| House and I... |
[24 Sep 2009|08:37am] |
Today I wrote this for an assignment:
"There was a time when I would have said that motives didn’t matter. I was wrong."
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| A Waking Dream |
[26 Jun 2009|02:37pm] |
The fires had started. It had been a brief and vicious fight, no doubt some flames would spring in the buildings. The leader walked slowly down the chaotic street, most of the civilians were gone. Now only dead enemy soldiers occupied the roadway. He held his rifle in one hand and gestured to his radio man. He headed into a building.
Later his own radio squawked. "Sir, we have the hostages. We count three zero."
"Roger, hold position."
"Roger."
The leader took a breath, now it was time to tell command that he had taken the city prematurely, just to save thirty lives.
Was that why he did it? That's what he would say, he lifted his radio just as his peripheral vision registered a threat.
His duck let his head stay safely underneath the blade as it passed above. Then the charging enemy soldier's body slammed into his own. Rolling to his left, the leader came to his feet and aimed his rifle but a moment too slow as a quick swipe of the enemy's sword took it out of his hands. The enemy shifted his hold on his sword and brought it back on a returning swipe for the leader's torso. The leader staggered back a bit as his body armor took most of the blow and stopped the blade short of any skin. He ducked underneath the next swing and landed a kick on his opponent's exposed shoulder.
The enemy fell backwards and the leader swung around, looking for his weapon. Only seconds were available to him, he grabbed a fallen soldier's machete and pulled his combat knife just in time to meet his opponent's sword with an X block in front of his face. For a brief moment they stared at each other, blowing tired and angry breath and spittle at each other. The leader shoved and started swinging his machete wildly, hoping for an opening in his enemy's defenses. There was none and his opponent's sword gave him a longer reach. They struck and parried for a couple of more seconds. His enemy's sword coming close to taking off his head several more times. Finally he stepped inside the attacks and locked their blades down low and then snapped his neck forward, bringing a crushing blow from his helmet to his enemy's forehead. His enemy staggered back again and then spun on his heel to bring a swipe from the outside. The leader spun on his own heel and came inside the swipe and stabbed the machete, hard. And then they stopped. The leader stared as his enemy dropped slowly to his knees.
"Idiot" spat his enemy.
The leader sighed and dropped the machete and found his rifle. He had seen this in movies, where the enemy is defeated and then tries to come up with some defiant message before dying or being put away for life.
"The time of evil dictatorships and the power of one over many is done. Your time is over" said the leader.
"And then what? Do you think this new world will be inherited by the strong? By the men of action?" asked the enemy. For a moment, the leader was taken by the voice of his enemy.
"No," cried, the enemy, "the weak will take this world from you and lead it to its end. Do you fight for them? Do you hope to save them? They will be the end of men like you and me."
The leader said nothing, for his own thoughts were reflected by his enemy's words.
"I want nothing in such a world. End me"
The leader bent forward, grabbing his enemy's sword. He paused, taking a deep breath, "Don't look away"
Their eyes locked as the leader's arm snapped out, bringing the blade through his opponent's neck. The leader then turned around and watched as the city burned...
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| Think what you want... |
[10 Jun 2009|05:57pm] |
House: You did good.
Foreman: I did what you would have.
House: Well maybe I'm biased but...
Foreman: I tortured a kid
House: Because you knew it was right. You knew you were saving his brother.
Foreman: I know, I don't like that I know, I hate that I can listen to a kid screaming in pain and not even take a moment to question what I'm doing. I hate that in order to be like you as a doctor, I have to be like you as a human being. I don't wanna turn into you.
House: You're not...you've been like me since you were eight years old.
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| I hate them |
[13 May 2009|04:57pm] |
The people outside the window.
Not, personally, I guess. What they represent.
It's nothing really. Just a bunch of kids talking about how they will miss each other all summer, high fiving each other in preparation for next year's parties and laughing about all the stupid shit they did this semester. They annoy the fuck out of me.
I guess that sounds harsh. I know I don't care if it does.
The fact is college is the biggest waste of my time. The fact is I sit here, wanting to do something that matters and all anyone outside can think of is; "Where's the next party?"
Oh you might say that is a stereotype, but stereotypes exist for a reason. And, even if there are those out there who don't fit that stereotype, as I am sure there are, they don't want change. They may say they do. But then why not do it? Why not go and do it rather then sit here and take classes from those who never have and never will change things?
