead. I could not save him. We did however find the remains of the parchment. We figured out what happened and healed you the best we could. Your lucky the young captain wanted to personally deliver a report when they got back into town. If he had not found you both you and your father would be sharing the same afterlife together.”

“I wish he would have found me later. I do not know if I can bear the shame of living now.”

“Tisk tisk. You will be alright. It was not your fault he had allowed corruption to grow inside him. Besides the people here need you. They need another justiciar one that they could look up to and set an example for those who struggle against evil.”

“Why would they believe in me? I almost failed. If he had not…..”

“You did not fail though. Love is not a fault. Nor is it a weakness. You have done something few can ever achieve. Many preached it but when the time comes for them they find themselves wanting. You were measured my dear. I have found you to be more than enough.”

“You found me. Who are you? Are you from the council?”

“I am from a council of sorts. I just know that you shall live and I hope you shall uphold the laws in this area for the people.” The old man stood up and a cane appeared out of nowhere. He walked towards the door and opened it.

“Wait a moment. Who, what, where”

The old man appeared to hear nothing as he walked out of the room closing the door behind him. The book on the floor lay there for a moment and she looked over and read the title. ‘The weight of justice’ She pondered for a moment then shook her head. She put her arms to her face and cried as both the pain and the memories filled her up. The tears poured out but the memory still stayed fresh in her mind. When she finally opened her eyes she looked at the hands that killed her father. With hatred and contempt she realized she never wanted to look at those hands again. Though the right one was bandaged up completely she reached over with it until she found her boots on the side of the bed. Pulling a knife from them she held it while pondering the next action. Cutting off her hands would not do as it would take too long and she would pass out before she could finish. Seeing her only option left she quickly thrust it into her left eye and while the pain filled her she stabbed into her right eye screaming out in both pain and rage darkness became her world. The vision of the dagger the last thing she saw as she again passed out.

Years later people would enter the town of Marmauth and marvel at how nice the town was. The lack of crime and seemingly wonderful place out in the middle of a lawless land. They would sometimes question a guard on how the place came to be. All of them would hear the tale of Emily the blind. Justiciar of the town. Who killed her own corrupt father when she found out and he attacked her. Who was blinded by the Gods themselves so she would dish out justice equally and evenly. She at a young age became the woman who lead the town in establishing law around the area for 2 days ride in every direction. One who applied laws to everyone including herself and others who entered the land. One who made peace with an barbarian tribe to the west who respected her as one of their own.

Monday, November 15, 2004

So tonight ends a week of disappointments. I get paid and realize that the amount I pulled in sadly pales in comparison to what I owe. I want to do so much more but funds are lacking. Pondering a part time job of sorts. Who knows. Also tonight marks a night where I censure myself for various reasons that I will keep to myself. Thoughts and feelings that have occurred which trouble me deeply and make me ponder what paths will be chosen during 2005. Family members who make mistakes or screw up royally and I get to hear about it through my mother. I want to be there for my family but often I have to choose either friends or family. If I choose family it involves a monetary expenditure and a small amount of risk both legally and financially if my car breaks down. In the past quite often I have chosen my friends. It bothers me to think that I have turned out like my father. My mother named me after him because I was his first born. Now I wonder if I am living up to the name with my deeds. Though I choose my friends because it is the path of least resistance. it is the easy choice. I should not talk about self-improvement unless this is an aspect I am working on. Either way here is something I wrote that is completely different from my current line of thought. It is removed from anything that has anything to do with me. It is something I wrote because I did not want to write about something else. Sorry.

