You just might want to drop by the hotel with the big lights. You know the one I'm talking about, it's right near the coast of the river and you can't miss it if you're on your way to see the big fireworks show, just like the ones you used to go see with your daddy when he was around, before he found that harlot and gave her all your time, before he sold out and joined the rest of the world of broken homes and dysfunction, back when you knew he loved you without him having to say anything. The fireworks always made you remember how tall he was, because you could get on his shoulders and see above everyone else, like the show was just for you. Yeah, those were the days. But then you snap out of it and realize that the heat can sometimes do some crazy things to you, especially when it jumps around from 63 one day to 9 the next.
Well, now that you know what I'm talking about I can tell you why. Go there and dig like your heart never saw dirt, dig like you knew there was something good. In fact, there is something good. There is a message. A message buried at that hotel on the coast under the big lights near the explosions of glory. And the message is this: Go forth, my child, and dig.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Ah, L'Amour
Oui, je suis en le universitat. No sé más francés. I will English you. I have become a new person today. Well, it's not really as bad as all that I suppose. I have moved to Chico. I have a place here in which I shall reside. My roommate likes to roller disco. I have a big screen TV at the foot of my bed, constantly hooked up to the Wii. My computer monitor is currently at 1050x1680, tall, and it displays an image of Samus Aran fanart. It was created by =transfuse, on DeviantArt.
I hope to one day own the poster.
My clothes are in a...bureau? cabinet? something with doors and a drawer, inside the closet. That was my ingenious idea. My keyboard is behind me. (But how do you type, good Sir Doug?) It is a musical keyboard. Black and white. My bed is not yet sheeted. soon, my bebbies, soon. I will now go explore what might be my backyard, using a flashlight!
I hope to one day own the poster.My clothes are in a...bureau? cabinet? something with doors and a drawer, inside the closet. That was my ingenious idea. My keyboard is behind me. (But how do you type, good Sir Doug?) It is a musical keyboard. Black and white. My bed is not yet sheeted. soon, my bebbies, soon. I will now go explore what might be my backyard, using a flashlight!
Monday, January 7, 2008
Donate Your Clothes
Today while I was driving I realized the magnitude of the amount of things that pass through my vision without me seeing them. I am sure it is the same for most humans. There are literally thousands of things that I could see if I wanted to, but none of them are important enough to register.
While moving at sixty-five miles per hour down the main thoroughfare, dozens of yellow reflectors pass through my range of vision every second. I don't notice any of them, but they are the most important things on the road. Their presence is known, even if not acknowledged. I feel the yellow line. It is an invisible barrier - not because I can't see it, but because I choose not to.
We recognize the collection of yellow, forming a line hundreds of miles long, but we do not distinguish individual reflectors. They are like soldiers in a stalemate, each one only important as a member of a team, never winning or losing, never going home, only existing for the sake of existence. Occupation. Authority.
If we paid attention, we would see their patterns, these self-sacrificing dots of trafficky malevolence. Sometimes they come at us one at a time. Sometimes two at a time. Often it's one, two, one, two. Each pattern with its own meaning. If you're on the 880, north of San Jose, you might be lucky enough to see some dots off on the shoulder, forming their own faction. Three, two, one, blank, blank, three, two, one. They march to a different beat. They are an example we should all follow, even if their purpose is unknown to us.
While moving at sixty-five miles per hour down the main thoroughfare, dozens of yellow reflectors pass through my range of vision every second. I don't notice any of them, but they are the most important things on the road. Their presence is known, even if not acknowledged. I feel the yellow line. It is an invisible barrier - not because I can't see it, but because I choose not to.
We recognize the collection of yellow, forming a line hundreds of miles long, but we do not distinguish individual reflectors. They are like soldiers in a stalemate, each one only important as a member of a team, never winning or losing, never going home, only existing for the sake of existence. Occupation. Authority.
If we paid attention, we would see their patterns, these self-sacrificing dots of trafficky malevolence. Sometimes they come at us one at a time. Sometimes two at a time. Often it's one, two, one, two. Each pattern with its own meaning. If you're on the 880, north of San Jose, you might be lucky enough to see some dots off on the shoulder, forming their own faction. Three, two, one, blank, blank, three, two, one. They march to a different beat. They are an example we should all follow, even if their purpose is unknown to us.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Creation
I have the sudden, violent urge to create. I want it to be great, to be looked upon as beautiful, or at least different. But I haven't the tools, nor the talent to create this thing.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Part 1
They soon realized that they had no chance of surviving on the surface for any length of time. Those first three brave souls would prove that point with their lives. Or were they brave? Perhaps they were simply stupid. Suicidal. Ignoring obvious risk to find hope for us all. The coming generations would see them as heroes anyway, for the stories that were told portrayed them as such.
At any rate, those three souls only showed us the danger, demonstrated our helplessness. We were lost. In our underground room, our cellar, we had barely the food to last a few weeks, and no protective equipment. None that would have any effect on the "trihelix". That horrible man-made virus that attacks human DNA, ripping it open and then adding another strand. An incompatible strand that our bodies don't understand. Its effect is amazingly rapid, like cancer spreading. If cancer knew all our weaknesses. If cancer was intelligent.