Why am I here? I could say its because I have to be and it that would be true. To do what I want to do, to be the leader I want to be, I need to take an arbitrary set of lessons from someone's book on what it takes. But, most of the time, I wonder the same thing.
Do I have to be around these people?
And, no, I don't think its an overreaction. I guess people have the right to live for whatever they wish and for many that may be the path of least resistance, challenge or thought. But as we do live in an amazingly free nation of thought and speech, I have every right to insult that line of reasoning and the people who flaunt it. So...
I just want you to know, that most college kids, their attitudes and their actions, represent, to me, everything that is wrong with this world.
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| Disturbed |
[31 Mar 2009|01:40pm] |
I was asked recently why I still write in livejournal being that I don't care what anyone thinks or says about me. Considering that premise...it was a good question. At the time I gave a rather crappy answer. It certainly was a need met when I write on livejournal. But it wasn't the reason, not the reason I have in mind while actually writing them.
Some of you will sigh during the sentences that follow. That, I don't care about.
The reason I write in livejournal is I want prove that it matters still. Not me or what I write about necessarily. I want someone to read it and, not think of me, but acknowledge something about it.
I want to be right, but more than that, so much more than that, I want to be reaffirmed in my belief that it matters. That it still means something to someone else to be right.
And again. Not for anyone's sake but my own. If there is no one else who believes it matters to be right, or, by extension, if there is no one else left daring to be wrong...there will be no one to fight.
A month or two back, I was doing a simulation for ROTC (Reserved Officer Training Corps). Some things could have went better. While I was being evaluated I heard phrases like "Well, that might be, but when you get graded you should...", "that's one way but another way is...", "Why did you do that? Don't you know the book says it this way?"
All I wanted to hear was this: "You were wrong." But he couldn't say it. No one could. Is there anyone left to say it?
Oh yes, I don't mind hearing I was wrong. It brings me almost as much as pleasure as being right. But that is simply because I don't believe there is much else to be had. Certainly, some things leave themselves to the realm of opinion, but it is only a very few. When people tell you "You can't know that", "You're assuming", "You're being arrogant", they simply mean to say they don't dare to be wrong and, again, by extension, to be right.
So to those who say "Oh you'll die alone being right, so don't get caught up on it", "That's just your opinion, you can't know, everyone can have their opinion", "the two answers are different, not better or worse than one another", I say "You're wrong."
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| Wild? |
[02 Mar 2009|12:17pm] |
So the other night, my resident hall held this social titled "Wild, Wild West". As a resident assistant, I had to help out and I eased my own pain by volunteering to run the poker table the whole night. Definitely saw lots of bad poker playing...
Anyways, point of the story, about three quarters of the way through the night, that awful song "It's getting hot in here" came on and inevitably people started to pretend to strip. (Everyone's actually sober at these things, believe it or not) Well this one kid actually takes his shirt off, then his belt and kept making motions like he was going for his pants, but instead just "danced" on a table.
I chuckled a little bit, mostly because the guy was pencil thin and acting a bit out of usual character. I went back to shuffling the deck and got ready to deal out the next hand when I noticed one of my players was taking a picture with her cell phone, so was another girl at the table and a guy...and then I noticed tons of people around the room were taking pictures. I don't know why it annoyed me but it did. I kept dealing.
Then yesterday it hit me(in the shower...if you must know.)About six of the fifteen people taking pictures actually know the kid...less than half. And yet all those people, including the nine who don't him are going to go put those pictures on their facebook and talk about how awesome their life is. And I realized, people love having a good time. They drive themselves to have a good time, to be relaxed, to be comfortable and to have fun. They'll even endure some things they don't enjoy doing or experiencing as long as, out the other side, it looks like they will have a good time. But what people want, what they have to have if all else fails...
is for everyone to think they're having a good time.
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| Since it's worth writing about... |
[09 Feb 2009|10:56am] |
So, during January, I went to Airborne school in Fort Benning, Georgia. The following is what jumping out of an airplane is like for me:
"Inboard personnel, stand up" I feel the strain of the parachute harness as I repeat the command and then stand up.