The warmth of the car fading as I sit in the drivers seat. Looking at the front of my house I notice that there are no lights on. Nor is her car in the driveway. Weird, she is always home before me. She is always there for me when I got off work. I remember the short conversation today during my lunch break that was interrupted by my boss. I had to cut her off in the middle of a heated discussion. It bordered almost an argument. I wonder is she took my having to go the wrong way. Sitting there in my rapidly getting cold car I almost am afraid of going inside the house. What will I find. Will she come home tonight? Should I stay up. So many thoughts fill my mind just off a simple assumption. I guess I should not assume anything. Who knows perhaps she went to the store. I get out of my car mist forming in the air as I breathe. I close the car door and lock it remotely while walking to the doorway. I grasp the knob and it chills my hand as it is cold. I attempt to turn it and find out it is locked. I pull out my keys and shiver a moment as cold sinks deeper into my hand while I insert the key into the door. A turn and it unlocks and opens. I pull my key out and enter the building. I flick a light switch to avoid tripping. The warmth wraps around me as I head into the kitchen. I press the answering machine button while I pass by it still heading towards the kitchen. A day of work and no food leaves me hungry. While I stand there searching the refrigerator for nourishment the answering machine gives me a sad, ‘No New Messages’. I reheat some leftover spaghetti and throw a slice of cheese on top. While its doing its laps in the microwave I wander to the dining table to check if any mail was there. A few bills keep me occupied before a ding informs me that my food is done. I pull it out and eat it while watching the news on TV.

So many different little activities that I do to keep my mind off the topic that concerns me the most. Where was she. Why did she not leave a message on the answering machine? Is she ok? While worry is pushed in back of my mind I gather up my mess and then head into the bedroom. Perhaps I should sleep on the couch so when she returns I will wake up. Perhaps I should leave blankets on the couch so she wont wake me up? That would seem selfish. Ug I will just go to bed and hope she wakes me. While I busy myself in the bathroom I come out and notice a piece of paper on the pillow. I bend down and read it. The words slowly come but as I keep reading it goes quicker. She said that this has all been progressional. Why did I not see it coming. Looks like I am sleeping alone tonight.

Monday, November 08, 2004

So the month of November is national novel writing month. There is a website that is dedicated to it. With a goal to write a novel in a month. Fifty thousand words in a month. That’s a lot of words. To simply take an idea and put it forth with reckless abandon. To write it all out and get it done in a single month. I wanted to try and prepared myself with a story idea but ended up failing in it. I lack the dedication and the discipline. So instead of a novel or even a chapter to said novel you get this. A short message saying sorry nothing to see here continue on. That is sadly not the way I work. I cannot leave people with nothing and it is not like I do not have something to write about it is just that it is not a novel or anyway in relation to a book. Its just another group of random words and thoughts strung together during a late night while I consume caffeine.
“I wont let this build up inside of me.”
Those words are repeated over and over again during the song. Almost as if he is saying it to convince himself. I can picture him sitting in a chair with a guitar playing it with his eyes closed while singing the song. Still though those words pierce into my heart. They burn across my flesh. A hot brand that marks me for all to see. A slave of sorts not to a man or woman but to my feelings and emotional thunderstorms.
“I wont let this build up inside of me”
I say it slowly. Hoping to catch the words hanging in midair. I could repeat it over and over but still I would never be able to achieve it. I reach for my arm and look for the words but they have since disappeared. All the remains is the memory to comfort me while I sleep.