The three souls who had left the cellar to find life in the despair of the blizzard couldn't walk ten yards in the deep snow without their bodies attacking themselves, beginning at the lungs and finding its way to the rest of the body in under a minute. Once they felt it, they barely had time to turn around before collapsing, unable to move because all their blood oxygen had been compromised. Our only hope was some kind of mask, an oxygen tank, something to protect us from breathing the putrid air that was laced with our destruction.
That hope could be thirty yards away. We must be some of the luckiest humans on this planet, to have found our cellar in time, and also to be so near to "Scuba Pete's" scuba shop. No one knew what had happened to Scuba Pete, he had disappeared days before anyone heard about the attack. But perhaps we could honor him in some way, if we were able to make it to his store and survive. But even if we make it to the store, it's surely locked. Would anyone have enough strength to break a window after making the journey through our diseased environment? Would anyone be alive?
The obvious obstacle is the snow. It covers the ground so thick that mailboxes are almost hidden. How tall is that? It must be three, four feet? Insane. Impossible. It never snows here, that's why it's a year round resort. Yet somehow, with our minimal knowledge of this frozen white powder, we have to get past it; or rather, get over it. Obviously we aren't equipped for snowshoes, and few of us even have warm clothes other than wetsuits, and those are all back in our houses, surely filled with disease by now. Still we must somehow make our way past thirty yards of snow while holding our breath.
What are our resources? Some cases of canned food, several gallon jugs of water, chemical packets to keep warm for a few hours, the gas in our heater, and the radio and television, both constantly scanning the channels, playing for us everything they find. Playing for us nothing. Who had built this place? Hadn't it always been here, since we were all children? I remember playing nearby on the beach, my mother talking about how it was ridiculous for it to be so near to a tourist hot spot, this shack, this target for graffiti, this grey symbol of despair and ugliness. Oh mother, how wrong you were. This is now my home, until we break free.
Maybe the tin cans could be used to fashion some sort of snowshoe. Green beans under the toes, peaches under the heel, cans ripped apart as if the trihelix itself had invaded. A few strips of precious clothing, a now useless sarong, covering the sharp edges and attaching the cans to a pair of sneakers.
Useless. All in vain. These new "fruit shoes" as they were lovingly called, were almost as bad as regular sneakers in the snow. We barely pulled him back in before he lost his held breath, gasping for life. And every time we open the door, we let a little more of the infection in. Luckily this strain thrives in the cold, so if we gather around the heater it might die before reaching us. No one is sick yet.
How did the weather turn so cold? It is a fruitless question, one we cannot possibly hope to answer. And even if we knew the answer through some divine stroke of genius, we have no way of changing it. We are but a few people, who have lived the cushy lives reserved for the rich, near a beach, always in the sun, never having to survive, only to live.
Of course! Why didn't we see it before? The cardboard cases that hold all these cans of food. They are nice and flat. They could be laid upon the snow. There are certainly plenty of them to make a path from here to Scuba Pete's. But how? How could anyone possibly hold their breath long enough to lay cardboard down all the way to our salvation?
At any rate, those three souls only showed us the danger, demonstrated our helplessness. We were lost. In our underground room, our cellar, we had barely the food to last a few weeks, and no protective equipment. None that would have any effect on the "trihelix". That horrible man-made virus that attacks human DNA, ripping it open and then adding another strand. An incompatible strand that our bodies don't understand. Its effect is amazingly rapid, like cancer spreading. If cancer knew all our weaknesses. If cancer was intelligent.
The three souls who had left the cellar to find life in the despair of the blizzard couldn't walk ten yards in the deep snow without their bodies attacking themselves, beginning at the lungs and finding its way to the rest of the body in under a minute. Once they felt it, they barely had time to turn around before collapsing, unable to move because all their blood oxygen had been compromised. Our only hope was some kind of mask, an oxygen tank, something to protect us from breathing the putrid air that was laced with our destruction.
That hope could be thirty yards away. We must be some of the luckiest humans on this planet, to have found our cellar in time, and also to be so near to "Scuba Pete's" scuba shop. No one knew what had happened to Scuba Pete, he had disappeared days before anyone heard about the attack. But perhaps we could honor him in some way, if we were able to make it to his store and survive. But even if we make it to the store, it's surely locked. Would anyone have enough strength to break a window after making the journey through our diseased environment? Would anyone be alive?
The obvious obstacle is the snow. It covers the ground so thick that mailboxes are almost hidden. How tall is that? It must be three, four feet? Insane. Impossible. It never snows here, that's why it's a year round resort. Yet somehow, with our minimal knowledge of this frozen white powder, we have to get past it; or rather, get over it. Obviously we aren't equipped for snowshoes, and few of us even have warm clothes other than wetsuits, and those are all back in our houses, surely filled with disease by now. Still we must somehow make our way past thirty yards of snow while holding our breath.