"Hook up!" Repeat and then the thought hits me, "Am I ready? What if I'm not? What if I'm scared?" They continue shouting commands and, on autopilot, yet attentive, I repeat and carry out. Suddenly I remember back to the beginning when my Sergeant told me the best look is the look on people's faces when they open the door. The look says "Oh shit, we're actually going to jump."
But what will mine say? The butterflies start to rise. Then, the air force guy opens the door and the air rushes in. When it hits me, instead of fear, all I feel is the melody to this tune with the starting words "they fall in line, one at a time, ready to play."
"One minute!" I repeat while hearing "Fire your guns its time to run, blow me away."
"Thirty seconds!" Repeat. "Only the strongest will survive, lead me to heaven when we die."
"Standby!" The jumper in front of me squares up on the door and the jumpmaster reaches for, but does not quite grab my static line. Our eyes meet. He sees my face. He doesn't laugh, we both nod.
We wait.
Green.
"Go!" She jumps, I step forward. "I have a shadow on the wall, I'll be the one to save us all."
Hand off, turn, step and then the strongest wind I have ever felt blowing me backwards, past the tail of the aircraft. Three seconds pass and then my back feels the jerk upwards and my helmet is slammed forward. Then...silence.
I look up. Around. The world is floating by. Silence.
After a long forty seconds or so, the ground rushes to meet me. My feet touch the ground and then I hit, shift, rotate and eventually end up on my back...in the mud, but unhurt. For a second I watch as my canopy silently falls in front of me. Then nothing but blue sky hovers over me and I all I know is:
I have to get back up there...to fall again.
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| Christmas Eve |
[18 May 2008|09:09pm] |
If I ever got excited about Christmas too long beforehand, I would get impatient and annoyed. That is why I always hated those chain link countdown things, they were a dumb way to keep reminding yourself a certain day was not here yet.
Still, it does seem to be the day before a certain event. If not the day then certainly one of the last days.
Tomorrow, I begin my journey to BASIC and tuesday, training begins. That's right, I joined the United States Army Reserves. It's exciting, even if exciting does not seem like the right word. Beginning might be a better word for it. Yes, that fits nicely. It's a beginning, something new and it feels great to be doing that because for the last two or three years of my life I have been wanting to do something new and drastic yet never really found the time in my busy schedule.
Why did I do it?
I saw nothing in the lives around me that convinced me I should stay. I saw nothing horrible in some of the most influential lives around me, but nothing compelling me to do the same. And then, there are horrible things here. Things I am not upset to leave behind. Things I am happy to leave behind.
Perhaps it is time for some amount of confession...
I have come to loathe the life I have lived for at least the past two years. Not necessarily the people, though I do hate some of them and not necessarily the surroundings. It is a ripe time for change and nothing really feels all too wrong about this decision.
Part of me wants to make this entry a parting shot. A bit of revenge for the times I have been wounded. Yet, at the hour of its execution, I find myself unwilling to make the killing blow. Maybe this indicates some level of feeling left in me and if it stays, that won't be a bad thing. And if it does leave me for good, might as well retain what little is left for now. At any rate, I would rather my last words serve as some type of explanation.
There may be some of you speculating as to why certain things have transpired in my life. For those of you who have become distant from me, you may wonder why. For those of you watched me drop certain beliefs and activities, you may also wonder why or what changed in me. I could launch into many reasons, all of them good, for why I have become what I am. But, quite honestly, most of you are not worth the discharge of words. I think it would be too early for such an admittance. My words to heavy for to become any real matter for the readers to lay their hands on. A select few might be able to handle them and one or two might actually run with them. To them I give an apology.
To the others...I say this...I did it for the same reason I do everything;
It was the right thing to do. It was the truth and I do so love the truth.
Don't worry though, folks, I will be back before you know it and, minus a few more muscles, probably relatively unchanged, much to the despair of most of you. Sorry, but I am not sorry.
If this all seems a bit harsh, seriously, who cares?
However, should life become too easy or lack certain amounts of sarcasm and wit while I am gone, I recommend tv shows such as "The Colbert Report," "House," and "Gilmore Girls." Yes, I really do.