Tuesday, November 02, 2004

Sunday I went to a fetish ball. It wasn’t really a ball more like a gallery so people could put on display their lifestyle or put forth an image of what they wish to be. People dressed up as idols or dreams. Hope put forth by some guys seeking attention or to catch the eye of a woman or another man. Women dressing themselves up to be appealing or mysterious. Sometimes either dress up in very little or they dress up so far the only sight you see of them is their eyes out from under layers of black or white makeup. I went to this with friends who wished to see how the scene was. I had my reasons for going but for the most part I went for observation and for entertainment. The main theme of the night was S&M or Sadism & Masochism. My own history being that I have masochistic tendencies that I keep only to myself nurturing my own inner sadist. So I went along to watch. To observe and see what I found out regarding my two friends and other people in the area. It was a dark and smoky place that brought back memories of the past to my mind. The smoke made my eyes water while the memories made my silent. Sitting in the background watching is a pastime of mine. Ranging from watching people out of the corner of my eye while reading a book or just observing society in general. Storing a bit here and there for future ideas and writing concepts this place gave me lots to use. From a girl wearing nothing more than two leaves carefully glued and a rubber snake to cover her top while a short skirt covered her bottom. To someone wrapped up almost completely in leather leaving everything up to the imagination. The culture of Goth has grown greatly since its humble beginnings. Now its mass marketed and has a chain of stores in the malls everywhere. For a moment I wondered if the S&M culture would also grow like that too. Will we soon be able to buy at Wal-mart a pair of handcuffs complete with a leather whip? Will they have in the toy section ‘Betsy’s First S&M kit?’ How long till it becomes customary to hit your lover playfully with a whip before a passionate session? How long till its out in the open and everyone is doing it on some level or another? While people fake it and gently tap each other to add a bit of spice to those who whip each other and leave welts that disappear in a few days? At the other end of the spectrum you have those who take razorblades and draw lines of blood and pain across their skin so they may enjoy the sensation with their lover in a twist of sin. What draws the line though or will it become an all accepting culture open from one to all. From Billy the boy scout to Sally the local slut. I imagine it is good overall but it still seems sad as it is an end of a time that once existed where such was held privately and the only ones taking part were the two who were sharing the experience.
So I stand there a crowd of people bunched around me. The room was tightly packed so much I was pushed against the corner. Someone near me kept me from poking my head completely around the corner so I stood there watching with one eye. I felt like I was a trespasser onto someone else’s ecstasy. I was felt so dirty not because I was watching an act that is in general looked down upon by Christian society but I felt dirty because I dared to watch something that is private to others. How would someone who practiced S&M feel with me watching there like they were zoo animals waiting for their food. I stood there watching helpless to my own desires. I wanted to leave but I could not remove my eyes from the gentle caresses of leather against the skin. I could not pull away from the look of care that was in the eyes of those wielding the whip. I stood there watching basking in my own filth knowing I should be ashamed for this voyeuristic act. I should be ashamed for not doing it myself. I should have went a go and let someone whip me or whip someone else but the S&M thing is about trust and I sadly do not trust myself nor anyone else at this point. As I watched and my friends looked at me when they were done doing it I wondered if they could see beyond my façade and see the me underneath. I knew though such an act does not make one super powered and they could not but I felt shamed that I came with them and instead of taking part of the whole party I stood back and watched. I felt ashamed I was a trespasser on this culture that embodies trust between two people. I was a voyeur upon their world and instead of taking a step out and say Hey this is part of me too I shrank back and hid behind clouds of smoke and dark lights. So much happened that night so much sensations both inside and out. New things were all around and new things were felt. Like that moment though rather than coming out and say something I hide behind my façade. I will never be a part of such because one cannot trust others fully unless you present real self and remove any masks hiding your heart.
It has been a few days but over the past few days I have been mulling over some thoughts in my head. It is amazing how private ones thoughts really are. With the invention of the Internet and even before then there has been a way to record thoughts in a forum that was public. Before that there was a journal and even before than writings on cave walls. One of the things that amazes me is still what you write down even if it will not get read how censored do you make it. How far does your mind go to prevent everything from spilling out. Even if there was no censor and what you could write down was completely everything sometimes thoughts or dreams do not translate into words. So often I wish I could just scream out everything in my mind that my hands fail to communicate in writing. My mind does not know a language. It does not understand grammar. It is a complex and flowing avalanche that rushed down the mountainside of my psyche until it finally settles into a valley. From there it settles and remains a motionless sculpture long since lost the edge or power it had while it was moving. I do not know the English language. I cannot apply such to the rushing past of words, feelings, thoughts, and sounds. How can my hands using a limited form of communication dare to translate this idea fully. So I must censor. I must filter it out or try to sift through what has settled and pull the picture back out of it. Its either attempt to translate in the mists of the powerful phenomenon. I try so hard but fail so much. Sometimes I think I have achieved something closer but as I step back and remember the scene how it was when it was roaring down the side of my psyche I understand I translated it poorly. Like a child trying to draw a picture of his house I am a child trying to write down a life changing moment and all I have are such simple tools.

Monday, October 25, 2004

Because the random group of words I just dumped out onto the screen is not really enough here is a thought.