What are our resources? Some cases of canned food, several gallon jugs of water, chemical packets to keep warm for a few hours, the gas in our heater, and the radio and television, both constantly scanning the channels, playing for us everything they find. Playing for us nothing. Who had built this place? Hadn't it always been here, since we were all children? I remember playing nearby on the beach, my mother talking about how it was ridiculous for it to be so near to a tourist hot spot, this shack, this target for graffiti, this grey symbol of despair and ugliness. Oh mother, how wrong you were. This is now my home, until we break free.
Maybe the tin cans could be used to fashion some sort of snowshoe. Green beans under the toes, peaches under the heel, cans ripped apart as if the trihelix itself had invaded. A few strips of precious clothing, a now useless sarong, covering the sharp edges and attaching the cans to a pair of sneakers.
Useless. All in vain. These new "fruit shoes" as they were lovingly called, were almost as bad as regular sneakers in the snow. We barely pulled him back in before he lost his held breath, gasping for life. And every time we open the door, we let a little more of the infection in. Luckily this strain thrives in the cold, so if we gather around the heater it might die before reaching us. No one is sick yet.
How did the weather turn so cold? It is a fruitless question, one we cannot possibly hope to answer. And even if we knew the answer through some divine stroke of genius, we have no way of changing it. We are but a few people, who have lived the cushy lives reserved for the rich, near a beach, always in the sun, never having to survive, only to live.
Of course! Why didn't we see it before? The cardboard cases that hold all these cans of food. They are nice and flat. They could be laid upon the snow. There are certainly plenty of them to make a path from here to Scuba Pete's. But how? How could anyone possibly hold their breath long enough to lay cardboard down all the way to our salvation?
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Self
For when our ancestors left us this place, they knew it would bring both fortune and famine, and with that they gave us the only advice they thought would matter: Love thyself.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Crank
Well, as I sat down to my computer today I realized that there was much caffeine inside of me, like the feeling of happiness that surrounds a child on his birthday. I realize also that I made this child a boy, when it would have served the same purpose to make this child a female. I am sorry to all of you females that read this that I did not make the birthday child a female. I know it must add to your sorrow of the current modern world in how the society downplays your roles to that of a mere accessory. I assure you that I do not feel this way. It is simply the result of my existence in this society that I would place the masculinity into an unknown persona, for that is how many languages do it. I understand that this may not be an acceptable excuse, but it is all I have. So yeah, as I was saying. The caffeine is like a birthday. But I don't need presents, for the caffeine is its own present. I love it at this moment, but I know that soon, I will feel nearly sick. It will take its toll on my metabolism by using all my energy in a fashion which is non-productive. I will need to eat. I will need to sit down. But I am already sitting. This is my paradox. It is like I went to the bathroom but found no toilet, so I wander, without direction, into a bar. The barkeep says that they got no bathrooms unless I am thirsty as well. I wander back out.
David says that caffeine is best with a cigarette. Too bad I don't smoke, and I think smoking is a waste of money and a waste of life. My alveoli would never forgive me if I began to smoke. But would this relieve my need of a bathroom? Once again I have no answer. Please forgive me, harsh world, for I am but a simple organism. Organisms will never know all, but can only strive for more. This is the way of life and living, and this is the way of death and dying. For the more we know, the closer we come to death, and the more meaningful our lives become. One day I will know all that I can, and hopefully that instead of beginning a downhill trek on that day, I die at the top. One of the biggest fears in life is its gradual decline, I think. I would rather death be quick and catch me off guard. But also I hope that I would be at peace. This is is my quagmire. To fulfill my own wish is to expect death. But in that situation it cannot be a surprise. Is this the way everyone feels? Of course I cannot say, for I am one boy in a land of many people of both genders equally. And this does not sadden me, for I know that I am me, and they will be themselves for many years to come. Unless something happens where all those years cease, and we are sucked into a black hole of no happiness or life or death or sadness, only a singularity in which we are one.
Coffee and cigarettes indeed.
David says that caffeine is best with a cigarette. Too bad I don't smoke, and I think smoking is a waste of money and a waste of life. My alveoli would never forgive me if I began to smoke. But would this relieve my need of a bathroom? Once again I have no answer. Please forgive me, harsh world, for I am but a simple organism. Organisms will never know all, but can only strive for more. This is the way of life and living, and this is the way of death and dying. For the more we know, the closer we come to death, and the more meaningful our lives become. One day I will know all that I can, and hopefully that instead of beginning a downhill trek on that day, I die at the top. One of the biggest fears in life is its gradual decline, I think. I would rather death be quick and catch me off guard. But also I hope that I would be at peace. This is is my quagmire. To fulfill my own wish is to expect death. But in that situation it cannot be a surprise. Is this the way everyone feels? Of course I cannot say, for I am one boy in a land of many people of both genders equally. And this does not sadden me, for I know that I am me, and they will be themselves for many years to come. Unless something happens where all those years cease, and we are sucked into a black hole of no happiness or life or death or sadness, only a singularity in which we are one.
Coffee and cigarettes indeed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