Well, perhaps I shall leave you with some words. But not mine. The words, rather, of Friedrich Nietzsche, an atheist. An atheist who, as only God would have it, has some of the truest words about a large portion of the current Christian population. Enjoy:
THE MADMAN
Have you not heard of that madman who lit a lantern in the bright morning hours, ran to the market place, and cried incessantly: "I seek God! I seek God!" -- As many of those who did not believe in God were standing around just then, he provoked much laughter. Has he got lost? asked one. Did he lose his way like a child? asked another. Or is he hiding? Is he afraid of us? Has he gone on a voyage? emigrated? -- Thus they yelled and laughed.
The madman jumped into their midst and pierced them with his eyes. "Whither is God?" he cried; "I will tell you. We have killed him -- you and I. All of us are his murderers. But how did we do this? How could we drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the entire horizon? What were we doing when we unchained this earth from its sun? Whither is it moving now? Whither are we moving? Away from all suns? Are we not plunging continually? Backward, sideward, forward, in all directions? Is there still any up or down? Are we not straying, as through an infinite nothing? Do we not feel the breath of empty space? Has it not become colder? Is not night continually closing in on us? Do we not need to light lanterns in the morning? Do we hear nothing as yet of the noise of the gravediggers who are burying God? Do we smell nothing as yet of the divine decomposition? Gods, too, decompose. God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him.
"How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it? There has never been a greater deed; and whoever is born after us -- for the sake of this deed he will belong to a higher history than all history hitherto."
Here the madman fell silent and looked again at his listeners; and they, too, were silent and stared at him in astonishment. At last he threw his lantern on the ground, and it broke into pieces and went out. "I have come too early," he said then; "my time is not yet. This tremendous event is still on its way, still wandering; it has not yet reached the ears of men. Lightning and thunder require time; the light of the stars requires time; deeds, though done, still require time to be seen and heard. This deed is still more distant from them than most distant stars -- and yet they have done it themselves.
It has been related further that on the same day the madman forced his way into several churches and there struck up his requiem aeternam deo. Led out and called to account, he is said always to have replied nothing but: "What after all are these churches now if they are not the tombs and sepulchers of God?"
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| Flames |
[14 May 2008|06:43pm] |
He rounded the corner with a nice easy stride and was then on the bridge...
facing two opponents.
Their blue, gleaming swords were stretched out before them, but not in a battle stance. They were pointing at him, calling out a command. Then the fire came and slammed onto the bridge. It was not a solid object, just fire, perhaps some kind of liquid combination. In the middle of the bridge sprung a wall of flame. He heard a voice say "You are just like me."
Slowly, then quickly, then in a blur, his legs moved. One, two, three, four, five and jump! With his head tucked and eyes closed, his body speared through the flames, out the other side. A quick hop to the side and a horizontal slash brought the enemy on his left to his end and then, grabbing his fallen enemy's sword before it had time to touch the heated stone of the bridge, he spun to his right, knocked his opponent's sword away with his own sword and then stuck his own foe's sword through the man's chest.
Then, very slowly, he turned back toward the flames and grinned.
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| I got one too!!! |
[10 May 2008|07:45pm] |
Dear Wyatt,
Congratulations, you're an idiot.
-Life
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| Hitting the Roof |
[02 May 2008|08:36pm] |
There was no signal. No warning. Silence. A voice shouting "now is the time, go, go, go!" was not to be heard among them. They all just went at a certain moment. Not all, some stayed behind for later, still some others had left before this group.
And they fell. To watch them all is impossible. So there was one falling.
It had no idea of its purpose or mission or ending. No concept of its fellows falling with it. Even if it had some sort of device for observing its surroundings, it would have seen nothing for night had fallen and no light appeared.
But then there was light, from below, in front of them, in front of it. The light pierced its body and went out the other side almost completely unhindered. As it neared its end it might have heard a sound of its fellows striking a hard surface just seconds before it. Like its sight, however, its hearing was non-existent.
Then it happened. The collision. Had it been alive, it surely would have been killed by the force of the impact. But it was never alive so it was certainly not dead. If it had been dead, its movement would have ceased.
It did not. It started to move downward, closer to an edge it could neither see and a drop it could not feel. Rolling over the edge of a hard surface and then falling again, but only for a short time before it struck an outstretched object. The object was already soft but not it came alive as it was struck by our falling friend.