A bit more than I thought but oh well. Sadly it has happened to me that I went to school with and attended various activities with a person but do not remember them from such. Perhaps some repressed memories I do not know. Each person has their own take on life growing up in high school. The memories we retain fit to the ideal we want. I have the not so good school memories. I was not the in crowd person. I was the loner. How much of it is a fabrication of my own psyche constructed to maintain a delusion I do not know. Little things like people who I do not remember or things that happened differently from my memory appear and occur. Sometimes I ponder the idea of attending the 10year reunion to find out more but doubt it would help me. What really occurred in my childhood during those years at high school are forever lost. The little bit I have retained I have to remind myself is shaded with a skewed vision. Little acts of kindness that occurred but I do not remember now does not mean they did not happen. It means I did not want to remember them to keep up the delusion I fabricated. At least that’s what I think so far. I could be wrong and my memories could be 100% correct and the person could be just a rare error. Who knows anymore for I truly do not.

The sun had long since set. The darkness in the hallways broken by the occasional glow of a exit sign. The night was definitely a good time to scout out the building. Paul wandered around up and down the hallways working in his mind the distance and how things will go down. He counted footsteps and possible places he could hide a backpack or sack with a surprise. As a part time janitor he had free access to the building after everyone had left. He was also in charge of making sure any vandalism that happened was reported quickly. So he had a phone that was paid for by the school. As he wandered down each hallway he took careful note where the sprinklers were and the sensors. The thought of an oncoming cold winter made him smile as he thought about his classmates trapped like rats. Horrible things yet to come made him smile while he wandered down the hallways. As he wandered he notice a light was still shining from the library. He grabbed his flashlight and prepped the wireless phone for an emergency call and headed down that way. As he came to the doors they were open and inside there was soft music playing way in the back. Slowly he entered with his guard up wondering if some seniors were preparing a prank for the librarian in the morning. As the spotlight scanned the aisle ways he noticed a small figure hunched over a table. They had a lamp between him and them. He could not see their face but could see the vague outline of a book on the table. He turned off his flashlight so he could watch more before deciding what to do. So he slowly walked up until he was 20 feet away and waited. Still the light was in his way so he moved a bit over to the side and saw the figure was a girl. She had been apparently reading for a while as there was a few other books sitting on the table next to her. She had three total open while reading intently on one. One of her hands was holding a spot in another book and a can of soda kept the third open. She would read from one then jump to the other. Then a quick look up at the can then back to the first book again. Paul stood there and watched for quite a while unnoticed.

The moment was broken by the cackle of the walkie-talkie function of his phone. A voice appeared in the room and startled the girl.

‘Paul I am over at the east entrance. Can you come and let me in? I left my work bag in my office.’

‘Um ok give me a sec to get over there.’ Paul responded into his phone. The while time he was looking straight into her eyes as she had looked up and turned towards him. Paul released the button on his phone and looked straight at her.

‘I will be back in a bit. Please continue what you were doing. Though I have some questions on why your still here at this hour.’ Paul turned and headed towards the entrance. Stopping for a moment at the library doors to close them to avoid questions from the teacher who left his bag. He hurried down the hallway towards the east entrance. As he got to the door he pulled out his keys and quickly unlocked it. He recognized the teacher as one of the math teachers. He escorted him to his office and let him unlock it and then waited for the teacher to emerge from his office. While he stood there in the hallway he thought back to the moment he had with the girl. He could not remember who she was. Which was odd as he had recently taken inventory of his classmates with the yearbook. There was 12 who did not have pictures in his class of 230. Perhaps she could be one of those. If so which one? As he stood there lost in his own world the teacher had emerged and relocked his door. The jumble of the teachers keys shook Paul from his stupor and he escorted him back to the east entrance. Waiving goodbye to the teacher, he locked the door and headed back to the library.

When he got to the library the doors were still closed. He opened them and saw the scene had not changed. She was still off in her own little world reading oblivious to his return. As he walked closer he bumped a chair.

‘I have permission from the librarian to study here for a bit. I was just looking up something written by Neitzche. Sometimes I think he is brilliant but then he says something completely stupid.’

‘And what would you know about Neitzche?’

‘I know that I am the truth and you lack understanding of it still.’ She looked up at him with a smug smile on her face while closing the books. Paul looked at her somewhat puzzled by her statement.

‘I take it you have not read anything of Neitzche?’

‘Only when I wish to go to sleep.’

‘Funny but you should read him sometime. He is sometimes an intelligent man.’

‘Sometimes? One would think he would be able to achieve that all the time.’

‘Sadly no but oh well. My name is Sarah. How can I help you?’

‘I’m Paul I patrol these borders keeping safe from orcs who dare try to invade the southern land.’

Sarah stood up and walked towards Paul with a hand extended. When he responded she got a phone pressed into her hand.

‘Um sorry I forgot I was still holding onto that.’ Paul awkwardly placed the phone and flashlight on his belt. Then he extended his left hand. Realizing his error he pulled it back and thrust out his right hand. They shook hands after much buildup and for a moment no one spoke.

‘I don’t remember you being here last year.’ Paul broke the silence as he still could not place her in the yearbook.'

‘I wasn’t here I took a year off because of family issues.’

‘Ah still I do not remember you at all. I thought I knew all my classmates but not you.’

‘Weird I know you though. I remember you were in art group freshman year. We did the haunted house thing remember?’

‘I remember that but still not you.’

‘I hung out with Amy and Stephanie. Don’t you remember? Suddenly I feel so unappreciated. I helped you setup your background for your mad scientist gig. Also the three of us invited you to Amy’s house for drinks afterwards.’

‘Still drawing a blank. I remember Amy and Steph. Still for some reason I am drawing a blank on you. Weird.’

‘Then lets make new memories as I have been curious what everyone has been up to while I have been gone. Do you have to stay here the whole night or can you go get coffee with me?’

‘I am only here till 8pm then I can leave. Though I doubt anyone would notice if I left early. Do you have a location in mind?’

‘Yes there is a little café off of main that has some good coffee and a decent atmosphere.’

‘Wonderful then meet me there in 10minutes then?’

‘Actually it would take longer as I don’t have a car.’

‘No problem I can give you a ride. Let me do a quick scan of the building and meet me by the west entrance. Also don’t forget to turn off the lights.’

‘No problem see you soon.’

‘don’t forget to close the doors also, and put the books away I would have for anyone to get into trouble for the Mrs. Crenshaw’s decision to let you stay here after school hours.’
Paul quickly walked away as he had some new things to ponder and as he stood there talking to her a number of things could have happened to the rest of the building. While Paul did his routine search he focused not on hiding spots or areas where he could maintain cover and still target people but he actually searched for intruders. Suddenly the thought of hurting people who hurt him or laughed at such disappeared. The critical eye scanning for faults was replaced by a smile and eyes full of life.
It all comes back to this. If I could think of a point in existence where I can return to and start over this moment would be it. It would be a moment of truth and no lies. For who can I lie to at this point? Reality is there presenting me with a problem. I cannot deny the feelings presented. I cannot deny the pain that is slowly rising to the forefront of my mind. The direct consequences of my actions is felt immediately. I could sit here and deny everything or make up some half-truth to cover up for it. I could sit and I could fabricate a reality that would coincide with the future I desire. There are lot of things I can do but it will not deny the simple fact. Nothing I will do will make the objects disappear. Nothing I will do will prevent me from continuing the course I have set. This weekend a few plans I have been working on were set into motion. Nothing devious simple things that I would not pursue in the past. Simple things that mean a great deal in the long run. Self improvement is masturbation. That quote kept me from seriously considering self improvement. I know that self destruction will not lead me to what I seek. Nor will it help in my journey to find out what the heck I really want. I have found out from experience that self-delusion leads me nowhere but to the point I am at now. There are two paths I could take in pursuit of the self-delusion. One would be the delusions of grandeur. The other path I have seen is an early burial. Previously I have pondered both paths. I never planned on living to be 21. Nor did I plan on making it to 25. As the years roll by I realize that I have to choose a course or else I will fail utterly. The impetuous visions of youth that drove me to not seek society. Little did I know then that you can make it what you want. I always thought it was this big monster out to consume me. Now it is not. It is a lot of smaller monsters that can be geared or pushed along into the reality that is comfortable for many. What did I know then? I also realize I know very little now. I am as much as a monster as so many others are. I see this so the first step in moving the monsters towards the reality I want is to start with myself. Self-improvement will be key in that. Simple things like just walking away from that which I do not like. If I do not have the courage to walk away or the drive to leave then perhaps I do like what ever it is. I remember getting crap about simple things from my friends and I stood there and either smiled or laughed or asked for silence. I must work on simply walking away. Perhaps a clue will be captured and they will realize I no longer wish for such. Will all this go to naught and I find myself in this position again. I will call it static null. If I find myself in static null again pondering the same thing I will have to recommit myself. Either with words, actions, or blood. Change is never easy nor is it ever quick ( Actually sometimes it is quick but usually with violence). It will happen given time. Self-improvement is not masturbation at least not all the time. It is if your improving for ego validation. They stand there lifting the weights on the machines while at the same time stroking their ego until they get off. To seek improvement for a higher state of being or for achieving something physically in your grasp I do not see as self-gratification. So for improvement and change. Starting with little things like appearance and working towards higher functions like mental capacity and thought process.