As the two met, something happened to both of them. It had no concept of what had happened and he did not think he truly understood it. He didn't have to though, understanding was no precursor to enjoyment. So he held out his hand back under the steady stream of drops now rolling off his roof.
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| Gifts |
[02 May 2008|01:28pm] |
"Dr.Foreman may have neglected to mention this, but I have something of a gift too."
And if they had missed it they were not the first and if experience was anything close to accurate at predicting the future they would not be the last. Thus it was their terrible fate to be just another in the long procession of doubters and nay-sayers, judges and hypocrites. One would be excused for pitying, even though their end was of their own decision and making.
I'm tired of being what you want me to be
feeling so faithless, lost under the surface.
Don't know what you're expecting of me,
put under the pressure of walking in your shoes.
Still, while their faces blur with the rest, it is not as if they will be forgotten. Words and deeds do not disappear as many suppose. Even the scientists have alluded to as much that energy can neither be created or destroyed. Words and deeds exist to be spoke and done and they cannot be destroyed even once they have went their course. They are the energy of this universe, penetrating all and sending ripples or waves through entire masses and yet generating the most unique of effects on an individual.
Every step that I take is another mistake to you.
I've become so numb I can't feel you there
become so tired, so much more aware,
by becoming this all I want to do
is be more like me and be less like you.
Be that truth as it may they had denied it by claiming a cover for all, something to eradicate differences and intricacies that the world had been suspended upon for as long as it had existed. Why? What was so dangerous about what you did not understand? What did the world possibly hope to find in so many answers? Truth is in questions, not their solutions. All is revealed in a question, a person's beliefs, prejudices and perceptions. The question asked is more important than the answer, usually.
Can't you see that you're smothering me
holding too tightly, afraid to lose control
'cause everything that you thought I would be
is falling apart, right in front of you.
Yet, since they had insisted, they had "found" answers. "Been given" the solutions, "been led" to the truth. This is no army, though, no victorious people, just another set of signs and bad directions. Just another set of disillusioned people too shattered to grasp a strength large enough to embrace the questions.
Every step that I take is another mistake to you.
And every second I waste is more than I can take.
I've become so numb I can't feel you there,
become so tired, so much more aware,
by becoming this all I want to do
is be more like me and be less like you.
...he had been hurt a lot, but never cut open to such an extent and it was strange to realize his body have forgotten to tell his mind of this momentous occasion. Yet there it was, someone had to tell him that he was bleeding profusely, someone had to tell him he was hurt. Someone had to tell him that he was cut wide open.
Hopefully, they would never think to notice again.
And I know, I may end up failing too,
but I know, you were just like me
with someone disappointed in you.
Because sometimes there was such a blessing in invisibility, in people never realizing why you were really there or if you even were. This was fine for a time, until his necessary existence was revealed. For that was all any could really conclude, that the reason he had survived so much was because he was supposed to and yet what kind of answer was this?
I've become so numb, I can't feel you there
become so tired, so much more aware,
by becoming this all I want to do
is be more like me and be less like you.
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| Echo |
[28 Apr 2008|07:24am] |
Words. That is all the following will be and I don't suppose they shall accomplish far more than the ones that have come before it. It is no small wonder to me that my own words should find no place to rest and only resound back to me in the same ringing tone as they left. It seems no small pain to me to find my thoughts to have no place to call home, no one to call a friend. I travel as any sound does, searching for the object that will send it back to it's producer. What, I wonder, will it be like to hit that wall. As a sound myself, will I hear the collision, will it too send out waves that won't return until they strike another object afar off?
And what will it be like to return to the one who made me. The one who started this sound so long ago. This sound that is me.
I am the sound, the wave moving through empty space, staring at faces of contempt every step of the way. Is it not a matter of some small interest that by truly believing what everyone claims to uphold that I have become the focus of all hate? If this be so, I accept it gladly, with the arms, not of one who is exceptionally brave, but of one who cannot help but hold his course. As a sound uttered or, perhaps, shouted long ago, there is no choice for me to continue on until fate leaves in my path what will send me back to the origin of all things.
Even now, reason speaks and asks "Why waste words on such a task as this? Such a people as this?"
And, despite all my love for reason and it's methods, I answer with; "As an echo, a mere sound whispered long ago, what have I if not these words?"
And, dear reason, what shall we die for then? What may be enough to cause the flow of words to usher forth on the waves of passion, love, hate, anger, joy, happiness, bitterness and tears? For it is not in their emotion that words find their meaning it is in their usage. And only a word unused is a wasted word. Why restrain words, thoughts, emotions and deeds, for who knows if tomorrow will be the day one never sees? Still, let no one think, least of all you, reason, that I fear the brief nature of life. Do not think thus because I can assure you no one has lived as long a day and as permanent a night as I. The rising of the sun and her heralding of the moon, these are but reminders to turn the pages of man made calendars. I will need no one to tell me when a new day has come.
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| Running |
[26 Apr 2008|06:40pm] |
Up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down...they didn't stop.
Because he would not stop.
He could not stop.
If he stopped then they would stop and he did not want them to stop.
The images continued to roll through him like blood and water. Images of fire and wind, the endless pit of blue space at the top of which two beings fought with red and violet gleaming swords. Their connection produced sparks but no sound that he could hear and yet he know what was flying between them was so very real, so very earth shattering.
The earth, yes that is what it was at the bottom of this pit. An expanse of blue and green yet all covered in gray. A gray piece of matter waiting for the impact from the collision with something hot. Something ablaze. Ablaze with...with what?
Truth? Beauty? Hate? Love? Bitterness? Hope?
What?
What?!
"Just a little bit further," he told himself. A little bit further and the pain would start and then he would move anew. Just a moment now, any moment now and...there! The explosion of pain ripped through his heart, his mind, his chest and his legs, causing them not to slow but to quicken and scream with the sort of ecstasy one could learn to enjoy.
Wait. That's it...
Pain.
Abruptly the images stopped at the crest of a hill and the look upwards toward the sky. A dark mass of clouds obscured but did not obliterate the view of lighter clouds above.
Then he heard himself saying; "I knew a man who once said 'Death smiles at us all, all a man can do is smile back.'"
What little saliva that was in his mouth was propelled outward as his head drooped to the ground with fatigue. And with a sharp intake of breath he wondered; "Is that really all a man can do?"
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| The Point of Bullshit |
[26 Apr 2008|07:47am] |
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B.S.-ing a paper- the act of putting off the mention of any verifiable, concrete or realistic information in a scholarly assignment so as to increase the quantity of words and, thus, let it appear as a good piece of homework. When engaging in such activity avoid words and phrases such as; "The point of this paper is to..." or "Getting to the heart of the matter..." or "Therefore..." or anything that might lead to actual information, which you do not have. Also, if one must include "facts," make them vague. No specific studies need be mentioned, all that needs to be told to the reader (most often a teacher) is that studies have shown and that there "are statistics that say" what you are trying to say which, as mentioned before, should not be said until the last possible moment.
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| Inspired by a song |
[19 Apr 2008|06:48pm] |
Tired.
If all could be summed up in one word, the above listed word would be a top contender. The reason? Well, there may not be a reason, but there is a why...
So many whisperers, so many people judging and not even in the archaic way with robes and stones but with words and attitudes. No these judges do not even judge me, at least not all the time, it is for their other victims I mourn. The people once so filled with dreams and hopes, now laid low and bare by the weight and force of a thousand demands. Demands that do not matter nearly as much as their proponents claim.
For the last few years, I have been told, in so many different ways by so many "different" people to act a certain way. And, do you know, I am sick of it. I am so sick of seeing it done to others. And all this from a person who swore his heart stopped caring long, long ago...
Perhaps everything would be better if it did. Maybe I would not have to fade away as so many others have, but maybe I could turn away to the point where I do not see the terrible scene that stretches out for miles before me now.
Times like these cause me to both thank and curse God for hope. Hope keeps me alive and yet hope is what is making me miserable.
And it is thus I arrive at the conclusion I am a tired man. Longing for little more than a rest with what matters most...
So I ask you all...what matters most to you?
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| The Lone Goose |
[16 Apr 2008|07:30pm] |
Can I just take a moment and congratulate myself on an awesome title...congratulations wyatt!
Thanks.
I was just about home when I saw him...or her, I can never tell with geese. Just one though. Normally I would not have pulled my bike to a screeching halt, but Canadian Geese always landed in ou...my dad's fields...in flocks, never just a lone one. Almost as soon as I had brought myself to a stand still in the middle of the road, the honking started. He was loud. And he just kept on honking and it was magnified by the echo from the forest, coming back to us like a distant hammer striking an anvil.