Thursday, October 21, 2004

Nothing could really get more random than this. Another night of nothing but the same crap as the previous night.

I push my fingers into my eyes…
Clawing them out to blind myself. The dream continues on. Never to end as long as I am willing to suffer it. Simple things that edge their way into my mind. Covering topics like shoes to sandals. A whole dissection on my car pondering the individual parts waiting to break on me. Slowly each piece readies itself to turn my machine of motion into a machine of fire. Death on wheels rolling along the highway burning the skin off its driver while burning off its paint. Leaving a slight acidic smell behind me. Clenching my mouth on the exhaust hoping to breath in life. Life from the machine what more will the future hold? Sweet delicious carbon monoxide enough for me to share but I hold it all inside knowing others wont appreciate it like I do. So I drive along with full knowledge of the disaster waiting to happen. I know soon my fuel injection line will split open and spray the inside of the engine compartment with gas. Then a spark from the electrical system as I turn up my stereo to block out the voices in my head. Soon an explosion will be heard but confused with a thump of the bass. Smoke billowing out the side of the car I keep driving knowing this will be the last time I will drive this machine. This will be the last time I am in control. As soon as I stop I will lose control and I will lose my car. I will lose my mind along with the things I love. The things that I hate will consume me while I struggle to maintain the sense of loss because I wont miss the things I don’t remember about.
So I push my fingers into my eyes….
…and dream the dream given to me by another. Rock music pounding my eardrums while I sleep. The dreams breathed into my mind by a sold out singer. Someone seeking to make a few more dollars had figured out how to combine the words thread with red. Songs that begin with “Let it go” filling the air with waves of bass and weird sounds from a keyboard. Drowning in an acoustic spiral of filth hoping to find something clean to latch onto. This wave, this struggle, this night, this dream pulling me under slowly. The more I struggle the slower I am pulled under but I know there is no way out. Blackness consumes me and I fear for my soul.
The sudden break given by a voice of clarity. A loud voice speaking the words that free me, ‘Fuck your prefect. Your reflection.’ The struggle to be who I am not suddenly ceased for the moment while my mind comprehends the idea of only being myself. The brief moment before the voices in my head proclaim I am nothing at all so copying something else is the only way that I can define the I in my existence. Still suffering the delusions that I will make a difference. The bass line on a song pulls me back into lethargy and the audio vortex latches onto me again as a multitude of voices proclaim themselves as a way to incivility. I don’t want to breath anymore. I don’t want to see anymore. I don’t want to suffer anymore. Most of all I do not want to feel anymore. None of the songs have the answer to total numbness interrupted by moments of pain brought on by hatred. Nor do they have the answer for moments wasted waiting for a asteroid to wipe out humanity from the world. Still salvaging my identity from the twister is the single phrase, ‘Fuck your perfection!’ The lonely words spoken out in anger and passion freeing me from the claws of demons seeking to doom me to mediocrity. There are no excuses for my weakness. Nor is there any examples of people like me succeeding. There are books filled with those who failed. Those who were reduced to a shadow of their former self from drugs. Those who attempted to free themselves but failed either by their own fault or something walking in. Everyday something new hits me and chills me. The cold wind blowing through my heart echo’s and rattles my ears. There are no excuses to continue. The only point is to suffer more and hope that in the end it will be worth something more.