Then it hit me; who was he honking to?
No one, I thought, give it up buddy, they're not coming. Almost simultaneous with this thought was the goose rising up on his ankles and letting his wings unfurl. The honking continued and it was I who turned away in silence.
Canadian Geese...damn them.
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| Stars and Diesel Fuel |
[15 Apr 2008|06:53am] |
For a moment it all looked so right.
The tractor and it's wagon were backing toward a tall pile of corn with nothing but the starlit sky for a backdrop. Had he a camera with which to perfectly capture what his eyes saw, he would have clicked away. This picture, this moment, would be one that people would see in books or magazines and wish they could be a farmer. It would inspire, it would change, it would move.
But, in almost the same moment, he was relieved in a sense that he did not have such a camera. Had he such a camera the above mentioned events certainly would have ensued...and then what?
People would flock to that change, that inspiration, that movement...
and find it was all just a silly picture.
Oh, he didn't want it to be that way nor did he believe it actually had to be that way. Nevertheless, it is the way it was. All the heroes and adventures we read about in stories or visualize in pictures, are simply that; pictures and stories. Things people want visit once in a while but have no real intention of laying hold upon.
So it was in this hour that the tractor, silhouetted against the stars with it's headlights beaming forward, made the boy a bit sad. He let it go though. The stories and pictures could live on, maybe someday, someone would have a use for them.
And so he, once more, wished for a camera to capture exactly what he saw.
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| And all the world isn't a stage, but this place is |
[12 Apr 2008|08:35am] |
The door's shutting motion has an effect on the air inside the building. What the effect actually was, he didn't know, but it felt as if it sucked it all out. The oxygen was to be replaced by the shrill welcome of "greeters" and the like. Basically the idea was that people standing right inside smiling would make a person feel better or, at the least, more comfortable. He could not blame the mind behind that idea. Why anyone put themselves into such a place, he had no idea. Why was he, voluntarily, walking into the same room? The same tomb as the others?
That's right. He was walking in because he felt there was something in there he needed to take out. But this was just a habit as well, there was nothing to be found. No, the only thing in there was what people brought with them and what they brought with them was nothing anyone would lament losing.
A fake smile here...
an awkward conversation there...
Everything forced, everything leaving the mouth with a bitter taste.
He paused just long enough to take it all in. Not unlike taking your hand off your nose at a garbage dump.
There they all were, gathered in rough representations of circles, lips moving to words their minds had found to express feelings they did not feel. Even those with their hands on the shoulders of others, felt nothing, cared not at all for them. Right they were to have their backs to the world and their faces to the ground, there was no more fitting a stance for such motives. All their words and they never cared to notice the dying in their midst, the dying in their own homes and hearts.
Would that this was the worse it got. But in a moment the lectures would begin and the indoctrination of a people longing for substance yet starving with it all at their fingertips, would begin. The anger pulsed through him and he thought to stop it but he needed to feel that or be sick with the notion that a place could be blinded so severely. A blindness so horrible it not only shut out the light, but provided an alternative. An alternative that fed the masses their bread and thus they cried "Hail, Caesar!" never knowing he robbed them with the other hand.
If such was their fate, he would have to leave them to it, he would not be sucked in by this...
No, never again.
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| Ode to the Captain |
[04 Apr 2008|01:05pm] |
I have four nephews and a niece. This post, while only about one nephew, is not in any way saying the others are less loved in my eyes, only less available for daily observation. I love them all.
That was what I like to call a disclaimer.
I have a nephew named Jackson. His real name is Captain No Pants Jack and it would be nice if you called him captain because he is captain of "The Black Bottle". (There may or may not be some trademark infringement there.)
He's cuter than cute and I hate saying things like that because it makes me sound like just another baby-lover. (which, obviously, would be bad.) Right now he is looking at me and I am not sure why but he studies my face really intently. There are times when he grabs my face with saliva-laden hands. Then there is this reflex in me that wants to pull away because his breath stinks and his hands are all wet with what is probably incredibly germ covered hands. But I wait and he, with more strength than any infant should have, then pulls me toward him and laughs.
And all I can say is "To think, he has my blood."
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